Part 30

The author of that work was the greatest natural philosopher that ever enlightened mankind. His biographers are now disputing whether at one period of his life he was not of unsound mind--but all agree that he was afterwards able to understand his own writings.

The author of those numerous volumes was logician, metaphysician, natural historian, philosopher; his sanity was never doubted, and with his last breath he regretted his birth, mourned over his life, expressed his fear of death, and called upon the Cause of causes to pity him. His slightest thoughts continued to domineer over the world for ages, until they were in some measure silenced by those works which contain the unfettered meditations of a very great man, who, being more careless than corrupt in the administration of his high office, has gone down to posterity, as

'The wisest, brightest, meanest, of mankind.'

For his wisdom has embalmed his meanness.

Those volumes contain the weighty, if not wise opinions of one who, amidst penury and wretchedness, first learnt to moralize with companions as poor and wretched as himself. Even in his latter years, when sought by a monarch, and listened to with submission by all who approached him, his life can scarcely be called a happy one; yet he must have enjoyed some moments of triumph, if not of happiness, in contemplating the severe but well-merited rebuke which he inflicted upon that courtier, who could behold his difficulties with all the indifference that belongs to good breeding, and then thought fit, in the hour of his success, to encumber him with paltry praises.

Those poems were the burning words of one

'... Cradled into poetry by wrong, Who learnt in suffering what he taught in song.'

The slightest foibles of this unhappy man have been brought into odious prominence, for he was the favourite author of his age, and therefore the property of the public.

That boyish book absolved its author from a father's cares; and he was one to whom those cares would have been dearest joys, who loved to look upon a poor man's child. Listen to the music of his sadness--

'I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion!'

The sharp arrows of criticism were successfully directed against that next volume, and are said to have been the means of hurrying its author to that world of dreams and shadows, for which, in the critic's opinion, he was so pre-eminently fitted.

'Where is the youth, for deeds immortal born, Who loved to whisper to the embattled corn, And clustered woodbines, breathing o'er the stream Endymion's beauteous passion for a dream?'

You already smile, my friend; but to know the heights and the depths, you must turn your attention to those numberless, unread, unheard-of volumes. Their authors did not suffer from the severity of the critic or the judge, but were only neglected. If Mephistopheles ever requires rest and seclusion--But, hark! is there not a laugh? and that grotesque face in the carved woodwork, how scoffingly it is looking down upon us!--SIR A. HELPS. _Thoughts in a Cloister._

THE TRUE POEM ON THE LIBRARY

Let us compare the different ways in which Crabbe and Foster (certainly a _prose_ poet) deal with a library. Crabbe describes minutely and successfully the outer features of the volumes, their colours, clasps, the stubborn ridges of their bindings, the illustrations which adorn them, so well that you feel yourself among them, and they become sensible to touch almost as to sight. But there he stops, and sadly fails, we think, in bringing out the living and moral interest which gathers around a multitude of books, or even around a single volume. This Foster has amply done. The speaking silence of a number of books, where, though it were the wide Bodleian or Vatican, not one whisper could be heard, and yet where, as in an antechamber, so many great spirits are waiting to deliver their messages--their churchyard stillness continuing even when their readers are moving to their pages, in joy or agony, as to the sound of martial instruments--their awaking, as from deep slumber, to speak with miraculous organ, like the shell which has only to be lifted, and 'pleased it remembers its august abodes, and murmurs as the ocean murmurs there'--their power of drawing tears, kindling blushes, awakening laughter, calming or quickening the motions of the life's-blood, lulling to repose, or rousing to restlessness--the meaning which radiates from their quiet countenances--the tale of shame or glory which their title-pages tell--the memories suggested by the character of their authors, and of the readers who have throughout successive centuries perused them--the thrilling thoughts excited by the sight of names and notes inscribed on their margins or blank pages by hands long since mouldered in the dust, or by those dear to us as our life's-blood, who have been snatched from our sides--the aspects of gaiety or of gloom connected with the bindings and the age of volumes--the effects of sunshine playing as if on a congregation of happy faces, making the duskiest shine and the gloomiest be glad--or of shadow suffusing a sombre air over all--the joy of the proprietor of a large library, who feels that Nebuchadnezzar watching great Babylon, or Napoleon reviewing his legions, will not stand comparison with himself seated amid the broad maps, and rich prints, and numerous volumes which his wealth has enabled him to enjoy--all such hieroglyphics of interest and meaning has Foster included and interpreted in one gloomy but noble meditation, and his introduction to Doddridge is the true 'Poem on the Library'.--G. GILFILLAN. _Gallery of Literary Portraits: George Crabbe._

