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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1491-0.txt b/1491-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98c7da4 --- /dev/null +++ b/1491-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4125 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Letters to Dead Authors, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Letters to Dead Authors + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 14, 2014 [eBook #1491] +[This file was first posted on 10 August 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1886 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + LETTERS + TO + DEAD AUTHORS + + + BY + ANDREW LANG + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + LONDON + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + 1886 + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + TO + + MISS THACKERAY + + THESE EXERCISES + + IN THE ART OF DIPPING + + ARE DEDICATED + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE. + + +SIXTEEN of these Letters, which were written at the suggestion of the +Editor of the “St. James’s Gazette,” appeared in that journal, from which +they are now reprinted, by the Editor’s kind permission. They have been +somewhat emended, and a few additions have been made. The Letters to +Horace, Byron, Isaak Walton, Chapelain, Ronsard, and Theocritus have not +been published before. + +The gem on the title-page, now engraved for the first time, is a red +cornelian in the British Museum, probably Græco-Roman, and treated in an +archaistic style. It represents Hermes Psychagogos, with a Soul, and has +some likeness to the Baptism of Our Lord, as usually shown in art. +Perhaps it may be post-Christian. The gem was selected by Mr. A. S. +Murray. + +It is, perhaps, superfluous to add that some of the Letters are written +rather to suit the Correspondent than to express the writer’s own taste +or opinions. The Epistle to Lord Byron, especially, is “writ in a manner +which is my aversion.” + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + I. TO W. M. THACKERAY 1 + II. TO CHARLES DICKENS 10 + III. TO PIERRE DE RONSARD 22 + IV. TO HERODOTUS 34 + V. EPISTLE TO MR. ALEXANDER POPE 46 + VI. TO LUCIAN OF SAMOSATA 55 + VII. TO MAÎTRE FRANÇOYS RABELAIS 66 + VIII. TO JANE AUSTEN 75 + IX. TO MASTER ISAAK WALTON 86 + X. TO M. CHAPELAIN 98 + XI. TO SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILLE, KT. 110 + XII. TO ALEXANDRE DUMAS 119 + XIII. TO THEOCRITUS 130 + XIV. TO EDGAR ALLAN POE 140 + XV. TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 152 + XVI. TO EUSEBIUS OF CÆSAREA 162 + XVII. TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 173 + XVIII. TO MONSIEUR DE MOLIÈRE, VALET DE CHAMBRE DU ROI 184 + XIX. TO ROBERT BURNS 195 + XX. TO LORD BYRON 205 + XXI. TO OMAR KHAYYÂM 216 + XXII. TO Q. HORATIUS FLACCUS 223 + + + + +I. +_To W. M. Thackeray_. + + +SIR,—There are many things that stand in the way of the critic when he +has a mind to praise the living. He may dread the charge of writing +rather to vex a rival than to exalt the subject of his applause. He +shuns the appearance of seeking the favour of the famous, and would not +willingly be regarded as one of the many parasites who now advertise each +movement and action of contemporary genius. “Such and such men of +letters are passing their summer holidays in the Val d’Aosta,” or the +Mountains of the Moon, or the Suliman Range, as it may happen. So +reports our literary “Court Circular,” and all our _Précieuses_ read the +tidings with enthusiasm. Lastly, if the critic be quite new to the world +of letters, he may superfluously fear to vex a poet or a novelist by the +abundance of his eulogy. No such doubts perplex us when, with all our +hearts, we would commend the departed; for they have passed almost beyond +the reach even of envy; and to those pale cheeks of theirs no +commendation can bring the red. + +You, above all others, were and remain without a rival in your many-sided +excellence, and praise of you strikes at none of those who have survived +your day. The increase of time only mellows your renown, and each year +that passes and brings you no successor does but sharpen the keenness of +our sense of loss. In what other novelist, since Scott was worn down by +the burden of a forlorn endeavour, and died for honour’s sake, has the +world found so many of the fairest gifts combined? If we may not call +you a poet (for the first of English writers of light verse did not seek +that crown), who that was less than a poet ever saw life with a glance so +keen as yours, so steady, and so sane? Your pathos was never cheap, your +laughter never forced; your sigh was never the pulpit trick of the +preacher. Your funny people—your Costigans and Fokers—were not mere +characters of trick and catch-word, were not empty comic masks. Behind +each the human heart was beating; and ever and again we were allowed to +see the features of the man. + +Thus fiction in your hands was not simply a profession, like another, but +a constant reflection of the whole surface of life: a repeated echo of +its laughter and its complaint. Others have written, and not written +badly, with the stolid professional regularity of the clerk at his desk; +you, like the Scholar Gipsy, might have said that “it needs heaven-sent +moments for this skill.” There are, it will not surprise you, some +honourable women and a few men who call you a cynic; who speak of “the +withered world of Thackerayan satire;” who think your eyes were ever +turned to the sordid aspects of life—to the mother-in-law who threatens +to “take away her silver bread-basket;” to the intriguer, the sneak, the +termagant; to the Beckys, and Barnes Newcomes, and Mrs. Mackenzies of +this world. The quarrel of these sentimentalists is really with life, +not with you; they might as wisely blame Monsieur Buffon because there +are snakes in his Natural History. Had you not impaled certain noxious +human insects, you would have better pleased Mr. Ruskin; had you confined +yourself to such performances, you would have been more dear to the +Neo-Balzacian school in fiction. + +You are accused of never having drawn a good woman who was not a doll, +but the ladies that bring this charge seldom remind us either of Lady +Castlewood or of Theo or Hetty Lambert. The best women can pardon you +Becky Sharp and Blanche Amory; they find it harder to forgive you Emmy +Sedley and Helen Pendennis. Yet what man does not know in his heart that +the best women—God bless them—lean, in their characters, either to the +sweet passiveness of Emmy or to the sensitive and jealous affections of +Helen? ’Tis Heaven, not you, that made them so; and they are easily +pardoned, both for being a very little lower than the angels and for +their gentle ambition to be painted, as by Guido or Guercino, with wings +and harps and haloes. So ladies have occasionally seen their own faces +in the glass of fancy, and, thus inspired, have drawn Romola and +Consuelo. Yet when these fair idealists, Mdme. Sand and George Eliot, +designed Rosamund Vincy and Horace, was there not a spice of malice in +the portraits which we miss in your least favourable studies? + +That the creator of Colonel Newcome and of Henry Esmond was a snarling +cynic; that he who designed Rachel Esmond could not draw a good woman: +these are the chief charges (all indifferent now to you, who were once so +sensitive) that your admirers have to contend against. A French critic, +M. Taine, also protests that you do preach too much. Did any author but +yourself so frequently break the thread (seldom a strong thread) of his +plot to converse with his reader and moralise his tale, we also might be +offended. But who that loves Montaigne and Pascal, who that likes the +wise trifling of the one and can bear with the melancholy of the other, +but prefers your preaching to another’s playing! + +Your thoughts come in, like the intervention of the Greek Chorus, as an +ornament and source of fresh delight. Like the songs of the Chorus, they +bid us pause a moment over the wider laws and actions of human fate and +human life, and we turn from your persons to yourself, and again from +yourself to your persons, as from the odes of Sophocles or Aristophanes +to the action of their characters on the stage. Nor, to my taste, does +the mere music and melancholy dignity of your style in these passages of +meditation fall far below the highest efforts of poetry. I remember that +scene where Clive, at Barnes Newcome’s Lecture on the Poetry of the +Affections, sees Ethel who is lost to him. “And the past and its dear +histories, and youth and its hopes and passions, and tones and looks for +ever echoing in the heart and present in the memory—these, no doubt, poor +Clive saw and heard as he looked across the great gulf of time, and +parting and grief, and beheld the woman he had loved for many years.” + +_For ever echoing in the heart and present in the memory_: who has not +heard these tones, who does not hear them as he turns over your books +that, for so many years, have been his companions and comforters? We +have been young and old, we have been sad and merry with you, we have +listened to the midnight chimes with Pen and Warrington, have stood with +you beside the death-bed, have mourned at that yet more awful funeral of +lost love, and with you have prayed in the inmost chapel sacred to our +old and immortal affections, _à léal souvenir_! And whenever you speak +for yourself, and speak in earnest, how magical, how rare, how lonely in +our literature is the beauty of your sentences! “I can’t express the +charm of them” (so you write of George Sand; so we may write of you): +“they seem to me like the sound of country bells, provoking I don’t know +what vein of music and meditation, and falling sweetly and sadly on the +ear.” Surely that style, so fresh, so rich, so full of surprises—that +style which stamps as classical your fragments of slang, and perpetually +astonishes and delights—would alone give immortality to an author, even +had he little to say. But you, with your whole wide world of fops and +fools, of good women and brave men, of honest absurdities and cheery +adventurers: you who created the Steynes and Newcomes, the Beckys and +Blanches, Captain Costigan and F. B., and the Chevalier Strong—all that +host of friends imperishable—you must survive with Shakespeare and +Cervantes in the memory and affection of men. + + + + +II. +_To Charles Dickens_. + + +SIR,—It has been said that every man is born a Platonist or an +Aristotelian, though the enormous majority of us, to be sure, live and +die without being conscious of any invidious philosophic partiality +whatever. With more truth (though that does not imply very much) every +Englishman who reads may be said to be a partisan of yourself or of Mr. +Thackeray. Why should there be any partisanship in the matter; and why, +having two such good things as your novels and those of your +contemporary, should we not be silently happy in the possession? Well, +men are made so, and must needs fight and argue over their tastes in +enjoyment. For myself, I may say that in this matter I am what the +Americans do _not_ call a “Mugwump,” what English politicians dub a +“superior person”—that is, I take no side, and attempt to enjoy the best +of both. + +It must be owned that this attitude is sometimes made a little difficult +by the vigour of your special devotees. They have ceased, indeed, thank +Heaven! to imitate you; and even in “descriptive articles” the touch of +Mr. Gigadibs, of him whom “we almost took for the true Dickens,” has +disappeared. The young lions of the Press no longer mimic your less +admirable mannerisms—do not strain so much after fantastic comparisons, +do not (in your manner and Mr. Carlyle’s) give people nick-names derived +from their teeth, or their complexion; and, generally, we are spared +second-hand copies of all that in your style was least to be commended. +But, though improved by lapse of time in this respect, your devotees +still put on little conscious airs of virtue, robust manliness, and so +forth, which would have irritated you very much, and there survive some +press men who seem to have read you a little (especially your later +works), and never to have read anything else. Now familiarity with the +pages of “Our Mutual Friend” and “Dombey and Son” does not precisely +constitute a liberal education, and the assumption that it does is apt +(quite unreasonably) to prejudice people against the greatest comic +genius of modern times. + +On the other hand, Time is at last beginning to sift the true admirers of +Dickens from the false. Yours, Sir, in the best sense of the word, is a +popular success, a popular reputation. For example, I know that, in a +remote and even Pictish part of this kingdom, a rural household, humble +and under the shadow of a sorrow inevitably approaching, has found in +“David Copperfield” oblivion of winter, of sorrow, and of sickness. On +the other hand, people are now picking up heart to say that “they cannot +read Dickens,” and that they particularly detest “Pickwick.” I believe +it was young ladies who first had the courage of their convictions in +this respect. “Tout sied aux belles,” and the fair, in the confidence of +youth, often venture on remarkable confessions. In your “Natural History +of Young Ladies” I do not remember that you describe the Humorous Young +Lady. {13} She is a very rare bird indeed, and humour generally is at a +deplorably low level in England. + +Hence come all sorts of mischief, arisen since you left us; and it may be +said that inordinate philanthropy, genteel sympathy with Irish murder and +arson, Societies for Badgering the Poor, Esoteric Buddhism, and a score +of other plagues, including what was once called Æstheticism, are all, +primarily, due to want of humour. People discuss, with the gravest +faces, matters which properly should only be stated as the wildest +paradoxes. It naturally follows that, in a period almost destitute of +humour, many respectable persons “cannot read Dickens,” and are not +ashamed to glory in their shame. We ought not to be angry with others +for their misfortunes; and yet when one meets the _crétins_ who boast +that they cannot read Dickens, one certainly does feel much as Mr. Samuel +Weller felt when he encountered Mr. Job Trotter. + +How very singular has been the history of the decline of humour! Is +there any profound psychological truth to be gathered from consideration +of the fact that humour has gone out with cruelty? A hundred years ago, +eighty years ago—nay, fifty years ago—we were a cruel but also a humorous +people. We had bull-baitings, and badger-drawings, and hustings, and +prize-fights, and cock-fights; we went to see men hanged; the pillory and +the stocks were no empty “terrors unto evil-doers,” for there was +commonly a malefactor occupying each of these institutions. With all +this we had a broad-blown comic sense. We had Hogarth, and Bunbury, and +George Cruikshank, and Gilray; we had Leech and Surtees, and the creator +of Tittlebat Titmouse; we had the Shepherd of the “Noctes,” and, above +all, we had _you_. + +From the old giants of English fun—burly persons delighting in broad +caricature, in decided colours, in cockney jokes, in swashing blows at +the more prominent and obvious human follies—from these you derived the +splendid high spirits and unhesitating mirth of your earlier works. Mr. +Squeers, and Sam Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and all the Pickwickians, and Mr. +Dowler, and John Browdie—these and their immortal companions were reared, +so to speak, on the beef and beer of that naughty, fox-hunting, +badger-baiting old England, which we have improved out of existence. And +these characters, assuredly, are your best; by them, though stupid people +cannot read about them, you will live while there is a laugh left among +us. Perhaps that does not assure you a very prolonged existence, but +only the future can show. + +The dismal seriousness of the time cannot, let us hope, last for ever and +a day. Honest old Laughter, the true _lutin_ of your inspiration, must +have life left in him yet, and cannot die; though it is true that the +taste for your pathos, and your melodrama, and plots constructed after +your favourite fashion (“Great Expectations” and the “Tale of Two Cities” +are exceptions) may go by and never be regretted. Were people simpler, +or only less clear-sighted, as far as your pathos is concerned, a +generation ago? Jeffrey, the hard-headed shallow critic, who declared +that Wordsworth “would never do,” cried, “wept like anything,” over your +Little Nell. One still laughs as heartily as ever with Dick Swiveller; +but who can cry over Little Nell? + +Ah, Sir, how could you—who knew so intimately, who remembered so +strangely well the fancies, the dreams, the sufferings of childhood—how +could you “wallow naked in the pathetic,” and massacre holocausts of the +Innocents? To draw tears by gloating over a child’s death-bed, was it +worthy of you? Was it the kind of work over which our hearts should +melt? I confess that Little Nell might die a dozen times, and be +welcomed by whole legions of Angels, and I (like the bereaved fowl +mentioned by Pet Marjory) would remain unmoved. + + She was more than usual calm, + She did not give a single dam, + +wrote the astonishing child who diverted the leisure of Scott. Over your +Little Nell and your Little Dombey I remain more than usual calm; and +probably so do thousands of your most sincere admirers. But about matter +of this kind, and the unseating of the fountains of tears, who can argue? +Where is taste? where is truth? What tears are “manly, Sir, manly,” as +Fred Bayham has it; and of what lamentations ought we rather to be +ashamed? _Sunt lacrymæ rerum_; one has been moved in the cell where +Socrates tasted the hemlock; or by the river-banks where Syracusan arrows +slew the parched Athenians among the mire and blood; or, in fiction, when +Colonel Newcome says _Adsum_, or over the diary of Clare Doria Forey, or +where Aramis laments, with strange tears, the death of Porthos. But over +Dombey (the Son), or Little Nell, one declines to snivel. + +When an author deliberately sits down and says, “Now, let us have a good +cry,” he poisons the wells of sensibility and chokes, at least in many +breasts, the fountain of tears. Out of “Dombey and Son” there is little +we care to remember except the deathless Mr. Toots; just as we forget the +melodramatics of “Martin Chuzzlewit.” I have read in that book a score +of times; I never see it but I revel in it—in Pecksniff, and Mrs. Gamp, +and the Americans. But what the plot is all about, what Jonas did, what +Montagu Tigg had to make in the matter, what all the pictures with plenty +of shading illustrate, I have never been able to comprehend. In the same +way, one of your most thorough-going admirers has allowed (in the licence +of private conversation) that “Ralph Nickleby and Monk are too steep;” +and probably a cultivated taste will always find them a little +precipitous. + +“Too steep:”—the slang expresses that defect of an ardent genius, carried +above itself, and out of the air we breathe, both in its grotesque and in +its gloomy imaginations. To force the note, to press fantasy too hard, +to deepen the gloom with black over the indigo, that was the failing +which proved you mortal. To take an instance in little: when Pip went to +Mr. Pumblechook’s, the boy thought the seedsman “a very happy man to have +so many little drawers in his shop.” The reflection is thoroughly +boyish; but then you add, “I wondered whether the flower-seeds and bulbs +ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails and bloom.” That +is not boyish at all; that is the hard-driven, jaded literary fancy at +work. + +“So we arraign her; but she,” the Genius of Charles Dickens, how +brilliant, how kindly, how beneficent she is! dwelling by a fountain of +laughter imperishable; though there is something of an alien salt in the +neighbouring fountain of tears. How poor the world of fancy would be, +how “dispeopled of her dreams,” if, in some ruin of the social system, +the books of Dickens were lost; and if The Dodger, and Charley Bates, and +Mr. Crinkle, and Miss Squeers and Sam Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and Dick +Swiveller were to perish, or to vanish with Menander’s men and women! We +cannot think of our world without them; and, children of dreams as they +are, they seem more essential than great statesmen, artists, soldiers, +who have actually worn flesh and blood, ribbons and orders, gowns and +uniforms. May we not almost welcome “Free Education”? for every +Englishman who can read, unless he be an Ass, is a reader the more for +you. + +P.S.