THE LIBRARY

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed, Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest; When every object that appears in view, Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too; Where shall affliction from itself retire? Where fade away and placidly expire? Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain: Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream; For when the soul is labouring in despair, In vain the body breathes a purer air: No storm-tossed sailor sighs for slumbering seas,-- He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze; On the smooth mirror of the deep resides Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides The ghost of every former danger glides. Thus, in the calms of life, we only see A steadier image of our misery; But lively gales and gently-clouded skies Disperse the sad reflections as they rise; And busy thoughts and little cares avail To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail. When the dull thought, by no designs employed, Dwells on the past, or suffered or enjoyed, We bleed anew in every former grief, And joys departed furnish no relief.

Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art, Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart: The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, And anxious searches for congenial cares; Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined, By mixed sensations ease the afflicted mind, And steal our grief away and leave their own behind; A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes? Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This, books can do;--nor this alone; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise: Their aid they yield to all: they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone: Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects, what they show to kings.

Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene, Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold! Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental physic the diseased in mind; See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage; See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage; Here alteratives, by slow degrees control The chronic habits of the sickly soul; And round the heart and o'er the aching head, Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent multitude:-- Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound; Here all that live no more; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Blessed be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind!-- Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring; But man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend: 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.

In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep, When joy forgets to smile and care to weep, When passion slumbers in the lover's breast, And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest, Why then denies the studious man to share Man's common good, who feels his common care?

Because the hope is his, that bids him fly Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy; That after-ages may repeat his praise, And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days. Delightful prospect! when we leave behind A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind! Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day, Shall all our labour, all our care repay.

Yet all are not these births of noble kind, Not all the children of a vigorous mind; But where the wisest should alone preside, The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide; Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show The poor and troubled source from which they flow: Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive, And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves This seat serene, and virtue's self approves:-- Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; The curious here, to feed a craving mind; Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; And here the poet meets his favouring muse.

With awe, around these silent walks I tread; These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-- 'The dead,' methinks a thousand tongues reply; 'These are the tombs of such as cannot die! Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time.'

Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above, Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove; And ye the common people of these skies, A humbler crowd of nameless deities; Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind Through history's mazes, and the turnings find; Or whether, led by science, ye retire, Lost and bewildered in the vast desire; Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers, And crowns your placid brows with living flowers; Or godlike wisdom teaches you to show The noblest road to happiness below; Or men and manners prompt the easy page To mark the flying follies of the age: Whatever good ye boast, that good impart; Inform the head and rectify the heart.

Lo! all in silence, all in order stand And mighty folios first, a lordly band; Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain. And light octavos fill a spacious plain: See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, A humbler band of duodecimos; While undistinguished trifles swell the scene, The last new play and frittered magazine. Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great, In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state; Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread, Are much admired, and are but little read: The commons next, a middle rank, are found; Professions fruitful pour their offspring round: Reasoners and wits are next their place allowed, And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd.

First, let us view the form, the size, the dress; For these the manners, nay the mind express; That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid; Those ample clasps, of solid metal made; The close-pressed leaves, unclosed for many an age; The dull red edging of the well-filled page; On the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled, Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold; These all a sage and laboured work proclaim, A painful candidate for lasting fame: No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk In the deep bosom of that weighty work; No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style, Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.

Hence, in these times, untouched the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality: They _had_ their day, when, after all his toil, His morning study, and his midnight oil, At length an author's ONE great work appeared, By patient hope, and length of days, endeared: Expecting nations hailed it from the press; Poetic friends prefixed each kind address; Princes and kings received the ponderous gift, And ladies read the work they could not lift. Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools, Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules; From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes, And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.

For lo! these favourites of the ancient mode Lie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode; Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain; Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain; No readers now invade their still retreat, None try to steal them from their parent-seat; Like ancient beauties, they may now discard Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard. Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by, And rolled o'er laboured works the attentive eye; Page after page, the much-enduring men Explored, the deeps and shallows of the pen; Till, every former note and comment known, They marked the spacious margin with their own: Minute corrections proved their studious care, The little index, pointing, told us where; And many an emendation showed the age Looked far beyond the rubric title-page.

Our nicer palates lighter labours seek, Cloyed with a folio-_Number_ once a week; Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down: E'en light Voltaire is _numbered_ through the town: Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law, From men of study, and from men of straw; Abstracts, abridgements, please the fickle times, Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes: But though to write be now a task of ease, The task is hard by manly arts to please, When all our weakness is exposed to view, And half our judges are our rivals too.