—Alas, how strangely are we tempered, and how strong is the national +bias! I have been saying things of you that I would not hear an enemy +say. When I read, in the criticism of an American novelist, about your +“hysterical emotionality” (for he writes in American), and your “waste of +verbiage,” I am almost tempted to deny that our Dickens has a single +fault, to deem you impeccable! + + + +III. +_To Pierre de Ronsard_ +(PRINCE OF POETS) + + +MASTER AND PRINCE OF POETS,—As we know what choice thou madest of a +sepulchre (a choice how ill fulfilled by the jealousy of Fate), so we +know well the manner of thy chosen immortality. In the Plains Elysian, +among the heroes and the ladies of old song, there was thy Love with thee +to enjoy her paradise in an eternal spring. + + _Là du plaisant Avril la saison immortelle_ + _Sans eschange le suit_, + _La terre sans labour, de sa grasse mamelle_, + _Toute chose y produit_; + _D’enbas la troupe sainte autrefois amoureuse_, + _Nous honorant sur tous_, + _Viendra nous saluer, s’estimant bien-heureuse_ + _De s’accointer de nous_. + +There thou dwellest, with the learned lovers of old days, with Belleau, +and Du Bellay, and Baïf, and the flower of the maidens of Anjou. Surely +no rumour reaches thee, in that happy place of reconciled affections, no +rumour of the rudeness of Time, the despite of men, and the change which +stole from thy locks, so early grey, the crown of laurels and of thine +own roses. How different from thy choice of a sepulchre have been the +fortunes of thy tomb! + + I will that none should break + The marble for my sake, + Wishful to make more fair + My sepulchre! + +So didst thou sing, or so thy sweet numbers run in my rude English. +Wearied of Courts and of priories, thou didst desire a grave beside thine +own Loire, not remote from + + The caves, the founts that fall + From the high mountain wall, + That fall and flash and fleet, + With silver feet. + + Only a laurel tree + Shall guard the grave of me; + Only Apollo’s bough + Shall shade me now! + +Far other has been thy sepulchre: not in the free air, among the field +flowers, but in thy priory of Saint Cosme, with marble for a monument, +and no green grass to cover thee. Restless wert thou in thy life; thy +dust was not to be restful in thy death. The Huguenots, _ces nouveaux +Chrétiens qui la France ont pillée_, destroyed thy tomb, and the warning +of the later monument, + + ABI, NEFASTE, QUAM CALCUS HUMUM SACRA EST, + +has not scared away malicious men. The storm that passed over France a +hundred years ago, more terrible than the religious wars that thou didst +weep for, has swept the column from the tomb. The marble was broken by +violent hands, and the shattered sepulchre of the Prince of Poets gained +a dusty hospitality from the museum of a country town. Better had been +the laurel of thy desire, the creeping vine, and the ivy tree. + +Scarce more fortunate, for long, than thy monument was thy memory. Thou +hast not encountered, Master, in the Paradise of Poets, Messieurs +Malherbe, De Balzac, and Boileau—Boileau who spoke of thee as _Ce poète +orgueilleux trébuché de si haut_! + +These gallant gentlemen, I make no doubt, are happy after their own +fashion, backbiting each other and thee in the Paradise of Critics. In +their time they wrought thee much evil, grumbling that thou wrotest in +Greek and Latin (of which tongues certain of them had but little skill), +and blaming thy many lyric melodies and the free flow of thy lines. What +said M. de Balzac to M. Chapelain? “M. de Malherbe, M. de Grasse, and +yourself must be very little poets, if Ronsard be a great one.” Time has +brought in his revenges, and Messieurs Chapelain and De Grasse are as +well forgotten as thou art well remembered. Men could not always be deaf +to thy sweet old songs, nor blind to the beauty of thy roses and thy +loves. When they took the wax out of their ears that M. Boileau had +given them lest they should hear the singing of thy Sirens, then they +were deaf no longer, then they heard the old deaf poet singing and made +answer to his lays. Hast thou not heard these sounds? have they not +reached thee, the voices and the lyres of Théophile Gautier and Alfred de +Musset? Methinks thou hast marked them, and been glad that the old notes +were ringing again and the old French lyric measures tripping to thine +ancient harmonies, echoing and replying to the Muses of Horace and +Catullus. Returning to Nature, poets returned to thee. Thy monument has +perished, but not thy music, and the Prince of Poets has returned to his +own again in a glorious Restoration. + +Through the dust and smoke of ages, and through the centuries of wars we +strain our eyes and try to gain a glimpse of thee, Master, in thy good +days, when the Muses walked with thee. We seem to mark thee wandering +silent through some little village, or dreaming in the woods, or +loitering among thy lonely places, or in gardens where the roses blossom +among wilder flowers, or on river banks where the whispering poplars and +sighing reeds make answer to the murmur of the waters. Such a picture +hast thou drawn of thyself in the summer afternoons. + + Je m’en vais pourmener tantost parmy la plaine, + Tantost en un village, et tantost en un bois, + Et tantost par les lieux solitaires et cois. + J’aime fort les jardins qui sentent le sauvage, + J’aime le flot de l’eau qui gazoüille au rivage. + +Still, methinks, there was a book in the hand of the grave and learned +poet; still thou wouldst carry thy Horace, thy Catullus, thy Theocritus, +through the gem-like weather of the _Renouveau_, when the woods were +enamelled with flowers, and the young Spring was lodged, like a wandering +prince, in his great palaces hung with green: + + Orgueilleux de ses fleurs, enflé de sa jeunesse, + Logé comme un grand Prince en ses vertes maisons! + +Thou sawest, in these woods by Loire side, the fair shapes of old +religion, Fauns, Nymphs, and Satyrs, and heard’st in the nightingale’s +music the plaint of Philomel. The ancient poets came back in the train +of thyself and of the Spring, and learning was scarce less dear to thee +than love; and thy ladies seemed fairer for the names they borrowed from +the beauties of forgotten days, Helen and Cassandra. How sweetly didst +thou sing to them thine old morality, and how gravely didst thou teach +the lesson of the Roses! Well didst thou know it, well didst thou love +the Rose, since thy nurse, carrying thee, an infant, to the holy font, +let fall on thee the sacred water brimmed with floating blossoms of the +Rose! + + Mignonne, allons voir si la Rose, + Qui ce matin avoit desclose + Sa robe de pourpre au soleil, + A point perdu ceste vespree + Les plis de sa robe pourpree, + Et son teint au votre pareil. + +And again, + + La belle Rose du Printemps, + Aubert, admoneste les hommes + Passer joyeusement le temps, + Et pendant que jeunes nous sommes, + Esbattre la fleur de nos ans. + +In the same mood, looking far down the future, thou sangest of thy lady’s +age, the most sad, the most beautiful of thy sad and beautiful lays; for +if thy bees gathered much honey ’twas somewhat bitter to taste, like that +of the Sardinian yews. How clearly we see the great hall, the grey lady +spinning and humming among her drowsy maids, and how they waken at the +word, and she sees her spring in their eyes, and they forecast their +winter in her face, when she murmurs “’Twas Ronsard sang of me.” + +Winter, and summer, and spring, how swiftly they pass, and how early time +brought thee his sorrows, and grief cast her dust upon thy head. + + Adieu ma Lyre, adieu fillettes, + Jadis mes douces amourettes, + Adieu, je sens venir ma fin, + Nul passetemps de ma jeunesse + Ne m’accompagne en la vieillesse, + Que le feu, le lict et le vin. + +Wine, and a soft bed, and a bright fire: to this trinity of poor +pleasures we come soon, if, indeed, wine be left to us. Poetry herself +deserts us; is it not said that Bacchus never forgives a renegade? and +most of us turn recreants to Bacchus. Even the bright fire, I fear, was +not always there to warm thine old blood, Master, or, if fire there were, +the wood was not bought with thy book-seller’s money. When autumn was +drawing in during thine early old age, in 1584, didst thou not write that +thou hadst never received a sou at the hands of all the publishers who +vended thy books? And as thou wert about putting forth thy folio edition +of 1584, thou didst pray Buon, the bookseller, to give thee sixty crowns +to buy wood withal, and make thee a bright fire in winter weather, and +comfort thine old age with thy friend Gallandius. And if Buon will not +pay, then to try the other booksellers, “that wish to take everything and +give nothing.” + +Was it knowledge of this passage, Master, or ignorance of everything +else, that made certain of the common steadfast dunces of our days speak +of thee as if thou hadst been a starveling, neglected poetaster, jealous +forsooth of Maître Françoys Rabelais? See how ignorantly M. Fleury +writes, who teaches French literature withal to them of Muscovy, and hath +indited a Life of Rabelais. “Rabelais était revêtu d’un emploi +honorable; Ronsard était traité en subalterne,” quoth this wondrous +professor. What! Pierre de Ronsard, a gentleman of a noble house, +holding the revenue of many abbeys, the friend of Mary Stuart, of the Duc +d’Orléans, of Charles IX., _he_ is _traité en subalterne_, and is jealous +of a frocked or unfrocked _manant_ like Maître Françoys! And then this +amazing Fleury falls foul of thine epitaph on Maître Françoys and cries, +“Ronsard a voulu faire des vers méchants; il n’a fait que de méchants +vers.” More truly saith M. Sainte-Beuve, “If the good Rabelais had +returned to Meudon on the day when this epitaph was made over the wine, +he would, methinks, have laughed heartily.” But what shall be said of a +Professor like the egregious M. Fleury, who holds that Ronsard was +despised at Court? Was there a party at tennis when the king would not +fain have had thee on his side, declaring that he ever won when Ronsard +was his partner? Did he not give thee benefices, and many priories, and +call thee his father in Apollo, and even, so they say, bid thee sit down +beside him on his throne? Away, ye scandalous folk, who tell us that +there was strife between the Prince of Poets and the King of Mirth. +Naught have ye by way of proof of your slander but the talk of Jean +Bernier, a scurrilous, starveling apothecary, who put forth his fables in +1697, a century and a half after Maître Françoys died. Bayle quoted this +fellow in a note, and ye all steal the tattle one from another in your +dull manner, and know not whence it comes, nor even that Bayle would none +of it and mocked its author. With so little knowledge is history +written, and thus doth each chattering brook of a “Life” swell with its +tribute “that great Mississippi of falsehood,” Biography. + + + + +IV. +_To Herodotus_. + + +TO Herodotus of Halicarnassus, greeting.—Concerning the matters set forth +in your histories, and the tales you tell about both Greeks and +Barbarians, whether they be true, or whether they be false, men dispute +not little but a great deal. Wherefore I, being concerned to know the +verity, did set forth to make search in every manner, and came in my +quest even unto the ends of the earth. For there is an island of the +Cimmerians beyond the Straits of Heracles, some three days’ voyage to a +ship that hath a fair following wind in her sails; and there it is said +that men know many things from of old: thither, then, I came in my +inquiry. Now, the island is not small, but large, greater than the whole +of Hellas; and they call it Britain. In that island the east wind blows +for ten parts of the year, and the people know not how to cover +themselves from the cold. But for the other two months of the year the +sun shines fiercely, so that some of them die thereof, and others die of +the frozen mixed drinks; for they have ice even in the summer, and this +ice they put to their liquor. Through the whole of this island, from the +west even to the east, there flows a river called Thames: a great river +and a laborious, but not to be likened to the River of Egypt. + +The mouth of this river, where I stepped out from my ship, is exceedingly +foul and of an evil savour by reason of the city on the banks. Now this +city is several hundred parasangs in circumference. Yet a man that +needed not to breathe the air might go round it in one hour, in chariots +that run under the earth; and these chariots are drawn by creatures that +breathe smoke and sulphur, such as Orpheus mentions in his “Argonautica,” +if it be by Orpheus. The people of the town, when I inquired of them +concerning Herodotus of Halicarnassus, looked on me with amazement, and +went straightway about their business—namely, to seek out whatsoever new +thing is coming to pass all over the whole inhabited world, and as for +things old, they take no keep of them. + +Nevertheless, by diligence I learned that he who in this land knew most +concerning Herodotus was a priest, and dwelt in the priests’ city on the +river which is called the City of the Ford of the Ox. But whether Io, +when she wore a cow’s shape, had passed by that way in her wanderings, +and thence comes the name of that city, I could not (though I asked all +men I met) learn aught with certainty. But to me, considering this, it +seemed that Io must have come thither. And now farewell to Io. + +To the City of the Priests there are two roads: one by land; and one by +water, following the river. To a well-girdled man, the land journey is +but one day’s travel; by the river it is longer but more pleasant. Now +that river flows, as I said, from the west to the east. And there is in +it a fish called chub, which they catch; but they do not eat it, for a +certain sacred reason. Also there is a fish called trout, and this is +the manner of his catching. They build for this purpose great dams of +wood, which they call weirs. Having built the weir they sit upon it with +rods in their hands, and a line on the rod, and at the end of the line a +little fish. There then they “sit and spin in the sun,” as one of their +poets says, not for a short time but for many days, having rods in their +hands and eating and drinking. In this wise they angle for the fish +called trout; but whether they ever catch him or not, not having seen it, +I cannot say; for it is not pleasant to me to speak things concerning +which I know not the truth. + +Now, after sailing and rowing against the stream for certain days, I came +to the City of the Ford of the Ox. Here the river changes his name, and +is called Isis, after the name of the goddess of the Egyptians. But +whether the Britons brought the name from Egypt or whether the Egyptians +took it from the Britons, not knowing I prefer not to say. But to me it +seems that the Britons are a colony of the Egyptians, or the Egyptians a +colony of the Britons. Moreover, when I was in Egypt I saw certain +soldiers in white helmets, who were certainly British. But what they did +there (as Egypt neither belongs to Britain nor Britain to Egypt) I know +not, neither could they tell me. But one of them replied to me in that +line of Homer (if the Odyssey be Homer’s), “We have come to a sorry +Cyprus, and a sad Egypt.” Others told me that they once marched against +the Ethiopians, and having defeated them several times, then came back +again, leaving their property to the Ethiopians. But as to the truth of +this I leave it to every man to form his own opinion. + +Having come into the City of the Priests, I went forth into the street, +and found a priest of the baser sort, who for a piece of silver led me +hither and thither among the temples, discoursing of many things. + +Now it seemed to me a strange thing that the city was empty, and no man +dwelling therein, save a few priests only, and their wives, and their +children, who are drawn to and fro in little carriages dragged by women. +But the priest told me that during half the year the city was desolate, +for that there came somewhat called “The Long,” or “The Vac,” and drave +out the young priests. And he said that these did no other thing but row +boats, and throw balls from one to the other, and this they were made to +do, he said, that the young priests might learn to be humble, for they +are the proudest of men. But whether he spoke truth or not I know not, +only I set down what he told me. But to anyone considering it, this +appears rather to jump with his story—namely, that the young priests have +houses on the river, painted of divers colours, all of them empty. + +Then the priest, at my desire, brought me to one of the temples, that I +might seek out all things concerning Herodotus the Halicarnassian, from +one who knew. Now this temple is not the fairest in the city, but less +fair and goodly than the old temples, yet goodlier and more fair than the +new temples; and over the roof there is the image of an eagle made of +stone—no small marvel, but a great one, how men came to fashion him; and +that temple is called the House of Queens. Here they sacrifice a boar +once every year; and concerning this they tell a certain sacred story +which I know but will not utter. + +Then I was brought to the priest who had a name for knowing most about +Egypt, and the Egyptians, and the Assyrians, and the Cappadocians, and +all the kingdoms of the Great King. He came out to me, being attired in +a black robe, and wearing on his head a square cap. But why the priests +have square caps I know, and he who has been initiated into the mysteries +which they call “Matric” knows, but I prefer not to tell. Concerning the +square cap, then, let this be sufficient. Now, the priest received me +courteously, and when I asked him, concerning Herodotus, whether he were +a true man or not, he smiled and answered “Abu Goosh,” which, in the +tongue of the Arabians, means “The Father of Liars.” Then he went on to +speak concerning Herodotus, and he said in his discourse that Herodotus +not only told the thing which was not, but that he did so wilfully, as +one knowing the truth but concealing it. For example, quoth he, “Solon +never went to see Croesus, as Herodotus avers; nor did those about Xerxes +ever dream dreams; but Herodotus, out of his abundant wickedness, +invented these things.” + +“Now behold,” he went on, “how the curse of the Gods falls upon +Herodotus. For he pretends that he saw Cadmeian inscriptions at Thebes. +Now I do not believe there were any Cadmeian inscriptions there: +therefore Herodotus is most manifestly lying. Moreover, this Herodotus +never speaks of Sophocles the Athenian, and why not? Because he, being a +child at school, did not learn Sophocles by heart: for the tragedies of +Sophocles could not have been learned at school before they were written, +nor can any man quote a poet whom he never learned at school. Moreover, +as all those about Herodotus knew Sophocles well, he could not appear to +them to be learned by showing that he knew what they knew also.” Then I +thought the priest was making game and sport, saying first that Herodotus +could know no poet whom he had not learned at school, and then saying +that all the men of his time well knew this poet, “about whom everyone +was talking.” But the priest seemed not to know that Herodotus and +Sophocles were friends, which is proved by this, that Sophocles wrote an +ode in praise of Herodotus. + +Then he went on, and though I were to write with a hundred hands (like +Briareus, of whom Homer makes mention) I could not tell you all the +things that the priest said against Herodotus, speaking truly, or not +truly, or sometimes correctly and sometimes not, as often befalls mortal +men. For Herodotus, he said, was chiefly concerned to steal the lore of +those who came before him, such as Hecatæus, and then to escape notice as +having stolen it. Also he said that, being himself cunning and +deceitful, Herodotus was easily beguiled by the cunning of others, and +believed in things manifestly false, such as the story of the +Phoenix-bird. + +Then I spoke, and said that Herodotus himself declared that he could not +believe that story; but the priest regarded me not. And he said that +Herodotus had never caught a crocodile with cold pig, nor did he ever +visit Assyria, nor Babylon, nor Elephantine; but, saying that he had been +in these lands, said that which was not true. He also declared that +Herodotus, when he travelled, knew none of the Fat Ones of the Egyptians, +but only those of the baser sort. And he called Herodotus a thief and a +beguiler, and “the same with intent to deceive,” as one of their own +poets writes. And, to be short, Herodotus, I could not tell you in one +day all the charges which are now brought against you; but concerning the +truth of these things, _you_ know, not least, but most, as to yourself +being guilty or innocent. Wherefore, if you have anything to show or set +forth whereby you may be relieved from the burden of these accusations, +now is the time. Be no longer silent; but, whether through the Oracle of +the Dead, or the Oracle of Branchidæ, or that in Delphi, or Dodona, or of +Amphiaraus at Oropus, speak to your friends and lovers (whereof I am one +from of old) and let men know the very truth. + +Now, concerning the priests in the City of the Ford of the Ox, it is to +be said that of all men whom we know they receive strangers most gladly, +feasting them all day. Moreover, they have many drinks, cunningly mixed, +and of these the best is that they call Archdeacon, naming it from one of +the priests’ offices. Truly, as Homer says (if the Odyssey be Homer’s), +“when that draught is poured into the bowl then it is no pleasure to +refrain.” + +Drinking of this wine, or nectar, Herodotus, I pledge you, and pour forth +some deal on the ground, to Herodotus of Halicarnassus, in the House of +Hades. + +And I wish you farewell, and good be with you. Whether the priest spoke +truly, or not truly, even so may such good things betide you as befall +dead men. + + + + +V. +_Epistle to Mr. Alexander Pope_. + + + FROM mortal Gratitude, decide, my Pope, + Have Wits Immortal more to fear or hope? + Wits toil and travail round the Plant of Fame, + Their Works its Garden, and its Growth their Aim, + Then Commentators, in unwieldy Dance, + Break down the Barriers of the trim Pleasance, + Pursue the Poet, like Actæon’s Hounds, + Beyond the fences of his Garden Grounds, + Rend from the singing Robes each borrowed Gem, + Rend from the laurel’d Brows the Diadem, + And, if one Rag of Character they spare, + Comes the Biographer, and strips it bare! + + Such, Pope, has been thy Fortune, such thy Doom. + Swift the Ghouls gathered at the Poet’s Tomb, + With Dust of Notes to clog each lordly Line, + Warburton, Warton, Croker, Bowles, combine! + Collecting Cackle, Johnson condescends + To _interview_ the Drudges of your Friends. + Thus though your Courthope holds your merits high, + And still proclaims your Poems _Poetry_, + Biographers, un-Boswell-like, have sneered, + And Dunces edit him whom Dunces feared! + + They say, “what say they?” Not in vain You ask; + To tell you what they say, behold my Task! + “Methinks already I your Tears survey” + As I repeat “the horrid Things they say.” {48a} + + Comes El-n first: I fancy you’ll agree + Not frenzied Dennis smote so fell as he; + For El-n’s Introduction, crabbed and dry, + Like Churchill’s Cudgel’s {48b} marked with _Lie_, and _Lie_! + + “Too dull to know what his own System meant, + Pope yet was skilled new Treasons to invent; + A Snake that puffed himself and stung his Friends, + Few Lied so frequent, for such little Ends; + His mind, like Flesh inflamed, {49} was raw and sore, + And still, the more he writhed, he stung the more! + Oft in a Quarrel, never in the Right, + His Spirit sank when he was called to fight. + Pope, in the Darkness mining like a Mole, + Forged on Himself, as from Himself he stole, + And what for Caryll once he feigned to feel, + Transferred, in Letters never sent, to Steele! + Still he denied the Letters he had writ, + And still mistook Indecency for Wit. + His very Grammar, so De Quincey cries, + ‘Detains the Reader, and at times defies!’” + + Fierce El-n thus: no Line escapes his Rage, + And furious Foot-notes growl ’neath every Page: + See St-ph-n next take up the woful Tale, + Prolong the Preaching, and protract the Wail! + “Some forage Falsehoods from the North and South, + But Pope, poor D-l, lied from Hand to Mouth; {50} + Affected, hypocritical, and vain, + A Book in Breeches, and a Fop in Grain; + A Fox that found not the high Clusters sour, + The Fanfaron of Vice beyond his power, + Pope yet possessed”—(the Praise will make you start)— + “Mean, morbid, vain, he yet possessed a Heart! + And still we marvel at the Man, and still + Admire his Finish, and applaud his Skill: + Though, as that fabled Barque, a phantom Form, + Eternal strains, nor rounds the Cape of Storm, + Even so Pope strove, nor ever crossed the Line + That from the Noble separates the Fine!” + + The Learned thus, and who can quite reply, + Reverse the Judgment, and Retort the Lie? + You reap, in armèd Hates that haunt your Name, + Reap what you sowed, the Dragon’s Teeth of Fame: + You could not write, and from unenvious Time + Expect the Wreath that crowns the lofty Rhyme, + You still must fight, retreat, attack, defend, + And oft, to snatch a Laurel, lose a Friend! + + The Pity of it! And the changing Taste + Of changing Time leaves half your Work a Waste! + My Childhood fled your Couplet’s clarion tone, + And sought for Homer in the Prose of Bohn. + Still through the Dust of that dim Prose appears + The Flight of Arrows and the Sheen of Spears; + Still we may trace what Hearts heroic feel, + And hear the Bronze that hurtles on the Steel! + But, ah, your Iliad seems a half-pretence, + Where Wits, not Heroes, prove their Skill in Fence, + And great Achilles’ Eloquence doth show + As if no Centaur trained him, but Boileau! + + Again, your Verse is orderly,—and more,— + “The Waves behind impel the Waves before;” + Monotonously musical they glide, + Till Couplet unto Couplet hath replied. + But turn to Homer! How his Verses sweep! + Surge answers Surge and Deep doth call on Deep; + This Line in Foam and Thunder issues forth, + Spurred by the West or smitten by the North, + Sombre in all its sullen Deeps, and all + Clear at the Crest, and foaming to the Fall, + The next with silver Murmur dies away, + Like Tides that falter to Calypso’s Bay! + + Thus Time, with sordid Alchemy and dread, + Turns half the Glory of your Gold to Lead; + Thus Time,—at Ronsard’s wreath that vainly bit,— + Has marred the Poet to preserve the Wit, + Who almost left on Addison a stain, + Whose Knife cut cleanest with a poisoned pain,— + Yet Thou (strange Fate that clings to all of Thine!) + When most a Wit dost most a Poet shine. + In Poetry thy Dunciad expires, + When Wit has shot “her momentary Fires.” + ’Tis Tragedy that watches by the Bed + “Where tawdry Yellow strove with dirty Red,” + And Men, remembering all, can scarce deny + To lay the Laurel where thine Ashes lie! + + + + +VI. +_To Lucian of Samosata_. + + +IN what bower, oh Lucian, of your rediscovered Islands Fortunate are you +now reclining; the delight of the fair, the learned, the witty, and the +brave? In that clear and tranquil climate, whose air breathes of “violet +and lily, myrtle, and the flower of the vine,” + + _Where the daisies are rose-scented_, + _And the Rose herself has got_ + _Perfume which on earth is not_, + +among the music of all birds, and the wind-blown notes of flutes hanging +on the trees, methinks that your laughter sounds most silvery sweet, and +that Helen and fair Charmides are still of your company. Master of +mirth, and Soul the best contented of all that have seen the world’s ways +clearly, most clear-sighted of all that have made tranquillity their +bride, what other laughers dwell with you, where the crystal and fragrant +waters wander round the shining palaces and the temples of amethyst? + +Heine surely is with you; if, indeed, it was not one Syrian soul that +dwelt among alien men, Germans and Romans, in the bodily tabernacles of +Heine and of Lucian. But he was fallen on evil times and evil tongues; +while Lucian, as witty as he, as bitter in mockery, as happily dowered +with the magic of words, lived long and happily and honoured, imprisoned +in no “mattress-grave.” Without Rabelais, without Voltaire, without +Heine, you would find, methinks, even the joys of your Happy Islands +lacking in zest; and, unless Plato came by your way, none of the ancients +could meet you in the lists of sportive dialogue. + +There, among the vines that bear twelve times in the year, more excellent +than all the vineyards of Touraine, while the song-birds bring you +flowers from vales enchanted, and the shapes of the Blessed come and go, +beautiful in wind-woven raiment of sunset hues; there, in a land that +knows not age, nor winter, midnight, nor autumn, nor noon, where the +silver twilight of summer-dawn is perennial, where youth does not wax +spectre-pale and die; there, my Lucian, you are crowned the Prince of the +Paradise of Mirth. + +Who would bring you, if he had the power, from the banquet where Homer +sings: Homer, who, in mockery of commentators, past and to come, German +and Greek, informed you that he was by birth a Babylonian? Yet, if you, +who first wrote Dialogues of the Dead, could hear the prayer of an +epistle wafted to “lands indiscoverable in the unheard-of West,” you +might visit once more a world so worthy of such a mocker, so like the +world you knew so well of old. + +Ah, Lucian, we have need of you, of your sense and of your mockery! +Here, where faith is sick and superstition is waking afresh; where gods +come rarely, and spectres appear at five shillings an interview; where +science is popular, and philosophy cries aloud in the market-place, and +clamour does duty for government, and Thais and Lais are names of +power—here, Lucian, is room and scope for you. Can I not imagine a new +“Auction of Philosophers,” and what wealth might be made by him who +bought these popular sages and lecturers at his estimate, and vended them +at their own? + +HERMES: Whom shall we put first up to auction? + +ZEUS: That German in spectacles; he seems a highly respectable man. + +HERMES: Ho, Pessimist, come down and let the public view you. + +ZEUS: Go on, put him up and have done with him. + +HERMES: Who bids for the Life Miserable, for extreme, complete, perfect, +unredeemable perdition? What offers for the universal extinction of the +species, and the collapse of the Conscious? + +A PURCHASER: He does not look at all a bad lot. May one put him through +his paces? + +HERMES: Certainly; try your luck. + +PURCHASER: What is your name? + +PESSIMIST: Hartmann. + +PURCHASER: What can you teach me? + +PESSIMIST: That Life is not worth Living. + +PURCHASER: Wonderful! Most edifying! How much for this lot? + +HERMES: Two hundred pounds. + +PURCHASER: I will write you a cheque for the money. Come home, +Pessimist, and begin your lessons without more ado. + +HERMES: Attention! Here is a magnificent article—the Positive Life, the +Scientific Life, the Enthusiastic Life. Who bids for a possible place in +the Calendar of the Future? + +PURCHASER: What does he call himself? he has a very French air. + +HERMES: Put your own questions. + +PURCHASER: What’s your pedigree, my Philosopher, and previous +performances? + +POSITIVIST: I am by Rousseau out of Catholicism, with a strain of the +Evolution blood. + +PURCHASER: What do you believe in? + +POSITIVIST: In Man, with a large M. + +PURCHASER: Not in individual Man? + +POSITIVIST: By no means; not even always in Mr. Gladstone. All men, all +Churches, all parties, all philosophies, and even the other sect of our +own Church, are perpetually in the wrong. Buy me, and listen to me, and +you will always be in the right. + +PURCHASER: And, after this life, what have you to offer me? + +POSITIVIST: A distinguished position in the Choir Invisible; but not, of +course, conscious immortality. + +PURCHASER: Take him away, and put up another lot. + +Then the Hegelian, with his Notion, and the Darwinian, with his notions, +and the Lotzian, with his Broad Church mixture of Religion and Evolution, +and the Spencerian, with that Absolute which is a sort of a something, +might all be offered with their divers wares; and cheaply enough, Lucian, +you would value them in this auction of Sects. “There is but one way to +Corinth,” as of old; but which that way may be, oh master of Hermotimus, +we know no more than he did of old; and still we find, of all +philosophies, that the Stoic route is most to be recommended. But we +have our Cyrenaics too, though they are no longer “clothed in purple, and +crowned with flowers, and fond of drink and of female flute-players.” +Ah, here too, you might laugh, and fail to see where the Pleasure lies, +when the Cyrenaics are no “judges of cakes” (nor of ale, for that +matter), and are strangers in the Courts of Princes. “To despise all +things, to make use of all things, in all things to follow pleasure +only:” that is not the manner of the new, if it were the secret of the +older Hedonism. + +Then, turning from the philosophers to the seekers after a sign, what +change, Lucian, would you find in them and their ways? None; they are +quite unaltered. Still our Peregrinus, and our Peregrina too, come to us +from the East, or, if from the West, they take India on their way—India, +that secular home of drivelling creeds, and of religion in its +sacerdotage. Still they prattle of Brahmins and Buddhism; though, unlike +Peregrinus, they do not publicly burn themselves on pyres, at Epsom +Downs, after the Derby. We are not so fortunate in the demise of our +Theosophists; and our police, less wise than the Hellenodicæ, would +probably not permit the Immolation of the Quack. Like your Alexander, +they deal in marvels and miracles, oracles and warnings. All such bogy +stories as those of your “Philopseudes,” and the ghost of the lady who +took to table-rapping because one of her best slippers had not been +burned with her body, are gravely investigated by the Psychical Society. + +Even your ignorant Bibliophile is still with us—the man without a tinge +of letters, who buys up old manuscripts “because they are stained and +gnawed, and who goes, for proof of valued antiquity, to the testimony of +the book-worms.” And the rich Bibliophile now, as in your satire, +clothes his volumes in purple morocco and gay _dorures_, while their +contents are sealed to him. + +As to the topics of satire and gay curiosity which occupy the lady known +as “Gyp,” and M. Halévy in his “Les Petites Cardinal,” if you had not +exhausted the matter in your “Dialogues of Hetairai,” you would be amused +to find the same old traits surviving without a touch of change. One +reads, in Halévy’s French, of Madame Cardinal, and, in your Greek, of the +mother of Philinna, and marvels that eighteen hundred years have not in +one single trifle altered the mould. Still the old shabby light-loves, +the old greed, the old luxury and squalor. Still the unconquerable +superstition that now seeks to tell fortunes by the cards, and, in your +time, resorted to the sorceress with her magical “bull-roarer” or +_turndun_. {64} + +Yes, Lucian, we are the same vain creatures of doubt and dread, of +unbelief and credulity, of avarice and pretence, that you knew, and at +whom you smiled. Nay, our very “social question” is not altered. Do you +not write, in “The Runaways,” “The artisans will abandon their workshops, +and leave their trades, when they see that, with all the labour that bows +their bodies from dawn to dark, they make a petty and starveling +pittance, while men that toil not nor spin are floating in Pactolus”? + +They begin to see this again as of yore; but whether the end of their +vision will be a laughing matter, you, fortunate Lucian, do not need to +care. Hail to you, and farewell! + + + + +VII. +_To Maître Françoys Rabelais_. +OF THE COMING OF THE COQCIGRUES. + + +MASTER,—In the Boreal and Septentrional lands, turned aside from the +noonday and the sun, there dwelt of old (as thou knowest, and as Olaus +voucheth) a race of men, brave, strong, nimble, and adventurous, who had +no other care but to fight and drink. There, by reason of the cold (as +Virgil witnesseth), men break wine with axes. To their minds, when once +they were dead and gotten to Valhalla, or the place of their Gods, there +would be no other pleasure but to swig, tipple, drink, and boose till the +coming of that last darkness and Twilight, wherein they, with their +deities, should do battle against the enemies of all mankind; which day +they rather desired than dreaded. + +So chanced it also with Pantagruel and Brother John and their company, +after they had once partaken of the secret of the _Dive Bouteille_. +Thereafter they searched no longer; but, abiding at their ease, were +merry, frolic, jolly, gay, glad, and wise; only that they always and ever +did expect the awful Coming of the Coqcigrues. Now concerning the day of +that coming, and the nature of them that should come, they knew nothing; +and for his part Panurge was all the more adread, as Aristotle testifieth +that men (and Panurge above others) most fear that which they know least. +Now it chanced one day, as they sat at meat, with viands rare, dainty, +and precious as ever Apicius dreamed of, that there fluttered on the air +a faint sound as of sermons, speeches, orations, addresses, discourses, +lectures, and the like; whereat Panurge, pricking up his ears, cried, +“Methinks this wind bloweth from Midlothian,” and so fell a trembling. + +Next, to their aural orifices, and the avenues audient of the brain, was +borne a very melancholy sound as of harmoniums, hymns, organ-pianos, +psalteries, and the like, all playing different airs, in a kind most +hateful to the Muses. Then said Panurge, as well as he might for the +chattering of his teeth: “May I never drink if here come not the +Coqcigrues!” and this saying and prophecy of his was true and inspired. +But thereon the others began to mock, flout, and gird at Panurge for his +cowardice. “Here am I!” cried Brother John, “well-armed and ready to +stand a siege; being entrenched, fortified, hemmed-in and surrounded with +great pasties, huge pieces of salted beef, salads, fricassees, hams, +tongues, pies, and a wilderness of pleasant little tarts, jellies, +pastries, trifles, and fruits of all kinds, and I shall not thirst while +I have good wells, founts, springs, and sources of Bordeaux wine, +Burgundy, wine of the Champagne country, sack and Canary. A fig for thy +Coqcigrues!” + +But even as he spoke there ran up suddenly a whole legion, or rather +army, of physicians, each armed with laryngoscopes, stethoscopes, +horoscopes, microscopes, weighing machines, and such other tools, +engines, and arms as they had who, after thy time, persecuted Monsieur de +Pourceaugnac! And they all, rushing on Brother John, cried out to him, +“Abstain! Abstain!” And one said, “I have well diagnosed thee, and thou +art in a fair way to have the gout.” “I never did better in my days,” +said Brother John. “Away with thy meats and drinks!” they cried. And +one said, “He must to Royat;” and another, “Hence with him to Aix;” and a +third, “Banish him to Wiesbaden;” and a fourth, “Hale him to Gastein;” +and yet another, “To Barbouille with him in chains!” + +And while others felt his pulse and looked at his tongue, they all wrote +prescriptions for him like men mad. “For thy eating,” cried he that +seemed to be their leader, “No soup!” “No soup!” quoth Brother John; and +those cheeks of his, whereat you might have warmed your two hands in the +winter solstice, grew white as lilies. “Nay! and no salmon, nor any beef +nor mutton! A little chicken by times, _pericolo tuo_! Nor any game, +such as grouse, partridge, pheasant, capercailzie, wild duck; nor any +cheese, nor fruit, nor pastry, nor coffee, nor _eau de vie_; and avoid +all sweets. No veal, pork, nor made dishes of any kind.” “Then what may +I eat?” quoth the good Brother, whose valour had oozed out of the soles +of his sandals. “A little cold bacon at breakfast—no eggs,” quoth the +leader of the strange folk, “and a slice of toast without butter.” “And +for thy drink”—(“What?” gasped Brother John)—“one dessert-spoonful of +whisky, with a pint of the water of Apollinaris at luncheon and dinner. +No more!” At this Brother John fainted, falling like a great buttress of +a hill, such as Taygetus or Erymanthus. + +While they were busy with him, others of the frantic folk had built great +platforms of wood, whereon they all stood and spoke at once, both men and +women. And of these some wore red crosses on their garments, which +meaneth “Salvation;” and others wore white crosses, with a little black +button of crape, to signify “Purity;” and others bits of blue to mean +“Abstinence.” While some of these pursued Panurge others did beset +Pantagruel; asking him very long questions, whereunto he gave but short +answers. Thus they asked:— + +Have ye Local Option here?—Pan.: What? + +May one man drink if his neighbour be not athirst?—Pan.: Yea! + +Have ye Free Education?—Pan.: What? + +Must they that have, pay to school them that have not?—Pan.: Nay! + +Have ye free land?—Pan.: What? + +Have ye taken the land from the farmer, and given it to the tailor out of +work and the candlemaker masterless?—Pan.: Nay! + +Have your women folk votes?—Pan.: Bosh! + +Have ye got religion?—Pan.: How? + +Do you go about the streets at night, brawling, blowing a trumpet before +you, and making long prayers?—Pan.: Nay! + +Have you manhood suffrage?—Pan.: Eh? + +Is Jack as good as his master?—Pan.: Nay! + +Have you joined the Arbitration Society?—Pan.: _Quoy_? + +Will you let another kick you, and will you ask his neighbour if you +deserve the same?—Pan.: Nay! + +Do you eat what you list?—Pan.: Ay! + +Do you drink when you are athirst?—Pan.: Ay! + +Are you governed by the free expression of the popular will?—Pan.: How? + +Are you servants of priests, pulpits, and penny papers?—Pan.: NO! + +Now, when they heard these answers of Pantagruel they all fell, some a +weeping, some a praying, some a swearing, some an arbitrating, some a +lecturing, some a caucussing, some a preaching, some a faith-healing, +some a miracle-working, some a hypnotising, some a writing to the daily +press; and while they were thus busy, like folk distraught, “reforming +the island,” Pantagruel burst out a laughing; whereat they were greatly +dismayed; for laughter killeth the whole race of Coqcigrues, and they may +not endure it. + +Then Pantagruel and his company stole aboard a barque that Panurge had +ready in the harbour. And having provisioned her well with store of meat +and good drink, they set sail for the kingdom of Entelechy, where, having +landed, they were kindly entreated; and there abide to this day; drinking +of the sweet and eating of the fat, under the protection of that +intellectual sphere which hath in all places its centre and nowhere its +circumference. + +Such was their destiny; there was their end appointed, and thither the +Coqcigrues can never come. For all the air of that land is full of +laughter, which killeth Coqcigrues; and there aboundeth the herb +Pantagruelion. But for thee, Master Françoys, thou art not well liked in +this island of ours, where the Coqcigrues are abundant, very fierce, +cruel, and tyrannical. Yet thou hast thy friends, that meet and drink to +thee, and wish thee well wheresoever thou hast found thy _grand +peut-être_. + + + + +VIII. +_To Jane Austen_. + + +MADAM,—If to the enjoyments of your present state be lacking a view of +the minor infirmities or foibles of men, I cannot but think (were the +thought permitted) that your pleasures are yet incomplete. Moreover, it +is certain that a woman of parts who has once meddled with literature +will never wholly lose her love for the discussion of that delicious +topic, nor cease to relish what (in the cant of our new age) is styled +“literary shop.” For these reasons I attempt to convey to you some +inkling of the present state of that agreeable art which you, madam, +raised to its highest pitch of perfection. + +As to your own works (immortal, as I believe), I have but little that is +wholly cheering to tell one who, among women of letters, was almost alone +in her freedom from a lettered vanity. You are not a very popular +author: your volumes are not found in gaudy covers on every bookstall; +or, if found, are not perused with avidity by the Emmas and Catherines of +our generation. ’Tis not long since a blow was dealt (in the estimation +of the unreasoning) at your character as an author by the publication of +your familiar letters. The editor of these epistles, unfortunately, did +not always take your witticisms, and he added others which were too +unmistakably his own. While the injudicious were disappointed by the +absence of your exquisite style and humour, the wiser sort were the more +convinced of your wisdom. In your letters (knowing your correspondents) +you gave but the small personal talk of the hour, for them sufficient; +for your books you reserved matter and expression which are imperishable. +Your admirers, if not very numerous, include all persons of taste, who, +in your favour, are apt somewhat to abate the rule, or shake off the +habit, which commonly confines them to but temperate laudation. + +’Tis the fault of all art to seem antiquated and faded in the eyes of the +succeeding generation. The manners of your age were not the manners of +to-day, and young gentlemen and ladies who think Scott “slow,” think Miss +Austen “prim” and “dreary.” Yet, even could you return among us, I +scarcely believe that, speaking the language of the hour, as you might, +and versed in its habits, you would win the general admiration. For how +tame, madam, are your characters, especially your favourite heroines! how +limited the life which you knew and described! how narrow the range of +your incidents! how correct