Amid these works, on which the eager eye Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by, When all combined, their decent pomp display, Where shall we first our early offering pay?----

To thee, DIVINITY! to thee, the light And guide of mortals, through their mental night; By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide; To bear with pain, and to contend with pride; When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive; And with the world in charity to live.

Not truths like these inspired that numerous race, Whose pious labours fill this ample space; But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose, Awaked to war the long-contending foes. For dubious meanings, learned polemics strove, And wars on faith prevented works of love; The brands of discord far around were hurled, And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world:-- Dull though impatient, peevish though devout, With wit disgusting and despised without; Saints in design, in execution men, Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.

Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight, Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight; Spirits who prompted every damning page, With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage: Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around, And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground! They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep,-- Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners sheep; Too well they act the prophet's fatal part, Denouncing evil with a zealous heart; And each, like Jonas, is displeased if God Repent his anger, or withhold his rod. But here the dormant fury rests unsought, And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought; Here all the rage of controversy ends, And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends: An Athanasian here, in deep repose, Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes; Socinians here with Calvinists abide, And thin partitions angry chiefs divide; Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet, And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet. Great authors, for the church's glory fired, Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired; And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race, Lie, 'Crums of Comfort for the Babes of Grace.'

Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends; If learned, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads, And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads: But most she fears the controversial pen, The holy strife of disputatious men; Who the blessed Gospel's peaceful page explore, Only to fight against its precepts more.

Near to these seats, behold yon slender frames, All closely filled and marked with modern names; Where no fair science ever shows her face, Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace; There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng, And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong: Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain; Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again; Coldly profane, and impiously gay, Their end the same, though various in their way.

When first Religion came to bless the land, Her friends were then a firm believing band; To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme, And all was gospel that a monk could dream; Insulted Reason fled the grovelling soul, For fear to guide, and visions to control: But now, when Reason has assumed her throne, She, in her turn, demands to reign alone; Rejecting all that lies beyond her view, And, being judge, will be a witness too: Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind, To seek for truth, without a power to find: Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite, And pour on erring man resistless light?

Next to the seats, well stored with works divine, An ample space, PHILOSOPHY! is thine; Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right; Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay, To the bright orbs of yon celestial way! 'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace, Which runs through all, connecting race with race; Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain, Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:--

How vice and virtue in the soul contend; How widely differ, yet how nearly blend! What various passions war on either part, And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart: How Fancy loves around the world to stray, While Judgement slowly picks his sober way; The stores of memory, and the flights sublime Of genius, bound by neither space nor time;-- All these divine Philosophy explores, Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores. From these, descending to the earth, she turns, And matter, in its various form, discerns; She parts the beamy light with skill profound, Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound; 'Tis hers, the lightning from the clouds to call, And teach the fiery mischief where to fall.

Yet more her volumes teach,--on these we look As abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book: Here, first described, the torpid earth appears, And next, the vegetable robe it wears; Where flowery tribes, in valleys, fields and groves, Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves; Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain, Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain; But as the green blood moves along the blade, The bed of Flora on the branch is made; Where, without passion, love instinctive lives, And gives new life, unconscious that it gives. Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace, In dens and burning plains, her savage race; With those tame tribes who on their lord attend, And find, in man, a master and a friend: Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new, A moral world, that well demands our view.

This world is here; for, of more lofty kind, These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind; They paint the state of man ere yet endued With knowledge;--man, poor, ignorant, and rude; Then, as his state improves, their pages swell, And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell: Here we behold how inexperience buys, At little price, the wisdom of the wise; Without the troubles of an active state, Without the cares and dangers of the great, Without the miseries of the poor, we know What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow; We see how reason calms the raging mind, And how contending passions urge mankind: Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire; Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire; Whilst others, won by either, now pursue The guilty chase, now keep the good in view; For ever wretched, with themselves at strife, They lead a puzzled, vexed, uncertain life; For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.

Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul, New interests draw, new principles control: Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, But here the tortured body finds relief; For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapes! There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around, Pile above pile, her learned works abound: Glorious their aim--to ease the labouring heart; To war with death, and stop his flying dart; To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew, And life's short lease on easier terms renew; To calm the frenzy of the burning brain; To heal the tortures of imploring pain; Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, To ease the victim no device can save, And smooth the stormy passage to the grave.