your grammar! + +As heroines, for example, you chose ladies like Emma, and Elizabeth, and +Catherine: women remarkable neither for the brilliance nor for the +degradation of their birth; women wrapped up in their own and the +parish’s concerns, ignorant of evil, as it seems, and unacquainted with +vain yearnings and interesting doubts. Who can engage his fancy with +their match-makings and the conduct of their affections, when so many +daring and dazzling heroines approach and solicit his regard? + +Here are princesses dressed in white velvet stamped with golden +fleurs-de-lys—ladies with hearts of ice and lips of fire, who count their +roubles by the million, their lovers by the score, and even their +husbands, very often, in figures of some arithmetical importance. With +these are the immaculate daughters of itinerant Italian musicians—maids +whose souls are unsoiled amidst the contaminations of our streets, and +whose acquaintance with the art of Phidias and Praxiteles, of Dædalus and +Scopas, is the more admirable, because entirely derived from loving study +of the inexpensive collections vended by the plaster-of-Paris man round +the corner. When such heroines are wooed by the nephews of Dukes, where +are your Emmas and Elizabeths? Your volumes neither excite nor satisfy +the curiosities provoked by that modern and scientific fiction, which is +greatly admired, I learn, in the United States, as well as in France and +at home. + +You erred, it cannot be denied, with your eyes open. Knowing Lydia and +Kitty so intimately as you did, why did you make of them almost +insignificant characters? With Lydia for a heroine you might have gone +far; and, had you devoted three volumes, and the chief of your time, to +the passions of Kitty, you might have held your own, even now, in the +circulating library. How Lyddy, perched on a corner of the roof, first +beheld her Wickham; how, on her challenge, he climbed up by a ladder to +her side; how they kissed, caressed, swung on gates together, met at odd +seasons, in strange places, and finally eloped: all this might have been +put in the mouth of a jealous elder sister, say Elizabeth, and you would +not have been less popular than several favourites of our time. Had you +cast the whole narrative into the present tense, and lingered lovingly +over the thickness of Mary’s legs and the softness of Kitty’s cheeks, and +the blonde fluffiness of Wickham’s whiskers, you would have left a +romance still dear to young ladies. + +Or, again, you might entrance fair students still, had you concentrated +your attention on Mrs. Rushworth, who eloped with Henry Crawford. These +should have been the chief figures of “Mansfield Park.” But you timidly +decline to tackle Passion. “Let other pens,” you write, “dwell on guilt +and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can.” Ah, _there_ +is the secret of your failure! Need I add that the vulgarity and +narrowness of the social circles you describe impair your popularity? I +scarce remember more than one lady of title, and but very few lords (and +these unessential) in all your tales. Now, when we all wish to be in +society, we demand plenty of titles in our novels, at any rate, and we +get lords (and very queer lords) even from Republican authors, born in a +country which in your time was not renowned for its literature. I have +heard a critic remark, with a decided air of fashion, on the brevity of +the notice which your characters give each other when they offer +invitations to dinner. “An invitation to dinner next day was +despatched,” and this demonstrates that your acquaintance “went out” very +little, and had but few engagements. How vulgar, too, is one of your +heroines, who bids Mr. Darcy “keep his breath to cool his porridge.” I +blush for Elizabeth! It were superfluous to add that your characters are +debased by being invariably mere members of the Church of England as by +law established. The Dissenting enthusiast, the open soul that glides +from Esoteric Buddhism to the Salvation Army, and from the Higher +Pantheism to the Higher Paganism, we look for in vain among your studies +of character. Nay, the very words I employ are of unknown sound to you; +so how can you help us in the stress of the soul’s travailings? + +You may say that the soul’s travailings are no affair of yours; proving +thereby that you have indeed but a lowly conception of the duty of the +novelist. I only remember one reference, in all your works, to that +controversy which occupies the chief of our attention—the great +controversy on Creation or Evolution. Your Jane Bennet cries: “I have no +idea of there being so much Design in the world as some persons imagine.” +Nor do you touch on our mighty social question, the Land Laws, save when +Mrs. Bennet appears as a Land Reformer, and rails bitterly against the +cruelty “of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in +favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.” There, madam, in that +cruelly unjust performance, what a text you had for a _tendenz-romanz_. +Nay, you can allow Kitty to report that a Private had been flogged, +without introducing a chapter on Flogging in the Army. But you formally +declined to stretch your matter out, here and there, “with solemn +specious nonsense about something unconnected with the story.” No +“padding” for Miss Austen! in fact, madam, as you were born before +Analysis came in, or Passion, or Realism, or Naturalism, or Irreverence, +or Religious Open-mindedness, you really cannot hope to rival your +literary sisters in the minds of a perplexed generation. Your heroines +are not passionate, we do not see their red wet cheeks, and tresses +dishevelled in the manner of our frank young Mænads. What says your best +successor, a lady who adds fresh lustre to a name that in fiction equals +yours? She says of Miss Austen: “Her heroines have a stamp of their own. +_They have a certain gentle self-respect and humour and hardness of +heart_ . . . Love with them does not mean a passion as much as an +interest, deep and silent.” I think one prefers them so, and that +Englishwomen should be more like Anne Elliot than Maggie Tulliver. “All +the privilege I claim for my own sex is that of loving longest when +existence or when hope is gone,” said Anne; perhaps she insisted on a +monopoly that neither sex has all to itself. Ah, madam, what a relief it +is to come back to your witty volumes, and forget the follies of to-day +in those of Mr. Collins and of Mrs. Bennet! How fine, nay, how noble is +your art in its delicate reserve, never insisting, never forcing the +note, never pushing the sketch into the caricature! You worked, without +thinking of it, in the spirit of Greece, on a labour happily limited, and +exquisitely organised. “Dear books,” we say, with Miss Thackeray—“dear +books, bright, sparkling with wit and animation, in which the homely +heroines charm, the dull hours fly, and the very bores are enchanting.” + + + + +IX. +_To Master Isaak Walton_. + + +FATHER ISAAK,—When I would be quiet and go angling it is my custom to +carry in my wallet thy pretty book, “The Compleat Angler.” Here, +methinks, if I find not trout I shall find content, and good company, and +sweet songs, fair milkmaids, and country mirth. For you are to know that +trout be now scarce and whereas he was ever a fearful fish, he hath of +late become so wary that none but the cunningest anglers may be even with +him. + +It is not as it was in your time, Father, when a man might leave his shop +in Fleet Street, of a holiday, and, when he had stretched his legs up +Tottenham Hill, come lightly to meadows chequered with waterlilies and +lady-smocks, and so fall to his sport. Nay, now have the houses so much +increased, like a spreading sore (through the breaking of that excellent +law of the Conscientious King and blessed Martyr, whereby building beyond +the walls was forbidden), that the meadows are all swallowed up in +streets. And as to the River Lea, wherein you took many a good trout, I +read in the news sheets that “its bed is many inches thick in horrible +filth, and the air for more than half a mile on each side of it is +polluted with a horrible, sickening stench,” so that we stand in dread of +a new Plague, called the Cholera. And so it is all about London for many +miles, and if a man, at heavy charges, betake himself to the fields, lo +you, folk are grown so greedy that none will suffer a stranger to fish in +his water. + +So poor anglers are in sore straits. Unless a man be rich and can pay +great rents, he may not fish in England, and hence spring the discontents +of the times, for the angler is full of content, if he do but take trout, +but if he be driven from the waterside, he falls, perchance, into evil +company, and cries out to divide the property of the gentle folk. As +many now do, even among Parliament-men, whom you loved not, Father Isaak, +neither do I love them more than Reason and Scripture bid each of us be +kindly to his neighbour. But, behold, the causes of the ill content are +not yet all expressed, for even where a man hath licence to fish, he will +hardly take trout in our age, unless he be all the more cunning. For the +fish, harried this way and that by so many of your disciples, is +exceeding shy and artful, nor will he bite at a fly unless it falleth +lightly, just above his mouth, and floateth dry over him, for all the +world like the natural _ephemeris_. And we may no longer angle with worm +for him, nor with penk or minnow, nor with the natural fly, as was your +manner, but only with the artificial, for the more difficulty the more +diversion. For my part I may cry, like Viator in your book, “Master, I +can neither catch with the first nor second Angle: I have no fortune.” + +So we fare in England, but somewhat better north of the Tweed, where +trout are less wary, but for the most part small, except in the extreme +rough north, among horrid hills and lakes. Thither, Master, as methinks +you may remember, went Richard Franck, that called himself +_Philanthropus_, and was, as it were, the Columbus of anglers, +discovering for them a new Hyperborean world. But Franck, doubtless, is +now an angler in the Lake of Darkness, with Nero and other tyrants, for +he followed after Cromwell, the man of blood, in the old riding days. +How wickedly doth Franck boast of that leader of the giddy multitude, +“when they raged, and became restless to find out misery for themselves +and others, and the rabble would herd themselves together,” as you said, +“and endeavour to govern and act in spite of authority.” So you wrote; +and what said Franck, that recreant angler? Doth he not praise “Ireton, +Vane, Nevill, and Martin, and the most renowned, valorous, and victorious +conqueror, Oliver Cromwell”? Natheless, with all his sins on his head, +this Franck discovered Scotland for anglers, and my heart turns to him +when he praises “the glittering and resolute streams of Tweed.” + +In those wilds of Assynt and Loch Rannoch, Father, we, thy followers, may +yet take trout, and forget the evils of the times. But, to be done with +Franck, how harshly he speaks of thee and thy book. “For you may +dedicate your opinion to what scribbling putationer you please; the +_Compleat Angler_ if you will, who tells you of a tedious fly story, +extravagantly collected from antiquated authors, such as Gesner and +Dubravius.” Again he speaks of “Isaac Walton, whose authority to me +seems alike authentick, as is the general opinion of the vulgar prophet,” +&c. + +Certain I am that Franck, if a better angler than thou, was a worse man, +who, writing his “Dialogues Piscatorial” or “Northern Memoirs” five years +after the world welcomed thy “Compleat Angler,” was jealous of thy favour +with the people, and, may be, hated thee for thy loyalty and sound faith. +But, Master, like a peaceful man avoiding contention, thou didst never +answer this blustering Franck, but wentest quietly about thy quiet Lea, +and left him his roaring Brora and windy Assynt. How could this noisy +man know thee—and know thee he did, having argued with thee in +Stafford—and not love Isaak Walton? A pedant angler, I call him, a +plaguy angler, so let him huff away, and turn we to thee and to thy sweet +charm in fishing for men. + +How often, studying in thy book, have I hummed to myself that of Horace— + + _Laudis amore tumes? Sunt certa piacula quæ te_ + _Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello_. + +So healing a book for the frenzy of fame is thy discourse on meadows, and +pure streams, and the country life. How peaceful, men say, and blessed +must have been the life of this old man, how lapped in content, and +hedged about by his own humility from the world! They forget, who speak +thus, that thy years, which were many, were also evil, or would have +seemed evil to divers that had tasted of thy fortunes. Thou wert poor, +but that, to thee, was no sorrow, for greed of money was thy detestation. +Thou wert of lowly rank, in an age when gentle blood was alone held in +regard; yet thy virtues made thee hosts of friends, and chiefly among +religious men, bishops, and doctors of the Church. Thy private life was +not unacquainted with sorrow; thy first wife and all her fair children +were taken from thee like flowers in spring, though, in thine age, new +love and new offspring comforted thee like “the primrose of the later +year.” Thy private griefs might have made thee bitter, or melancholy, so +might the sorrows of the State and of the Church, which were deprived of +their heads by cruel men, despoiled of their wealth, the pious driven, +like thee, from their homes; fear everywhere, everywhere robbery and +confusion: all this ruin might have angered another temper. But thou, +Father, didst bear all with so much sweetness as perhaps neither natural +temperament, nor a firm faith, nor the love of angling could alone have +displayed. For we see many anglers (as witness Richard Franck aforesaid) +who are angry men, and myself, when I get my hooks entangled at every +cast in a tree, have come nigh to swear prophane. + +Also we see religious men that are sour and fanatical, no rare thing in +the party that professes godliness. But neither private sorrow nor +public grief could abate thy natural kindliness, nor shake a religion +which was not untried, but had, indeed, passed through the furnace like +fine gold. For if we find not Faith at all times easy, because of the +oppositions of Science, and the searching curiosity of men’s minds, +neither was Faith a matter of course in thy day. For the learned and +pious were greatly tossed about, like worthy Mr. Chillingworth, by doubts +wavering between the Church of Rome and the Reformed Church of England. +The humbler folk, also, were invited, now here, now there, by the +clamours of fanatical Nonconformists, who gave themselves out to be +somebody, while Atheism itself was not without many to witness to it. +Therefore, such a religion as thine was not, so to say, a mere innocence +of evil in the things of our Belief, but a reasonable and grounded faith, +strong in despite of oppositions. Happy was the man in whom temper, and +religion, and the love of the sweet country and an angler’s pastime so +conveniently combined; happy the long life which held in its hand that +threefold clue through the labyrinth of human fortunes! Around thee +Church and State might fall in ruins, and might be rebuilded, and thy +tears would not be bitter, nor thy triumph cruel. + +Thus, by God’s blessing, it befell thee + + _Nec turpem senectam_ + _Degere, nec cithara carentem_. + +I would, Father, that I could get at the verity about thy poems. Those +recommendatory verses with which thou didst grace the Lives of Dr. Donne +and others of thy friends, redound more to the praise of thy kind heart +than thy fancy. But what or whose was the pastoral poem of “Thealma and +Clearchus,” which thou didst set about printing in 1678, and gavest to +the world in 1683? Thou gavest John Chalkhill for the author’s name, and +a John Chalkhill of thy kindred died at Winchester, being eighty years of +his age, in 1679. Now thou speakest of John Chalkhill as “a friend of +Edmund Spenser’s,” and how could this be? + +Are they right who hold that John Chalkhill was but a name of a friend, +borrowed by thee out of modesty, and used as a cloak to cover poetry of +thine own inditing? When Mr. Flatman writes of Chalkhill, ’tis in words +well fitted to thine own merit: + + Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows + Except himself, who charitably shows + The ready road to virtue and to praise, + The road to many long and happy days. + +However it be, in that road, by quiet streams and through green pastures, +thou didst walk all thine almost century of years, and we, who stray into +thy path out of the highway of life, we seem to hold thy hand, and listen +to thy cheerful voice. If our sport be worse, may our content be equal, +and our praise, therefore, none the less. Father, if Master Stoddard, +the great fisher of Tweedside, be with thee, greet him for me, and thank +him for those songs of his, and perchance he will troll thee a catch of +our dear River. + + Tweed! winding and wild! where the heart is unbound, + They know not, they dream not, who linger around, + How the saddened will smile, and the wasted rewin + From thee—the bliss withered within. + +Or perhaps thou wilt better love, + + The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, + And Manor wi’ its mountain rills, + An’ Etterick, whose waters twine + Wi’ Yarrow frae the forest hills; + An’ Gala, too, and Teviot bright, + An’ mony a stream o’ playfu’ speed, + Their kindred valleys a’ unite + Amang the braes o’ bonnie Tweed! + +So, Master, may you sing against each other, you two good old anglers, +like Peter and Corydon, that sang in your golden age. + + + + +X. +_To M. Chapelain_. + + +MONSIEUR,—You were a popular poet, and an honourable, over-educated, +upright gentleman. Of the latter character you can never be deprived, +and I doubt not it stands you in better stead where you are, than the +laurels which flourished so gaily, and faded so soon. + + Laurel is green for a season, and Love is fair for a day, + But Love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May. + +I know not if Mr. Swinburne is correct in his botany, but _your_ laurel +certainly outlived not May, nor can we hope that you dwell where Orpheus +and where Homer are. Some other crown, some other Paradise, we cannot +doubt it, awaited _un si bon homme_. But the moral excellence that even +Boileau admitted, _la foi, l’honneur, la probité_, do not in Parnassus +avail the popular poet, and some luckless Glatigny or Théophile, Regnier +or Gilbert, attains a kind of immortality denied to the man of many +contemporary editions, and of a great commercial success. + +If ever, for the confusion of Horace, any Poet was Made, you, Sir, should +have been that fortunately manufactured article. You were, in matters of +the Muses, the child of many prayers. Never, since Adam’s day, have any +parents but yours prayed for a poet-child. Then Destiny, that mocks the +desires of men in general, and fathers in particular, heard the appeal, +and presented M. Chapelain and Jeanne Corbière his wife with the future +author of “La Pucelle.” Oh futile hopes of men, _O pectora cæca_! All +was done that education could do for a genius which, among other +qualities, “especially lacked fire and imagination,” and an ear for +verse—sad defects these in a child of the Muses. Your training in all +the mechanics and metaphysics of criticism might have made you exclaim, +like Rasselas, “Enough! Thou hast convinced me that no human being can +ever be a Poet.” Unhappily, you succeeded in convincing Cardinal +Richelieu that to be a Poet was well within your powers, you received a +pension of one thousand crowns, and were made Captain of the Cardinal’s +Minstrels, as M. de Tréville was Captain of the King’s Musketeers. + +Ah, pleasant age to live in, when good intentions in poetry were more +richly endowed than ever is Research, even Research in Prehistoric +English, among us niggard moderns! How I wish I knew a Cardinal, or +even, as you did, a Prime Minister, who would praise and pension _me_; +but envy be still! Your existence was made happy indeed; you constructed +odes, corrected sonnets, presided at the Hôtel Rambouillet, while the +learned ladies were still young and fair, and you enjoyed a prodigious +celebrity on the score of your yet unpublished Epic. “Who, indeed,” says +a sympathetic author, M. Théophile Gautier, “who could expect less than a +miracle from a man so deeply learned in the laws of art—a perfect Turk in +the science of poetry, a person so well pensioned, and so favoured by the +great?” Bishops and politicians combined in perfect good faith to +advertise your merits. Hard must have been the heart that could resist +the testimonials of your skill as a poet offered by the Duc de +Montausier, and the learned Huet, Bishop of Avranches, and Monseigneur +Godeau, Bishop of Vence, and M. Colbert, who had such a genius for +finance. + +If bishops and politicians and Prime Ministers skilled in finance, and +some critics (Ménage and Sarrazin and Vaugelas), if ladies of birth and +taste, if all the world in fact, combined to tell you that you were a +great poet, how can we blame you for taking yourself seriously, and +appraising yourself at the public estimate? + +It was not in human nature to resist the evidence of the bishops +especially, and when every minor poet believes in himself on the +testimony of his own conceit, you may be acquitted of vanity if you +listened to the plaudits of your friends. Nay, you ventured to pronounce +judgment on contemporaries—whom Posterity has preferred to your +perfections. “Molière,” said you, “understands the genius of comedy, and +presents it in a natural style. The plot of his best pieces is borrowed, +but not without judgment; his _morale_ is fair, and he has only to avoid +scurrility.” + +Excellent, unconscious, popular Chapelain! + +Of yourself you observed, in a Report on contemporary literature, that +your “courage and sincerity never allowed you to tolerate work not +absolutely good.” And yet you regarded “La Pucelle” with some +complacency. + +On the “Pucelle” you were occupied during a generation of mortal men. I +marvel not at the length of your labours, as you received a yearly +pension till the Epic was finished, but your Muse was no Alcmena, and no +Hercules was the result of that prolonged night of creation. First you +gravely wrote out all the composition in prose: the task occupied you for +five whole years. Ah, why did you not leave it in that commonplace but +appropriate medium? What says the Précieuse about you in Boileau’s +satire? + + In Chapelain, for all his foes have said, + She finds but one defect, he can’t be read; + Yet thinks the world might taste his Maiden’s woes, + If only he would turn his verse to prose! + +The verse had been prose, and prose, perhaps, it should have remained. +Yet for this precious “Pucelle,” in the age when “Paradise Lost” was sold +for five pounds, you are believed to have received about four thousand. +Horace was wrong, mediocre poets may exist (now and then), and he was a +wise man who first spoke of _aurea mediocritas_. At length the great +work was achieved, a work thrice blessed in its theme, that divine Maiden +to whom France owes all, and whom you and Voltaire have recompensed so +strangely. In folio, in italics, with a score of portraits and +engravings, and _culs de lampe_, the great work was given to the world, +and had a success. Six editions in eighteen months are figures which +fill the poetic heart with envy and admiration. And then, alas! the +bubble burst. A great lady, Madame de Longueville, hearing the “Pucelle” +read aloud, murmured that it was “perfect indeed, but perfectly +wearisome.” Then the satires began, and the satirists never left you +till your poetic reputation was a rag, till the mildest Abbé at Ménage’s +had his cheap sneer for Chapelain. + +I make no doubt, Sir, that envy and jealousy had much to do with the +onslaught on your “Pucelle.” These qualities, alas! are not strange to +literary minds; does not even Hesiod tell us that “potter hates potter, +and poet hates poet”? But contemporary spites do not harm true genius. +Who suffered more than Molière from cabals? Yet neither the court nor +the town ever deserted him, and he is still the joy of the world. I +admit that his adversaries were weaker than yours. What were Boursault +and Le Boulanger, and Thomas Corneille and De Visé, what were they all +compared to your enemy, Boileau? Brossette tells a story which really +makes a man pity you. You remember M. de Puimorin, who, to be in the +fashion, laughed at your once popular Epic. “It is all very well,” said +you, “for a man to laugh who cannot even read.” Whereon M. de Puimorin +replied: “Qu’il n’avoit que trop sû lire, depuis que Chapelain s’étoit +avisé de faire imprimer.” A new horror had been added to the +accomplishment of reading since Chapelain had published. This repartee +was applauded, and M. de Puimorin tried to turn it into an epigram. He +did complete the last couplet, + + Hélas! pour mes péchés, je n’ai sû que trop lire + Depuis que tu fais imprimer. + +But by no labour would M. de Puimorin achieve the first two lines of his +epigram. Then you remember what great allies came to his assistance. I +almost blush to think that M. Despréaux, M. Racine, and M. de Molière, +the three most renowned wits of the time, conspired to complete the poor +jest, and assail you. Well, bubble as your poetry was, you may be proud +that it needed all these sharpest of pens to prick the bubble. Other +poets, as popular as you, have been annihilated by an article. Macaulay +put forth his hand, and “Satan Montgomery” was no more. It did not need +a Macaulay, the laughter of a mob of little critics was enough to blow +him into space; but you probably have met Montgomery, and of contemporary +failures or successes I do not speak. + +I wonder, sometimes, whether the consensus of criticism ever made you +doubt for a moment whether, after all, you were not a false child of +Apollo? Was your complacency tortured, as the complacency of true poets +has occasionally been, by doubts? Did you expect posterity to reverse +the verdict of the satirists, and to do you justice? You answered your +earliest assailant, Linière, and, by a few changes of words, turned his +epigrams into flattery. But I fancy, on the whole, you remained calm, +unmoved, wrapped up in admiration of yourself. According to M. de +Marivaux, who reviewed, as I am doing, the spirits of the mighty dead, +you “conceived, on the strength of your reputation, a great and serious +veneration for yourself and your genius.” Probably you were protected by +the invulnerable armour of an honest vanity, probably you declared that +mere jealousy dictated the lines of Boileau, and that Chapelain’s real +fault was his popularity, and his pecuniary success, + + Qu’il soit le mieux renté de tous les beaux-esprits. + +This, you would avow, was your offence, and perhaps you were not +altogether mistaken. Yet posterity declines to read a line of yours, +and, as we think of you, we are again set face to face with that eternal +problem, how far is popularity a test of poetry? Burns was a poet: and +popular. Byron was a popular poet, and the world agrees in the verdict +of their own generations. But Montgomery, though he sold so well, was no +poet, nor, Sir, I fear, was your verse made of the stuff of immortality. +Criticism cannot hurt what is truly great; the Cardinal and the Academy +left Chimène as fair as ever, and as adorable. It is only pinchbeck that +perishes under the acids of satire: gold defies them. Yet I sometimes +ask myself, does the existence of popularity like yours justify the +malignity of satire, which blesses neither him who gives, nor him who +takes? Are poisoned arrows fair against a bad poet? I doubt it, Sir, +holding that, even unpricked, a poetic bubble must soon burst by its own +nature. Yet satire will assuredly be written so long as bad poets are +successful, and bad poets will assuredly reflect that their assailants +are merely envious, and (while their vogue lasts) that the purchasing +public is the only judge. After all, the bad poet who is popular and +“sells” is not a whit worse than the bad poets who are unpopular, and who +deride his songs. + + Monsieur, + + Votre très-humble serviteur, &c. + + + + +XI. +_To Sir John Maundeville_, _Kt._ +(OF THE WAYS INTO YNDE.) + + +SIR JOHN,—Wit you well that men holden you but light, and some clepen you +a Liar. And they say that you never were born in Englond, in the town of +Seynt Albones, nor have seen and gone through manye diverse Londes. And +there goeth an old knight at arms, and one that connes Latyn, and hath +been beyond the sea, and hath seen Prester John’s country. And he hath +been in an Yle that men clepen Burmah, and there bin women bearded. Now +men call him Colonel Henry Yule, and he hath writ of thee in his great +booke, Sir John, and he holds thee but lightly. For he saith that ye did +pill your tales out of Odoric his book, and that ye never saw snails with +shells as big as houses, nor never met no Devyls, but part of that ye +say, ye took it out of William of Boldensele his book, yet ye took not +his wisdom, withal, but put in thine own foolishness. Nevertheless, Sir +John, for the frailty of Mankynde, ye are held a good fellow, and a +merry; so now, come, let me tell you of the new ways into Ynde. + +In that Lond they have a Queen that governeth all the Lond, and all they +ben obeyssant to her. And she is the Queen of Englond; for Englishmen +have taken all the Lond of Ynde. For they were right good werryoures of +old, and wyse, noble, and worthy. But of late hath risen a new sort of +Englishman very puny and fearful, and these men clepen Radicals. And +they go ever in fear, and they scream on high for dread in the streets +and the houses, and they fain would flee away from all that their fathers +gat them with the sword. And this sort men call Scuttleres, but the mean +folk and certain of the baser sort hear them gladly, and they say ever +that Englishmen should flee out of Ynde. + +Fro Englond men gon to Ynde by many dyverse Contreyes. For Englishmen +ben very stirring and nymble. For they ben in the seventh climate, that +is of the Moon. And the Moon (ye have said it yourself, Sir John, +natheless, is it true) is of lightly moving, for to go diverse ways, and +see strange things, and other diversities of the Worlde. Wherefore +Englishmen be lightly moving, and far wandering. And they gon to Ynde by +the great Sea Ocean. First come they to Gibraltar, that was the point of +Spain, and builded upon a rock; and there ben apes, and it is so strong +that no man may take it. Natheless did Englishmen take it fro the +Spanyard, and all to hold the way to Ynde. For ye may sail all about +Africa, and past the Cape men clepen of Good Hope, but that way unto Ynde +is long and the sea is weary. Wherefore men rather go by the Midland +sea, and Englishmen have taken many Yles in that sea. + +For first they have taken an Yle that is clept Malta; and therein built +they great castles, to hold it against them of Fraunce, and Italy, and of +Spain. And from this Ile of Malta Men gon to Cipre. And Cipre is right +a good Yle, and a fair, and a great, and it hath 4 principal Cytees +within him. And at Famagost is one of the principal Havens of the sea +that is in the world, and Englishmen have but a lytel while gone won that +Yle from the Sarazynes. Yet say that sort of Englishmen where of I told +you, that is puny and sore adread, that the Lond is poisonous and barren +and of no avail, for that Lond is much more hotter than it is here. Yet +the Englishmen that ben werryoures dwell there in tents, and the skill is +that they may ben the more fresh. + +From Cypre, Men gon to the Lond of Egypte, and in a Day and a Night he +that hath a good wind may come to the Haven of Alessandrie. Now the Lond +of Egypt longeth to the Soudan, yet the Soudan longeth not to the Lond of +Egypt. And when I say this, I do jape with words, and may hap ye +understond me not. Now Englishmen went in shippes to Alessandrie, and +brent it, and over ran the Lond, and their soudyours warred agen the +Bedoynes, and all to hold the way to Ynde. For it is not long past since +Frenchmen let dig a dyke, through the narrow spit of lond, from the +Midland sea to the Red sea, wherein was Pharaoh drowned. So this is the +shortest way to Ynde there may be, to sail through that dyke, if men gon +by sea. + +But all the Lond of Egypt is clepen the Vale enchaunted; for no man may +do his business well that goes thither, but always fares he evil, and +therefore clepen they Egypt the Vale perilous, and the sepulchre of +reputations. And men say there that is one of the entrees of Helle. In +that Vale is plentiful lack of Gold and Silver, for many misbelieving +men, and many Christian men also, have gone often time for to take of the +Thresoure that there was of old, and have pilled the Thresoure, wherefore +there is none left. And Englishmen have let carry thither great store of +our Thresoure, 9,000,000 of Pounds sterling, and whether they will see it +agen I misdoubt me. For that Vale is alle fulle of Develes and Fiendes +that men clepen Bondholderes, for that Egypt from of olde is the Lond of +Bondage. And whatsoever Thresoure cometh into the Lond, these Devyls of +Bondholders grabben the same. Natheless by that Vale do Englishmen go +unto Ynde, and they gon by Aden, even to Kurrachee, at the mouth of the +Flood of Ynde. Thereby they send their souldyours, when they are adread +of them of Muscovy. + +For, look you, there is another way into Ynde, and thereby the men of +Muscovy are fain to come, if the Englishmen let them not. That way +cometh by Desert and Wildernesse, from the sea that is clept Caspian, +even to Khiva, and so to Merv; and then come ye to Zulfikar and Penjdeh, +and anon to Herat, that is called the Key of the Gates of Ynde. Then ye +win the lond of the Emir of the Afghauns, a great prince and a rich, and +he hath in his Thresoure more crosses, and stars, and coats that captains +wearen, than any other man on earth. + +For all they of Muscovy, and all Englishmen maken him gifts, and he +keepeth the gifts, and he keepeth his own counsel. For his lond lieth +between Ynde and the folk of Muscovy, wherefore both Englishmen and men +of Muscovy would fain have him friendly, yea, and independent. Wherefore +they of both parties give him clocks, and watches, and stars, and +crosses, and culverins, and now and again they let cut the throats of his +men some deal, and pill his country. Thereby they both set up their rest +that the Emir will be independent, yea, and friendly. But his men love +him not, neither love they the English, nor the Muscovy folk, for they +are worshippers of Mahound, and endure not Christian men. And they love +not them that cut their throats, and burn their country. + +Now they of Muscovy ben Devyls, and they ben subtle for to make a thing +seme otherwise than it is, for to deceive mankind. Wherefore Englishmen +putten no trust in them of Muscovy, save only the Englishmen clept +Radicals, for they make as if they loved these Develes, out of the fear +and dread of war wherein they go, and would be slaves sooner than fight. +But the folk of Ynde know not what shall befall, nor whether they of +Muscovy will take the Lond, or Englishmen shall keep it, so that their +hearts may not enduren for drede. And methinks that soon shall +Englishmen and Muscovy folk put their bodies in adventure, and war one +with another, and all for the way to Ynde. + +But St. George for Englond, I say, and so enough; and may the Seyntes +hele thee, Sir John, of thy Gowtes Artetykes, that thee tormenten. But +to thy Boke I list not to give no credence. + + + + +XII. +_To Alexandre Dumas_. + + +SIR,—There are moments when the wheels of life, even of such a life as +yours, run slow, and when mistrust and doubt overshadow even the most +intrepid disposition. In such a moment, towards the ending of your days, +you said to your son, M. Alexandre Dumas, “I seem to see myself set on a +pedestal which trembles as if it were founded on the sands.” These +sands, your uncounted volumes, are all of gold, and make a foundation +more solid than the rock. As well might the singer of Odysseus, or the +authors of the “Arabian Nights,” or the first inventors of the stories of +Boccaccio, believe that their works were perishable (their names, indeed, +have perished), as the creator of “Les Trois Mousquetaires” alarm himself +with the thought that the world could ever forget Alexandre Dumas. + +Than yours there has been no greater nor more kindly and beneficent force +in modern letters. To Scott, indeed, you owed the first impulse of your +genius; but, once set in motion, what miracles could it not accomplish? +Our dear Porthos was overcome, at last, by a super-human burden; but your +imaginative strength never found a task too great for it. What an +extraordinary vigour, what health, what an overflow of force was yours! +It is good, in a day of small and laborious ingenuities, to breathe the +free air of your books, and dwell in the company of Dumas’s men—so +gallant, so frank, so indomitable, such swordsmen, and such trenchermen. +Like M. de Rochefort in “Vingt Ans Après,” like that prisoner of the +Bastille, your genius “n’est que d’un parti, c’est du parti du grand +air.” + +There seems to radiate from you a still persistent energy and enjoyment; +in that current of strength not only your characters live, frolic, +kindly, and sane, but even your very collaborators were animated by the +virtue which went out of you. How else can we explain it, the dreary +charge which feeble and envious tongues have brought against you, in +England and at home? They say you employed in your novels and dramas +that vicarious aid which, in the slang of the studio, the “sculptor’s +ghost” is fabled to afford. + +Well, let it be so; these ghosts, when uninspired by you, were faint and +impotent as “the strengthless tribes of the dead” in Homer’s Hades, +before Odysseus had poured forth the blood that gave them a momentary +valour. It was from you and your inexhaustible vitality that these +collaborating spectres drew what life they possessed; and when they +parted from you they shuddered back into their nothingness. Where are +the plays, where the romances which Maquet and the rest wrote in their +own strength? They are forgotten with last year’s snows; they have +passed into the wide waste-paper basket of the world. You say of +D’Artagnan, when severed from his three friends—from Porthos, Athos, and +Aramis—“he felt that he could do nothing, save on the condition that each +of these companions yielded to him, if one may so speak, a share of that +electric fluid which was his gift from heaven.” + +No man of letters ever had so great a measure of that gift as you; none +gave of it more freely to all who came—to the chance associate of the +hour, as to the characters, all so burly and full-blooded, who flocked +from your brain. Thus it was that you failed when you approached the +supernatural. Your ghosts had too much flesh and blood, more than the +living persons of feebler fancies. A writer so fertile, so rapid, so +masterly in the ease with which he worked, could not escape the +reproaches of barren envy. Because you overflowed with wit, you could +not be “serious;” because you created with a word, you were said to scamp +your work; because you were never dull, never pedantic, incapable of +greed, you were to be censured as desultory, inaccurate, and prodigal. + +A generation suffering from mental and physical anæmia—a generation +devoted to the “chiselled phrase,” to accumulated “documents,” to +microscopic porings over human baseness, to minute and disgustful records +of what in humanity is least human—may readily bring these unregarded and +railing accusations. Like one of the great and good-humoured Giants of +Rabelais, you may hear the murmurs from afar, and smile with disdain. To +you, who can amuse the world—to you who offer it the fresh air of the +highway, the battlefield, and the sea—the world must always return: +escaping gladly from the boudoirs and the _bouges_, from the surgeries +and hospitals, and dead rooms, of M. Daudet and M. Zola and of the +wearisome De Goncourt. + +With all your frankness, and with that queer morality of the Camp which, +if it swallows a camel now and again, never strains at a gnat, how +healthy and wholesome, and even pure, are your romances! You never gloat +over sin, nor dabble with an ugly curiosity in the corruptions of sense. +The passions in your tales are honourable and brave, the motives are +clearly human. Honour, Love, Friendship make the threefold cord, the +clue your knights and dames follow through how delightful a labyrinth of +adventures! Your greatest books, I take the liberty to maintain, are the +Cycle of the Valois (“La Reine Margot,” “La Dame de Montsoreau,” “Les +Quarante-cinq”), and the Cycle of Louis Treize and Louis Quatorze (“Les +Trois Mousquetaires,” “Vingt Ans Après,” “Le Vicomte de Bragelonne”); +and, beside these two trilogies—a lonely monument, like the sphinx hard +by the three pyramids—“Monte Cristo.” + +In these romances how easy it would have been for you to burn incense to +that great goddess, Lubricity, whom our critic says your people worship. +You had Brantôme, you had Tallemant, you had Rétif, and a dozen others, +to furnish materials for scenes of voluptuousness and of blood that would +have outdone even the present _naturalistes_. From these alcoves of “Les +Dames Galantes,” and from the torture chambers (M. Zola would not have +spared us one starting sinew of brave La Mole on the rack) you turned, as +Scott would have turned, without a thought of their profitable literary +uses. You had other metal to work on: you gave us that superstitious and +tragical true love of La Mole’s, that devotion—how tender and how +pure!—of Bussy for the Dame de Montsoreau. You gave us the valour of +D’Artagnan, the strength of Porthos, the melancholy nobility of Athos: +Honour, Chivalry, and Friendship. I declare your characters are real +people to me and old friends. I cannot bear to read the end of +“Bragelonne,” and to part with them for ever. “Suppose Porthos, Athos, +and Aramis should enter with a noiseless swagger, curling their +moustaches.” How we would welcome them, forgiving D’Artagnan even his +hateful _fourberie_ in the case of Milady. The brilliance of your +dialogue has never been approached: there is wit everywhere; repartees +glitter and ring like the flash and clink of small-swords. Then what +duels are yours! and what inimitable battle-pieces! I know four good +fights of one against a multitude, in literature. These are the Death of +Gretir the Strong, the Death of Gunnar of Lithend, the Death of Hereward +the Wake, the Death of Bussy d’Amboise. We can compare the strokes of +the heroic fighting-times with those described in later days; and, upon +my word, I do not know that the short sword of Gretir, or the bill of +Skarphedin, or the bow of Gunnar was better wielded than the rapier of +your Bussy or the sword and shield of Kingsley’s Hereward. + +They say your fencing is unhistorical; no doubt it is so, and you knew +it. La Mole could not have lunged on Coconnas “after deceiving circle;” +for the parry was not invented except by your immortal Chicot, a genius +in advance of his time. Even so Hamlet and Laertes would have fought +with shields and axes, not with small swords. But what matters this +pedantry? In your works we hear the Homeric Muse again, rejoicing in the +clash of steel; and even, at times, your very phrases are unconsciously +Homeric. + +Look at these men of murder, on the Eve of St. Bartholomew, who flee in +terror from the Queen’s chamber, and “find the door too narrow for their +flight:” the very words were anticipated in a line of the “Odyssey” +concerning the massacre of the Wooers. And the picture of Catherine de +Médicis, prowling “like a wolf among the bodies and the blood,” in a +passage of the Louvre—the picture is taken unwittingly from the “Iliad.” +There was in you that reserve of primitive force, that epic grandeur and +simplicity of diction. This is the force that animates “Monte Cristo,” +the earlier chapters, the prison, and the escape. In later volumes of +that romance, methinks, you stoop your wing. Of your dramas I have +little room, and less skill, to speak. “Antony,” they tell me, was “the +greatest literary event of its time,” was a restoration of the stage. +“While Victor Hugo needs the cast-off clothes of history, the wardrobe +and costume, the sepulchre of Charlemagne, the ghost of Barbarossa, the +coffins of Lucretia Borgia, Alexandre Dumas requires no more than a room +in an inn, where people meet in riding cloaks, to move the soul with the +last degree of terror and of pity.” + +The reproach of being amusing has somewhat dimmed your fame—for a moment. +The shadow of this tyranny will soon be overpast; and when “La Curée” and +“Pot-Bouille” are more forgotten than “Le Grand Cyrus,” men and +women—and, above all, boys—will laugh and weep over the page of Alexandre +Dumas. Like Scott himself, you take us captive in our childhood. I +remember a very idle little boy who was busy with the “Three Musketeers” +when he should have been occupied with “Wilkins’s Latin Prose.” “Twenty +years after” (alas! and more) he is still constant to that gallant +company; and, at this very moment, is breathlessly wondering whether +Grimaud will steal M. de Beaufort out of the Cardinal’s prison. + + + + +XIII. +_To Theocritus_. + + +“SWEET, methinks, is the whispering sound of yonder pine-tree,” so, +Theocritus, with that sweet word ἁδύ, didst thou begin and strike the +keynote of thy songs. “Sweet,” and didst thou find aught of sweet, when +thou, like thy Daphnis, didst “go down the stream, when the whirling wave +closed over the man the Muses loved, the man not hated of the Nymphs”? +Perchance below those waters of death thou didst find, like thine own +Hylas, the lovely Nereids waiting thee, Eunice, and Malis, and Nycheia +with her April eyes. In the House of Hades, Theocritus, doth there dwell +aught that is fair, and can the low light on the fields of asphodel make +thee forget thy Sicily? Nay, methinks thou hast not forgotten, and +perchance for poets dead there is prepared a place more beautiful than +their dreams. It was well for the later minstrels of another day, it was +well for Ronsard and Du Bellay to desire a dim Elysium of their own, +where the sunlight comes faintly through the shadow of the earth, where +the poplars are duskier, and the waters more pale than in the meadows of +Anjou. + +There, in that restful twilight, far remote from war and plot, from sword +and fire, and from religions that sharpened the steel and lit the torch, +there these learned singers would fain have wandered with their learned +ladies, satiated with life and in love with an unearthly quiet. But to +thee, Theocritus, no twilight of the Hollow Land was dear, but the high +suns of Sicily and the brown cheeks of the country maidens were happiness +enough. For thee, therefore, methinks, surely is reserved an Elysium +beneath the summer of a far-off system, with stars not ours and alien +seasons. There, as Bion prayed, shall Spring, the thrice desirable, be +with thee the whole year through, where there is neither frost, nor is +the heat so heavy on men, but all is fruitful, and all sweet things +blossom, and evenly meted are darkness and dawn. Space is wide, and +there be many worlds, and suns enow, and the Sun-god surely has had a +care of his own. Little didst thou need, in thy native land, the isle of +the three capes, little didst thou need but sunlight on land and sea. +Death can have shown thee naught dearer than the fragrant shadow of the +pines, where the dry needles of the fir are strewn, or glades where +feathered ferns make “a couch more soft than Sleep.” The short grass of +the cliffs, too, thou didst love, where thou wouldst lie, and watch, with +the tunny watcher till the deep blue sea was broken by the burnished +sides of the tunny shoal, and afoam with their gambols in the brine. +There the Muses met thee, and the Nymphs, and there Apollo, remembering +his old thraldom with Admetus, would lead once more a mortal’s flocks, +and listen and learn, Theocritus, while thou, like thine own Comatas, +“didst sweetly sing.” + +There, methinks, I see thee as in thy happy days, “reclined on deep beds +of fragrant lentisk, lowly strewn, and rejoicing in new stript leaves of +the vine, while far above thy head waved many a poplar, many an elm-tree, +and close at hand the sacred waters sang from the mouth of the cavern of +the nymphs.” And when night came, methinks thou wouldst flee from the +merry company and the dancing girls, from the fading crowns of roses or +white violets, from the cottabos, and the minstrelsy, and the Bibline +wine, from these thou wouldst slip away into the summer night. Then the +beauty of life and of the summer would keep thee from thy couch, and +wandering away from Syracuse by the sandhills and the sea, thou wouldst +watch the low cabin, roofed with grass, where the fishing-rods of reed +were leaning against the door, while the Mediterranean floated up her +waves, and filled the waste with sound. There didst thou see thine +ancient fishermen rising ere the dawn from their bed of dry seaweed, and +heardst them stirring, drowsy, among their fishing gear, and heardst them +tell their dreams. + +Or again thou wouldst wander with dusty feet through the ways that the +dust makes silent, while the breath of the kine, as they were driven +forth with the morning, came fresh to thee, and the trailing dewy branch +of honeysuckle struck sudden on thy cheek. Thou wouldst see the Dawn +awake in rose and saffron across the waters, and Etna, grey and pale +against the sky, and the setting crescent would dip strangely in the +glow, on her way to the sea. Then, methinks, thou wouldst murmur, like +thine own Simaetha, the love-lorn witch, “Farewell, Selene, bright and +fair; farewell, ye other stars, that follow the wheels of the quiet +Night.” Nay, surely it was in such an hour that thou didst behold the +girl as she burned the laurel leaves and the barley grain, and melted the +waxen image, and called on Selene to bring her lover home. Even so, even +now, in the islands of Greece, the setting Moon may listen to the prayers +of maidens. ‘Bright golden Moon, that now art near the waters, go thou +and salute my lover, he that stole my love, and that kissed me, saying +“Never will I leave thee.” And lo, he hath left me as men leave a field +reaped and gleaned, like a church where none cometh to pray, like a city +desolate.’ + +So the girls still sing in Greece, for though the Temples have fallen, +and the wandering shepherds sleep beneath the broken columns of the god’s +house in Selinus, yet these ancient fires burn still to the old +divinities in the shrines of the hearths of the peasants. It is none of +the new creeds that cry, in the dirge of the Sicilian shepherds of our +time, “Ah, light of mine eyes, what gift shall I send thee, what offering +to the other world? The apple fadeth, the quince decayeth, and one by +one they perish, the petals of the rose. I will send thee my tears shed +on a napkin, and what though it burneth in the flame, if my tears reach +thee at the last.” + +Yes, little is altered, Theocritus, on these shores beneath the sun, +where thou didst wear a tawny skin stripped from the roughest of +he-goats, and about thy breast an old cloak buckled with a plaited belt. +Thou wert happier there, in Sicily, methinks, and among vines and shadowy +lime-trees of Cos, than in the dust, and heat, and noise of Alexandria. +What love of fame, what lust of gold tempted thee away from the red +cliffs, and grey olives, and wells of black water wreathed with +maidenhair? + + The music of thy rustic flute + Kept not for long its happy country tone; + Lost it too soon, and learned a stormy note + Of men contention tost, of men who groan, + Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat— + It failed, and thou wast mute! + +What hadst thou to make in cities, and what could Ptolemies and Princes +give thee better than the goat-milk cheese and the Ptelean wine? Thy +Muses were meant to be the delight of peaceful men, not of tyrants and +wealthy merchants, to whom they vainly went on a begging errand. “Who +will open his door and gladly receive our Muses within his house, who is +there that will not send them back again without a gift? And they with +naked feet and looks askance come homewards, and sorely they upbraid me +when they have gone on a vain journey, and listless again in the bottom +of their empty coffer they dwell with heads bowed over their chilly +knees, where is their drear abode, when portionless they return.” How +far happier was the prisoned goat-herd, Comatas, in the fragrant cedar +chest where the blunt-faced bees from the meadow fed him with food of +tender flowers, because still the Muse dropped sweet nectar on his lips! + +Thou didst leave the neat-herds and the kine, and the oaks of Himera, the +galingale hummed over by the bees, and the pine that dropped her cones, +and Amaryllis in her cave, and Bombyca with her feet of carven ivory. +Thou soughtest the City, and strife with other singers, and the learned +write still on thy quarrels with Apollonius and Callimachus, and +Antagoras of Rhodes. So ancient are the hatreds of poets, envy, +jealousy, and all unkindness. + +Not to the wits of Courts couldst thou teach thy rural song, though all +these centuries, more than two thousand years, they have laboured to vie +with thee. There has come no new pastoral poet, though Virgil copied +thee, and Pope, and Phillips, and all the buckram band of the teacup +time; and all the modish swains of France have sung against thee, as the +_sow challenged Athene_. They never knew the shepherd’s life, the long +winter nights on dried heather by the fire, the long summer days, when +over the parched grass all is quiet, and only the insects hum, and the +shrunken burn whispers a silver tune. Swains in high-heeled shoon, and +lace, shepherdesses in rouge and diamonds, the world is weary of all +concerning them, save their images in porcelain, effigies how unlike thy +golden figures, dedicate to Aphrodite, of Bombyca and Battus! Somewhat, +Theocritus, thou hast to answer for, thou that first of men brought the +shepherd to Court, and made courtiers wild to go a Maying with the +shepherds. + + + + +XIV. +_To Edgar Allan Poe_. + + +SIR,—Your English readers, better acquainted with your poems and romances +than with your criticisms, have long wondered at the indefatigable hatred +which pursues your memory. You, who knew the men, will not marvel that +certain microbes of letters, the survivors of your own generation, still +harass your name with their malevolence, while old women twitter out +their incredible and unheeded slanders in the literary papers of New +York. But their persistent animosity does not quite suffice to explain +the dislike with which many American critics regard the greatest poet, +perhaps the greatest literary genius, of their country. With a +commendable patriotism, they are not apt to rate native merit too low; +and you, I think, are the only example of an American prophet almost +without honour in his own country. + +The recent publication of a cold, careful, and in many respects admirable +study of your career (“Edgar Allan Poe,” by George Woodberry: Houghton, +Mifflin and Co., Boston) reminds English readers who have forgotten it, +and teaches those who never knew it, that you were, unfortunately, a +Reviewer. How unhappy were the necessities, how deplorable the vein, +that compelled or seduced a man of your eminence into the dusty and stony +ways of contemporary criticism! About the writers of his own generation +a leader of that generation should hold his peace. He should neither +praise nor blame nor defend his equals; he should not strike one blow at +the buzzing ephemeræ of letters. The breath of their life is in the +columns of “Literary Gossip;” and they should be allowed to perish with +the weekly advertisements on which they pasture. Reviewing, of course, +there must needs be; but great minds should only criticise the great who +have passed beyond the reach of eulogy or fault-finding. + +Unhappily, taste and circumstances combined to make you a censor; you +vexed a continent, and you are still unforgiven. What “irritation of a +sensitive nature, chafed by some indefinite sense of wrong,” drove you +(in Mr. Longfellow’s own words) to attack his pure and beneficent Muse we +may never ascertain. But Mr. Longfellow forgave you easily; for pardon +comes easily to the great. It was the smaller men, the Daweses, +Griswolds, and the like, that knew not how to forget. “The New Yorkers +never forgave him,” says your latest biographer; and one scarcely marvels +at the inveteracy of their malice. It was not individual vanity alone, +but the whole literary class that you assailed. “As a literary people,” +you wrote, “we are one vast perambulating humbug.” After that +declaration of war you died, and left your reputation to the vanities yet +writhing beneath your scorn. They are writhing and writing still. He +who knows them need not linger over the attacks and defences of your +personal character; he will not waste time on calumnies, tale-bearing, +private letters, and all the noisome dust which takes so long in settling +above your tomb. + +For us it is enough to know that you were compelled to live by your pen, +and that in an age when the author of “To Helen” and “The Cask of +Amontillado” was paid at the rate of a dollar a column. When such +poverty was the mate of such pride as yours, a misery more deep than that +of Burns, an agony longer than Chatterton’s, were inevitable and assured. +No man was less fortunate than you in the moment of his birth—_infelix +opportunitate vitæ_. Had you lived a generation later, honour, wealth, +applause, success in Europe and at home, would all have been yours. +Within thirty years so great a change has passed over the profession of +letters in America; and it is impossible to estimate the rewards which +would have fallen to Edgar Poe, had chance made him the contemporary of +Mark Twain and of “Called Back.” It may be that your criticisms helped +to bring in the new era, and to lift letters out of the reach of quite +unlettered scribblers. Though not a scholar, at least you had a respect +for scholarship. You might still marvel over such words as “objectional” +in the new biography of yourself, and might ask what is meant by such a +sentence as “his connection with it had inured to his own benefit by the +frequent puffs of himself,” and so forth. + +Best known in your own day as a critic, it is as a poet and a writer of +short tales that you must live. But to discuss your few and elaborate +poems is a waste of time, so completely does your own brief definition of +poetry, “the rhythmic creation of the beautiful,” exhaust your theory, +and so perfectly is the theory illustrated by the poems. Natural bent, +and reaction against the example of Mr. Longfellow, combined to make you +too intolerant of what you call the “didactic” element in verse. Even if +morality be not seven-eighths of our life (the exact proportion as at +present estimated), there was a place even on the Hellenic Parnassus for +gnomic bards, and theirs in the nature of the case must always be the +largest public. + +“Music is the perfection of the soul or the idea of poetry,” so you +wrote; “the vagueness of exaltation aroused by a sweet air (which should +be indefinite and never too strongly suggestive) is precisely what we +should aim at in poetry.” You aimed at that mark, and struck it again +and again, notably in “Helen, thy beauty is to me,” in “The Haunted +Palace,” “The Valley of Unrest,” and “The City in the Sea.” But by some +Nemesis which might, perhaps, have been foreseen, you are, to the world, +the poet of one poem—“The Raven:” a piece in which the music is highly +artificial, and the “exaltation” (what there is of it) by no means +particularly “vague.” So a portion of the public know little of Shelley +but the “Skylark,” and those two incongruous birds, the lark and the +raven, bear each of them a poet’s name, _vivu’ per ora virum_. Your +theory of poetry, if accepted, would make you (after the author of “Kubla +Khan”) the foremost of the poets of the world; at no long distance would +come Mr. William Morris as he was when he wrote “Golden Wings,” “The Blue +Closet,” and “The Sailing of the Sword;” and, close up, Mr. Lear, the +author of “The Yongi Bongi Bo,” an the lay of the “Jumblies.” + +On the other hand Homer would sink into the limbo to which you consigned +Molière. If we may judge a theory by its results, when compared with the +deliberate verdict of the world, your æsthetic does not seem to hold +water. The “Odyssey” is not really inferior to “Ulalume,” as it ought to +be if your doctrine of poetry were correct, nor “Le Festin de Pierre” to +“Undine.” Yet you deserve the praise of having been constant, in your +poetic practice, to your poetic principles—principles commonly deserted +by poets who, like Wordsworth, have published their æsthetic system. +Your pieces are few; and Dr. Johnson would have called you, like +Fielding, “a barren rascal.” But how can a writer’s verses be numerous +if with him, as with you, “poetry is not a pursuit but a passion . . . +which cannot at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations +or the more paltry commendations of mankind!” Of you it may be said, +more truly than Shelley said it of himself, that “to ask you for anything +human, is like asking at a gin-shop for a leg of mutton.” + +Humanity must always be, to the majority of men, the true stuff of +poetry; and only a minority will thank you for that rare music which +(like the strains of the fiddler in the story) is touched on a single +string, and on an instrument fashioned from the spoils of the grave. You +chose, or you were destined + + To vary from the kindly race of men; + +and the consequences, which wasted your life, pursue your reputation. + +For your stories has been reserved a boundless popularity, and that +highest success—the success of a perfectly sympathetic translation. By +this time, of course, you have made the acquaintance of your translator, +M. Charles Baudelaire, who so strenuously shared your views about Mr. +Emerson and the Transcendentalists, and who so energetically resisted all +those ideas of “progress” which “came from Hell or Boston.” On this +point, however, the world continues to differ from you and M. Baudelaire, +and perhaps there is only the choice between our optimism and universal +suicide or universal opium-eating. But to discuss your ultimate ideas is +perhaps a profitless digression from the topic of your prose romances. + +An English critic (probably a Northerner at heart) has described them as +“Hawthorne and delirium tremens.” I am not aware that extreme +orderliness, masterly elaboration, and unchecked progress towards a +predetermined effect are characteristics of the visions of delirium. If +they be, then there is a deal of truth in the criticism, and a good deal +of delirium tremens in your style. But your ingenuity, your +completeness, your occasional luxuriance of fancy and wealth of +jewel-like words, are not, perhaps, gifts which Mr. Hawthorne had at his +command. He was a great writer—the greatest writer in prose fiction whom +America has produced. But you and he have not much in common, except a +certain mortuary turn of mind and a taste for gloomy allegories about the +workings of conscience. + +I forbear to anticipate your verdict about the latest essays of American +fiction. These by no means follow in the lines which you laid down about +brevity and the steady working to one single effect. Probably you would +not be very tolerant (tolerance was not your leading virtue) of Mr. Roe, +now your countrymen’s favourite novelist. He is long, he is didactic, he +is eminently uninspired. In the works of one who is, what you were +called yourself, a Bostonian, you would admire, at least, the acute +observation, the subtlety, and the unfailing distinction. But, destitute +of humour as you unhappily but undeniably were, you would miss, I fear, +the charm of “Daisy Miller.” You would admit the unity of effect secured +in “Washington Square,” though that effect is as remote as possible from +the terror of “The House of Usher” or the vindictive triumph of “The Cask +of Amontillado.” + +Farewell, farewell, thou sombre and solitary spirit: a genius tethered to +the hack-work of the press, a gentleman among _canaille_, a poet among +poetasters, dowered with a scholar’s taste without a scholar’s training, +embittered by his sensitive scorn, and all unsupported by his +consolations. + + + + +XV. +_To Sir Walter Scott_, _Bart._ + + + Rodono, St. Mary’s Loch: + Sept. 8, 1885. + +SIR,—In your biography it is recorded that you not only won the favour of +all men and women; but that a domestic fowl conceived an affection for +you, and that a pig, by his will, had never been severed from your +company. If some Circe had repeated in my case her favourite miracle of +turning mortals into swine, and had given me a choice, into that +fortunate pig, blessed among his race, would I have been converted! You, +almost alone among men of letters, still, like a living friend, win and +charm us out of the past; and if one might call up a poet, as the +scholiast tried to call Homer, from the shades, who would not, out of all +the rest, demand some hours of your society? Who that ever meddled with +letters, what child of the irritable race, possessed even a tithe of your +simple manliness, of the heart that never knew a touch of jealousy, that +envied no man his laurels, that took honour and wealth as they came, but +never would have deplored them had you missed both and remained but the +Border sportsman and the Border antiquary? + +Were the word “genial” not so much profaned, were it not misused in easy +good-nature, to extenuate lettered and sensual indolence, that worn old +term might be applied, above all men, to “the Shirra.” But perhaps we +scarcely need a word (it would be seldom in use) for a character so rare, +or rather so lonely, in its nobility and charm as that of Walter Scott. +Here, in the heart of your own country, among your own grey +round-shouldered hills (each so like the other that the shadow of one +falling on its neighbour exactly outlines that neighbour’s shape), it is +of you and of your works that a native of the Forest is most frequently +brought in mind. All the spirits of the river and the hill, all the +dying refrains of ballad and the fading echoes of story, all the memory +of the wild past, each legend of burn and loch, seem to have combined to +inform your spirit, and to secure themselves an immortal life in your +song. It is through you that we remember them; and in recalling them, as +in treading each hillside in this land, we again remember you and bless +you. + +It is not, “Sixty Years Since” the echo of Tweed among his pebbles fell +for the last time on your ear; not sixty years since, and how much is +altered! But two generations have passed; the lad who used to ride from +Edinburgh to Abbotsford, carrying new books for you, and old, is still +vending, in George Street, old books and new. Of politics I have not the +heart to speak. Little joy would you have had in most that has befallen +since the Reform Bill was passed, to the chivalrous cry of “burke Sir +Walter.” We are still very Radical in the Forest, and you were taken +away from many evils to come. How would the cheek of Walter Scott, or of +Leyden, have blushed at the names of Majuba, The Soudan, Maiwand, and +many others that recall political cowardice or military incapacity! On +the other hand, who but you could have sung the dirge of Gordon, or +wedded with immortal verse the names of Hamilton (who fell with +Cavagnari), of the two Stewarts, of many another clansman, brave among +the bravest! Only he who told how + + The stubborn spearmen still made good + Their dark impenetrable wood + +could have fitly rhymed a score of feats of arms in which, as at +M’Neill’s Zareba and at Abu Klea, + + Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, + As fearlessly and well. + +Ah, Sir, the hearts of the rulers may wax faint, and the voting classes +may forget that they are Britons; but when it comes to blows our fighting +men might cry, with Leyden, + + My name is little Jock Elliot, + And wha daur meddle wi’ me! + +Much is changed, in the countryside as well as in the country; but much +remains. The little towns of your time are populous and excessively +black with the smoke of factories—not, I fear, at present very +flourishing. In Galashiels you still see the little change-house and the +cluster of cottages round the Laird’s lodge, like the clachan of Tully +Veolan. But these plain remnants of the old Scotch towns are almost +buried in a multitude of “smoky dwarf houses”—a living poet, Mr. Matthew +Arnold, has found the fitting phrase for these dwellings, once for all. +All over the Forest the waters are dirty and poisoned: I think they are +filthiest below Hawick; but this may be mere local prejudice in a Selkirk +man. To keep them clean costs money; and, though improvements are often +promised, I cannot see much change—for the better. Abbotsford, luckily, +is above Galashiels, and only receives the dirt and dyes of Selkirk, +Peebles, Walkerburn, and Innerleithen. On the other hand, your +ill-omened later dwelling, “the unhappy palace of your race,” is +overlooked by villas that prick a cockney ear among their larches, hotels +of the future. Ah, Sir, Scotland is a strange place. Whisky is exiled +from some of our caravanserais, and they have banished Sir John +Barleycorn. It seems as if the views of the excellent critic (who wrote +your life lately, and said you had left no descendants, _le pauvre +homme_!) were beginning to prevail. This pious biographer was greatly +shocked by that capital story about the keg of whisky that arrived at the +Liddesdale farmer’s during family prayers. Your Toryism also was an +offence to him. + +Among these vicissitudes of things and the overthrow of customs, let us +be thankful that, beyond the reach of the manufacturers, the Border +country remains as kind and homely as ever. I looked at Ashiestiel some +days ago: the house seemed just as it may have been when you left it for +Abbotsford, only there was a lawn-tennis net on the lawn, the hill on the +opposite bank of the Tweed was covered to the crest with turnips, and the +burn did not sing below the little bridge, for in this arid summer the +burn was dry. But there was still a grilse that rose to a big March +brown in the shrunken stream below Elibank. This may not interest you, +who styled yourself + + No fisher, + But a well-wisher + To the game! + +Still, as when you were thinking over Marmion, a man might have “grand +gallops among the hills”—those grave wastes of heather and bent that +sever all the watercourses and roll their sheep-covered pastures from +Dollar Law to White Combe, and from White Combe to the Three Brethren +Cairn and the Windburg and Skelf-hill Pen. Yes, Teviotdale is pleasant +still, and there is not a drop of dye in the water, _purior electro_, of +Yarrow. St. Mary’s Loch lies beneath me, smitten with wind and rain—the +St. Mary’s of North and of the Shepherd. Only the trout, that see a +myriad of artificial flies, are shyer than of yore. The Shepherd could +no longer fill a cart up Meggat with trout so much of a size that the +country people took them for herrings. + +The grave of Piers Cockburn is still not desecrated: hard by it lies, +within a little wood; and beneath that slab of old sandstone, and the +graven letters, and the sword and shield, sleep “Piers Cockburn and +Marjory his wife.” Not a hundred yards off was the castle-door where +they hanged him; this is the tomb of the ballad, and the lady that buried +him rests now with her wild lord. + + Oh, wat ye no my heart was sair, + When I happit the mouls on his yellow hair; + Oh, wat ye no my heart was wae, + When I turned about and went my way! {160} + +Here too hearts have broken, and there is a sacredness in the shadow and +beneath these clustering berries of the rowan-trees. That sacredness, +that reverent memory of our old land, it is always and inextricably +blended with our memories, with our thoughts, with our love of you. +Scotchmen, methinks, who owe so much to you, owe you most for the example +you gave of the beauty of a life of honour, showing them what, by +heaven’s blessing, a Scotchman still might be. + +Words, empty and unavailing—for what words of ours can speak our thoughts +or interpret our affections! From you first, as we followed the deer +with King James, or rode with William of Deloraine on his midnight +errand, did we learn what Poetry means and all the happiness that is in +the gift of song. This and more than may be told you gave us, that are +not forgetful, not ungrateful, though our praise be unequal to our +gratitude. _Fungor inani munere_! + + + + +XVI. +_To Eusebius of Cæsarea_. +(CONCERNING THE GODS OF THE HEATHEN.) + + +TOUCHING the Gods of the Heathen, most reverend Father, thou art not +ignorant that even now, as in the time of thy probation on earth, there +is great dissension. That these feigned Deities and idols, the work of +men’s hands, are no longer worshipped thou knowest; neither do men eat +meat offered to idols. Even as spake that last Oracle which murmured +forth, the latest and the only true voice from Delphi, even so “the +fair-wrought court divine hath fallen; no more hath Phoebus his home, no +more his laurel-bough, nor the singing well of water; nay, the +sweet-voiced water is silent.” The fane is ruinous, and the images of +men’s idolatry are dust. + +Nevertheless, most worshipful, men do still dispute about the beginnings +of those sinful Gods: such as Zeus, Athene, and Dionysus: and marvel how +first they won their dominion over the souls of the foolish peoples. +Now, concerning these things there is not one belief, but many; howbeit, +there are two main kinds of opinion. One sect of philosophers +believes—as thyself, with heavenly learning, didst not vainly +persuade—that the Gods were the inventions of wild and bestial folk, who, +long before cities were builded or life was honourably ordained, +fashioned forth evil spirits in their own savage likeness; ay, or in the +likeness of the very beasts that perish. To this judgment, as it is set +forth in thy Book of the Preparation for the Gospel, I, humble as I am, +do give my consent. But on the other side are many and learned men, +chiefly of the tribes of the Alemanni, who have almost conquered the +whole inhabited world. These, being unwilling to suppose that the +Hellenes were in bondage to superstitions handed down from times of utter +darkness and a bestial life, do chiefly hold with the heathen +philosophers, even with the writers whom thou, most venerable, didst +confound with thy wisdom and chasten with the scourge of small cords of +thy wit. + +Thus, like the heathen, our doctors and teachers maintain that the gods +of the nations were, in the beginning, such pure natural creatures as the +blue sky, the sun, the air, the bright dawn, and the fire; but, as time +went on, men, forgetting the meaning of their own speech and no longer +understanding the tongue of their own fathers, were misled and beguiled +into fashioning all those lamentable tales: as that Zeus, for love of +mortal women, took the shape of a bull, a ram, a serpent, an ant, an +eagle, and sinned in such wise as it is a shame even to speak of. + +Behold, then, most worshipful, how these doctors and learned men argue, +even like the philosophers of the heathen whom thou didst confound. For +they declare the gods to have been natural elements, sun and sky and +storm, even as did thy opponents; and, like them, as thou saidst, “they +are nowise at one with each other in their explanations.” For of old +some boasted that Hera was the Air; and some that she signified the love +of woman and man; and some that she was the waters above the Earth; and +others that she was the Earth beneath the waters; and yet others that she +was the Night, for that Night is the shadow of Earth: as if, forsooth, +the men who first worshipped Hera had understanding of these things! And +when Hera and Zeus quarrel unseemly (as Homer declareth), this meant +(said the learned in thy days) no more than the strife and confusion of +the elements, and was not in the beginning an idle slanderous tale. + +To all which, most worshipful, thou didst answer wisely: saying that Hera +could not be both night, and earth, and water, and air, and the love of +sexes, and the confusion of the elements; but that all these opinions +were vain dreams, and the guesses of the learned. And why—thou +saidst—even if the Gods were pure natural creatures, are such foul things +told of them in the Mysteries as it is not fitting for me to declare. +“These wanderings, and drinkings, and loves, and seductions, that would +be shameful in men, why,” thou saidst, “were they attributed to the +natural elements; and wherefore did the Gods constantly show themselves, +like the sorcerers called werewolves, in the shape of the perishable +beasts?” But, mainly, thou didst argue that, till the philosophers of +the heathen were agreed among themselves, not all contradicting each the +other, they had no semblance of a sure foundation for their doctrine. + +To all this and more, most worshipful Father, I know not what the heathen +answered thee. But, in our time, the learned men who stand to it that +the heathen Gods were in the beginning the pure elements, and that the +nations, forgetting their first love and the significance of their own +speech, became confused and were betrayed into foul stories about the +pure Gods—these learned men, I say, agree no whit among themselves. Nay, +they differ one from another, not less than did Plutarch and Porphyry and +Theagenes, and the rest whom thou didst laugh to scorn. Bear with me, +Father, while I tell thee how the new Plutarchs and Porphyrys do contend +among themselves; and yet these differences of theirs they call +“Science”! + +Consider the goddess Athene, who sprang armed from the head of Zeus, even +as—among the fables of the poor heathen folk of seas thou never +knewest—goddesses are fabled to leap out from the armpits or feet of +their fathers. Thou must know that what Plato, in the “Cratylus,” made +Socrates say in jest, the learned among us practise in sad earnest. For, +when they wish to explain the nature of any God, they first examine his +name, and torment the letters thereof, arranging and altering them +according to their will, and flying off to the speech of the Indians and +Medes and Chaldeans, and other Barbarians, if Greek will not serve their +turn. How saith Socrates? “I bethink me of a very new and ingenious +idea that occurs to me; and, if I do not mind, I shall be wiser than I +should be by to-morrow’s dawn. My notion is that we may put in and pull +out letters at pleasure and alter the accents.” + +Even so do the learned—not at pleasure, maybe, but according to certain +fixed laws (so they declare); yet none the more do they agree among +themselves. And I deny not that they discover many things true and good +to be known; but, as touching the names of the Gods, their learning, as +it standeth, is confusion. Look, then, at the goddess Athene: taking one +example out of hundreds. We have dwelling in our coasts Muellerus, the +most erudite of the doctors of the Alemanni, and the most golden-mouthed. +Concerning Athene, he saith that her name is none other than, in the +ancient tongue of the Brachmanæ, _Ahanâ_, which, being interpreted, means +the Dawn. “And that the morning light,” saith he, “offers the best +starting-point for the later growth of Athene has been proved, I believe, +beyond the reach of doubt or even cavil.” {169} + +Yet this same doctor candidly lets us know that another of his nation, +the witty Benfeius, hath devised another sense and origin of Athene, +taken from the speech of the old Medes. But Muellerus declares to us +that whosoever shall examine the contention of Benfeius “will be bound, +in common honesty, to confess that it is untenable.” This, Father, is +“one for Benfeius,” as the saying goes. And as Muellerus holds that +these matters “admit of almost mathematical precision,” it would seem +that Benfeius is but a _Dummkopf_, as the Alemanni say, in their own +language, when they would be pleasant among themselves. + +Now, wouldst thou credit it? despite the mathematical plainness of the +facts, other Alemanni agree neither with Muellerus, nor yet with +Benfeius, and will neither hear that Athene was the Dawn, nor yet that +she is “the feminine of the Zend _Thrâetâna athwyâna_.” Lo, you! how +Prellerus goes about to show that her name is drawn not from _Ahanâ_ and +the old Brachmanæ, nor _athwyâna_ and the old Medes, but from “the root +_αἰθ_, whence _αἴθηρ_, the air, or _ἀθ_, whence _ἄνθος_, a flower.” Yea, +and Prellerus will have it that no man knows the verity of this matter. +None the less he is very bold, and will none of the Dawn; but holds to it +that Athene was, from the first, “the clear pure height of the Air, which +is exceeding pure in Attica.” + +Now, Father, as if all this were not enough, comes one Roscherus in, with +a mighty great volume on the Gods, and Furtwaenglerus, among others, for +his ally. And these doctors will neither with Rueckertus and Hermannus, +take Athene for “wisdom in person;” nor with Welckerus and Prellerus, for +“the goddess of air;” nor even, with Muellerus and mathematical +certainty, for “the Morning-Red:” but they say that Athene is the “black +thunder-cloud, and the lightning that leapeth therefrom”! I make no +doubt that other Alemanni are of other minds: _quot Alemanni tot +sententiæ_. + +Yea, as thou saidst of the learned heathen, _Οὐδὲ γὰρ ἀλλήλοις σύμφωνα +φυσιολογοῦσιν_. Yet these disputes of theirs they call “Science”! But +if any man says to the learned: “Best of men, you are erudite, and +laborious and witty; but, till you are more of the same mind, your +opinions cannot be styled knowledge. Nay, they are at present of no +avail whereon to found any doctrine concerning the Gods”—that man is +railed at for his “mean” and “weak” arguments. + +Was it thus, Father, that the heathen railed against thee? But I must +still believe, with thee, that these evil tales of the Gods were invented +“when man’s life was yet brutish and wandering” (as is the life of many +tribes that even now tell like tales), and were maintained in honour by +the later Greeks “because none dared alter the ancient beliefs of his +ancestors.” Farewell, Father; and all good be with thee, wishes thy +well-wisher and thy disciple. + + + + +XVII. +_To Percy Bysshe Shelley_. + + +SIR,—In your lifetime on earth you were not more than commonly curious as +to what was said by “the herd of mankind,” if I may quote your own +phrase. It was that of one who loved his fellow-men, but did not in his +less enthusiastic moments overestimate their virtues and their +discretion. Removed so far away from our hubbub, and that world where, +as you say, we “pursue our serious folly as of old,” you are, one may +guess, but moderately concerned about the fate of your writings and your +reputation. As to the first, you have somewhere said, in one of your +letters, that the final judgment on your merits as a poet is in the hands +of posterity, and that you fear the verdict will be “Guilty,” and the +sentence “Death.” Such apprehensions cannot have been fixed or frequent +in the mind of one whose genius burned always with a clearer and steadier +flame to the last. The jury of which you spoke has met: a mixed jury and +a merciful. The verdict is “Well done,” and the sentence Immortality of +Fame. There have been, there are, dissenters; yet probably they will be +less and less heard as the years go on. + +One judge, or juryman, has made up his mind that prose was your true +province, and that your letters will out-live your lays. I know not +whether it was the same or an equally well-inspired critic, who spoke of +your most perfect lyrics (so Beau Brummell spoke of his ill-tied cravats) +as “a gallery of your failures.” But the general voice does not echo +these utterances of a too subtle intellect. At a famous University (not +your own) once existed a band of men known as “The Trinity Sniffers.” +Perhaps the spirit of the sniffer may still inspire some of the jurors +who from time to time make themselves heard in your case. The “Quarterly +Review,” I fear, is still unreconciled. It regards your attempts as +tainted by the spirit of “The Liberal Movement in English Literature;” +and it is impossible, alas! to maintain with any success that you were a +Throne and Altar Tory. At Oxford you are forgiven; and the old rooms +where you let the oysters burn (was not your founder, King Alfred, once +guilty of similar negligence?) are now shown to pious pilgrims. + +But Conservatives, ’tis rumoured, are still averse to your opinions, and +are believed to prefer to yours the works of the Reverend Mr. Keble, and, +indeed, of the clergy in general. But, in spite of all this, your poems, +like the affections of the true lovers in Theocritus, are yet “in the +mouths of all, and chiefly on the lips of the young.” It is in your +lyrics that you live, and I do not mean that every one could pass an +examination in the plot of “Prometheus Unbound.” Talking of this piece, +by the way, a Cambridge critic finds that it reveals in you a hankering +after life in a cave—doubtless an unconsciously inherited memory from +cave-man. Speaking of cave-man reminds me that you once spoke of +deserting song for prose, and of producing a history of the moral, +intellectual, and political elements in human society, which, we now +agree, began, as Asia would fain have ended, in a cave. + +Fortunately you gave us “Adonais” and “Hellas” instead of this treatise, +and we have now successfully written the natural history of Man for +ourselves. Science tells us that before becoming a cave-dweller he was a +Brute; Experience daily proclaims that he constantly reverts to his +original condition. _L’homme est un méchant animal_, in spite of your +boyish efforts to add pretty girls “to the list of the good, the +disinterested, and the free.” + +Ah, not in the wastes of Speculation, nor the sterile din of Politics, +were “the haunts meet for thee.” Watching the yellow bees in the ivy +bloom, and the reflected pine forest in the water-pools, watching the +sunset as it faded, and the dawn as it fired, and weaving all fair and +fleeting things into a tissue where light and music were at one, that was +the task of Shelley! “To ask you for anything human,” you said, “was +like asking for a leg of mutton at a gin-shop.” Nay, rather, like asking +Apollo and Hebe, in the Olympian abodes, to give us beef for ambrosia, +and port for nectar. Each poet gives what he has, and what he can offer; +you spread before us fairy bread, and enchanted wine, and shall we turn +away, with a sneer, because, out of all the multitudes of singers, one is +spiritual and strange, one has seen Artemis unveiled? One, like +Anchises, has been beloved of the Goddess, and his eyes, when he looks on +the common world of common men, are, like the eyes of Anchises, blind +with excess of light. Let Shelley sing of what he saw, what none saw but +Shelley! + +Notwithstanding the popularity of your poems (the most romantic of things +didactic), our world is no better than the world you knew. This will +disappoint you, who had “a passion for reforming it.” Kings and priests +are very much where you left them. True, we have a poet who assails +them, at large, frequently and fearlessly; yet Mr. Swinburne has never, +like “kind Hunt,” been in prison, nor do we fear for him a charge of +treason. Moreover, chemical science has discovered new and ingenious +ways of destroying principalities and powers. You would be interested in +the methods, but your peaceful Revolutionism, which disdained physical +force, would regret their application. + +Our foreign affairs are not in a state which even you would consider +satisfactory; for we have just had to contend with a Revolt of Islam, and +we still find in Russia exactly the qualities which you recognised and +described. We have a great statesman whose methods and eloquence +somewhat resemble those you attribute to Laon and Prince Athanase. Alas! +he is a youth of more than seventy summers; and not in his time will +Prometheus retire to a cavern and pass a peaceful millennium in twining +buds and beams. + +In domestic affairs most of the Reforms you desired to see have been +carried. Ireland has received Emancipation, and almost everything else +she can ask for. I regret to say that she is still unhappy; her wounds +unstanched, her wrongs unforgiven. At home we have enfranchised the +paupers, and expect the most happy results. Paupers (as Mr. Gladstone +says) are “our own flesh and blood,” and, as we compel them to be +vaccinated, so we should permit them to vote. Is it a dream that Mr. +Jesse Collings (how you would have loved that man!) has a Bill for +extending the priceless boon of the vote to inmates of Pauper Lunatic +Asylums? This may prove that last element in the Elixir of political +happiness which we have long sought in vain. Atheists, you will regret +to hear, are still unpopular; but the new Parliament has done something +for Mr. Bradlaugh. You should have known our Charles while you were in +the “Queen Mab” stage. I fear you wandered, later, from his robust +condition of intellectual development. + +As to your private life, many biographers contrive to make public as much +of it as possible. Your name, even in life, was, alas! a kind of +_ducdame_ to bring people of no very great sense into your circle. This +curious fascination has attracted round your memory a feeble folk of +commentators, biographers, anecdotists, and others of the tribe. They +swarm round you like carrion-flies round a sensitive plant, like +night-birds bewildered by the sun. Men of sense and taste have written +on you, indeed; but your weaker admirers are now disputing as to whether +it was your heart, or a less dignified and most troublesome organ, which +escaped the flames of the funeral pyre. These biographers fight terribly +among themselves, and vainly prolong the memory of “old unhappy far-off +things, and sorrows long ago.” Let us leave them and their squabbles +over what is unessential, their raking up of old letters and old stories. + +The town has lately yawned a weary laugh over an enemy of yours, who has +produced two heavy volumes, styled by him “The Real Shelley.” The real +Shelley, it appears, was Shelley as conceived of by a worthy gentleman so +prejudiced and so skilled in taking up things by the wrong handle that I +wonder he has not made a name in the exact science of Comparative +Mythology. He criticises you in the spirit of that Christian Apologist, +the Englishman who called you “a damned Atheist” in the post-office at +Pisa. He finds that you had “a little turned-up nose,” a feature no less +important in his system than was the nose of Cleopatra (according to +Pascal) in the history of the world. To be in harmony with your nose, +you were a “phenomenal” liar, an ill-bred, ill-born, profligate, partly +insane, an evil-tempered monster, a self-righteous person, full of +self-approbation—in fact you were the Beast of this pious Apocalypse. +Your friend Dr. Lind was an embittered and scurrilous apothecary, “a bad +old man.” But enough of this inopportune brawler. + +For Humanity, of which you hoped such great things, Science predicts +extinction in a night of Frost. The sun will grow cold, slowly—as slowly +as doom came on Jupiter in your “Prometheus,” but as surely. If this +nightmare be fulfilled, perhaps the Last Man, in some fetid hut on the +ice-bound Equator, will read, by a fading lamp charged with the dregs of +the oil in his cruse, the poetry of Shelley. So reading, he, the latest +of his race, will not wholly be deprived of those sights which alone +(says the nameless Greek) make life worth enduring. In your verse he +will have sight of sky, and sea, and cloud, the gold of dawn and the +gloom of earthquake and eclipse. He will be face to face, in fancy, with +the great powers that are dead, sun, and ocean, and the illimitable azure +of the heavens. In Shelley’s poetry, while Man endures, all those will +survive; for your “voice is as the voice of winds and tides,” and perhaps +more deathless than all of these, and only perishable with the perishing +of the human spirit. + + + + +XVIII. +_To Monsieur de Molière_, _Valet de Chambre du Roi_. + + +MONSIEUR,—With what awe does a writer venture into the presence of the +great Molière! As a courtier in your time would scratch humbly (with his +comb!) at the door of the Grand Monarch, so I presume to draw near your +dwelling among the Immortals. You, like the king who, among all his +titles, has now none so proud as that of the friend of Molière—you found +your dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to the +dignity of an empire: what Louis XIV. did for France you achieved for +French comedy; and the baton of Scapin still wields its sway though the +sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim. For the King the Pyrenees, or so +he fancied, ceased to exist; by a more magnificent conquest you overcame +the Channel. If England vanquished your country’s arms, it was through +you that France _ferum victorem cepit_, and restored the dynasty of +Comedy to the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden +borrowed “L’Etourdi,” our tardy apish nation has lived (in matters +theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France. + +In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered. While you +lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was the congenial +business of English playwrights to foist their rustic grossness and their +large Fescennine jests into the urban page of Molière. Now they are +diversely occupied; and it is their affair to lend modesty where they +borrow wit, and to spare a blush to the cheek of the Lord Chamberlain. +But still, as has ever been our wont since Etherege saw, and envied, and +imitated your successes—still we pilfer the plays of France, and take our +_bien_, as you said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We +are the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that a +comedy pleases the town which has not first been “cut out” from the +countrymen of Molière. Why this should be, and what “tenebriferous star” +(as Paracelsus, your companion in the “Dialogues des Morts,” would have +believed) thus darkens the sun of English humour, we know not; but +certainly our dependence on France is the sincerest tribute to you. +Without you, neither Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor “a wilderness of monkeys” +like Scarron, could ever have given Comedy to France and restored her to +Europe. + +While we owe to you, Monsieur, the beautiful advent of Comedy, fair and +beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, it is still to you that +we must turn when of comedies we desire the best. If you studied with +daily and nightly care the works of Plautus and Terence, if you “let no +musty _bouquin_ escape you” (so your enemies declared), it was to some +purpose that you laboured. Shakespeare excepted, you eclipsed all who +came before you; and from those that follow, however fresh, we turn: we +turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, from Sheridan and Goldsmith, from +Musset and Pailleron and Labiche, to that crowded world of your +creations. “Creations” one may well say, for you anticipated Nature +herself: you gave us, before she did, in Alceste a Rousseau who was a +gentleman not a lacquey; in a _mot_ of Don Juan’s, the secret of the new +Religion and the watchword of Comte, _l’amour de l’humanité_. + +Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a Frenchman with humour; +and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise philosophy of a secular +civilisation? With a heart the most tender, delicate, loving, and +generous, a heart often in agony and torment, you had to make life +endurable (we cannot doubt it) without any whisper of promise, or hope, +or warning from Religion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all, +the mind of Pascal, proclaimed that the only help was in voluntary +blindness, that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at evens, you, +Monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see what you found +invisible. + +In Religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits and +Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartufe the portrait of +their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in your play conceived +that you were girding at his neighbour), you all the while were mocking +every credulous excess of Faith. In the sermons preached to Agnès we +surely hear your private laughter; in the arguments for credulity which +are presented to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal +self-defence of superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you sought for +the permanent element of life—precisely where Pascal recognised all that +was most fleeting and unsubstantial—in _divertissement_; in the pleasure +of looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence, an observer of +the follies of mankind. Like the Gods of the Epicurean, you seem to +regard our life as a play that is played, as a comedy; yet how often the +tragic note comes in! What pity, and in the laughter what an accent of +tears, as of rain in the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human +as you; none has had a heart, like you, to feel for his butts, and to +leave them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their tormentors. +Sganarelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the rest—our sympathy, +somehow, is with them, after all; and M. de Pourceaugnac is a gentleman, +despite his misadventures. + +Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays may batter and +defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not all the victory, or you +did not mean that they should win it. They go off with laughter, and +their victim with a grimace; but in him we, that are past our youth, +behold an actor in an unending tragedy, the defeat of a generation. Your +sympathy is not wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can +throw a bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has been taught +that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned in shame, in jealousy, +in endurance of the wanton pride of men (how could the poor player and +the husband of Célimène be untaught in that experience?), you never sided +quite heartily, as other comedians have done, with young prosperity and +rank and power. + +I am not the first who has dared to approach you in the Shades; for just +after your own death the author of “Les Dialogues des Morts” gave you +Paracelsus as a companion, and the author of “Le Jugement de Pluton” made +the “mighty warder” decide that “Molière should not talk philosophy.” +These writers, like most of us, feel that, after all, the comedies of the +_Contemplateur_, of the translator of Lucretius, are a philosophy of life +in themselves, and that in them we read the lessons of human experience +writ small and clear. + +What comedian but Molière has combined with such depths—with the +indignation of Alceste, the self-deception of Tartufe, the blasphemy of +Don Juan—such wildness of irresponsible mirth, such humour, such wit! +Even now, when more than two hundred years have sped by, when so much +water has flowed under the bridges and has borne away so many trifles of +contemporary mirth (_cetera fluminis ritu feruntur_), even now we never +laugh so well as when Mascarille and Vadius and M. Jourdain tread the +boards in the Maison de Molière. Since those mobile dark brows of yours +ceased to make men laugh, since your voice denounced the “demoniac” +manner of contemporary tragedians, I take leave to think that no player +has been more worthy to wear the canons of Mascarille or the gown of +Vadius than M. Coquelin of the Comédie Française. In him you have a +successor to your Mascarille so perfect, that the ghosts of playgoers of +your date might cry, could they see him, that Molière had come again. +But, with all respect to the efforts of the fair, I doubt if Mdlle. +Barthet, or Mdme. Croizette herself, would reconcile the town to the loss +of the fair De Brie, and Madeleine, and the first, the true Célimène, +Armande. Yet had you ever so merry a _soubrette_ as Mdme. Samary, so +exquisite a Nicole? + +Denounced, persecuted, and buried hugger-mugger two hundred years ago, +you are now not over-praised, but more worshipped, with more servility +and ostentation, studied with more prying curiosity than you may approve. +Are not the Molièristes a body who carry adoration to fanaticism? Any +scrap of your handwriting (so few are these), any anecdote even remotely +touching on your life, any fact that may prove your house was numbered 15 +not 22, is eagerly seized and discussed by your too minute historians. +Concerning your private life, these men often speak more like malicious +enemies than friends; repeating the fabulous scandals of Le Boulanger, +and trying vainly to support them by grubbing in dusty parish registers. +It is most necessary to defend you from your friends—from such friends as +the veteran and inveterate M. Arsène Houssaye, or the industrious but +puzzle-headed M. Loiseleur. Truly they seek the living among the dead, +and the immortal Molière among the sweepings of attorneys’ offices. As I +regard them (for I have tarried in their tents) and as I behold their +trivialities—the exercises of men who neglect Molière’s works to gossip +about Molière’s great-grand-mother’s second-best bed—I sometimes wish +that Molière were here to write on his devotees a new comedy, “Les +Molièristes.” How fortunate were they, Monsieur, who lived and worked +with you, who saw you day by day, who were attached, as Lagrange tells +us, by the kindest loyalty to the best and most honourable of men, the +most open-handed in friendship, in charity the most delicate, of the +heartiest sympathy! Ah, that for one day I could behold you, writing in +the study, rehearsing on the stage, musing in the lace-seller’s shop, +strolling through the Palais, turning over the new books at Billaine’s, +dusting your ruffles among the old volumes on the sunny stalls. Would +that, through the ages, we could hear you after supper, merry with +Boileau, and with Racine,—not yet a traitor,—laughing over Chapelain, +combining to gird at him in an epigram, or mocking at Cotin, or talking +your favourite philosophy, mindful of Descartes. Surely of all the wits +none was ever so good a man, none ever made life so rich with humour and +friendship. + + + + +XIX. +_To Robert Burns_. + + +SIR,—Among men of Genius, and especially among Poets, there are some to +whom we turn with a peculiar and unfeigned affection; there are others +whom we admire rather than love. By some we are won with our will, by +others conquered against our desire. It has been your peculiar fortune +to capture the hearts of a whole people—a people not usually prone to +praise, but devoted with a personal and patriotic loyalty to you and to +your reputation. In you every Scot who _is_ a Scot sees, admires, and +compliments Himself, his ideal self—independent, fond of whisky, fonder +of the lassies; you are the true representative of him and of his nation. +Next year will be the hundredth since the press of Kilmarnock brought to +light its solitary masterpiece, your Poems; and next year, therefore, +methinks, the revenue will receive a welcome accession from the abundance +of whisky drunk in your honour. It is a cruel thing for any of your +countrymen to feel that, where all the rest love, he can only admire; +where all the rest are idolators, he may not bend the knee; but stands +apart and beats upon his breast, observing, not adoring—a critic. Yet to +some of us—petty souls, perhaps, and envious—that loud indiscriminating +praise of “Robbie Burns” (for so they style you in their Change-house +familiarity) has long been ungrateful; and, among the treasures of your +songs, we venture to select and even to reject. So it must be! We +cannot all love Haggis, nor “painch, tripe, and thairm,” and all those +rural dainties which you celebrate as “warm-reekin, rich!” “Rather too +rich,” as the Young Lady said on an occasion recorded by Sam Weller. + + Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware + That jaups in luggies; + But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, + Gie her a Haggis! + +You _have_ given her a Haggis, with a vengeance, and her “gratefu’ +prayer” is yours for ever. But if even an eternity of partridge may pall +on the epicure, so of Haggis too, as of all earthly delights, cometh +satiety at last. And yet what a glorious Haggis it is—the more +emphatically rustic and even Fescennine part of your verse! We have had +many a rural bard since Theocritus “watched the visionary flocks,” but +you are the only one of them all who has spoken the sincere Doric. Yours +is the talk of the byre and the plough-tail; yours is that large +utterance of the early hinds. Even Theocritus minces matters, save where +Lacon and Comatas quite out-do the swains of Ayrshire. “But thee, +Theocritus, wha matches?” you ask, and yourself out-match him in this +wide rude region, trodden only by the rural Muse. “_Thy_ rural loves are +nature’s sel’;” and the wooer of Jean Armour speaks more like a true +shepherd than the elegant Daphnis of the “Oaristys.” + +Indeed it is with this that moral critics of your life reproach you, +forgetting, perhaps, that in your amours you were but as other Scotch +ploughmen and shepherds of the past and present. Ettrick may still, with +Afghanistan, offer matter for idylls, as Mr. Carlyle (your antithesis, +and the complement of the Scotch character) supposed; but the morals of +Ettrick are those of rural Sicily in old days, or of Mossgiel in your +days. Over these matters the Kirk, with all her power, and the Free Kirk +too, have had absolutely no influence whatever. To leave so delicate a +topic, you were but as other swains, or, as “that Birkie ca’d a lord,” +Lord Byron; only you combined (in certain of your letters) a libertine +theory with your practice; you poured out in song your audacious +raptures, your half-hearted repentance, your shame and your scorn. You +spoke the truth about rural lives and loves. We may like it or dislike +it but we cannot deny the verity. + +Was it not as unhappy a thing, Sir, for you, as it was fortunate for +Letters and for Scotland, that you were born at the meeting of two ages +and of two worlds—precisely in the moment when bookish literature was +beginning to reach the people, and when Society was first learning to +admit the low-born to her Minor Mysteries? Before you how many singers +not less truly poets than yourself—though less versatile not less +passionate, though less sensuous not less simple—had been born and had +died in poor men’s cottages! There abides not even the shadow of a name +of the old Scotch song-smiths, of the old ballad-makers. The authors of +“Clerk Saunders,” of “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” of “Fair Annie,” and +“Sir Patrick Spens,” and “The Bonny Hind,” are as unknown to us as Homer, +whom in their directness and force they resemble. They never, perhaps, +gave their poems to writing; certainly they never gave them to the press. +On the lips and in the hearts of the people they have their lives; and +the singers, after a life obscure and untroubled by society or by fame, +are forgotten. “The Iniquity of Oblivion blindly scattereth his Poppy.” + +Had you been born some years earlier you would have been even as these +unnamed Immortals, leaving great verses to a little clan—verses retained +only by Memory. You would have been but the minstrel of your native +valley: the wider world would not have known you, nor you the world. +Great thoughts of independence and revolt would never have burned in you; +indignation would not have vexed you. Society would not have given and +denied her caresses. You would have been happy. Your songs would have +lingered in all “the circle of the summer hills;” and your scorn, your +satire, your narrative verse, would have been unwritten or unknown. To +the world what a loss! and what a gain to you! We should have possessed +but a few of your lyrics, as + + When o’er the hill the eastern star + Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; + And owsen frae the furrowed field, + Return sae dowf and wearie O! + +How noble that is, how natural, how unconsciously Greek! You found, +oddly, in good Mrs. Barbauld, the merits of the Tenth Muse: + + In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives + Even Sappho’s flame! + +But how unconsciously you remind us both of Sappho and of Homer in these +strains about the Evening Star and the hour when the Day μετενίσσετο +βουλυτόνδε? Had you lived and died the pastoral poet of some silent +glen, such lyrics could not but have survived; free, too, of all that in +your songs reminds us of the Poet’s Corner in the “Kirkcudbright +Advertiser.” We should not have read how + + Phœbus, gilding the brow o’ morning, + Banishes ilk darksome shade! + +Still we might keep a love-poem unexcelled by Catullus, + + Had we never loved sae kindly, + Had we never loved sae blindly, + Never met—or never parted, + We had ne’er been broken-hearted. + +But the letters to Clarinda would have been unwritten, and the thrush +would have been untaught in “the style of the Bird of Paradise.” + +A quiet life of song, _fallentis semita vitæ_, was not to be yours. Fate +otherwise decreed it. The touch of a lettered society, the strife with +the Kirk, discontent with the State, poverty and pride, neglect and +success, were needed to make your Genius what it was, and to endow the +world with “Tam o’ Shanter,” the “Jolly Beggars,” and “Holy Willie’s +Prayer.” Who can praise them too highly—who admire in them too much the +humour, the scorn, the wisdom, the unsurpassed energy and courage? So +powerful, so commanding, is the movement of that Beggars’ Chorus, that, +methinks, it unconsciously echoed in the brain of our greatest living +poet when he conceived the “Vision of Sin.” You shall judge for +yourself. Recall: + + Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets! + Here’s to all the wandering train! + Here’s our ragged bairns and callets! + One and all cry out, Amen! + + A fig for those by law protected! + Liberty’s a glorious feast! + Courts for cowards were erected! + Churches built to please the priest! + +Then read this: + + Drink to lofty hopes that cool— + Visions of a perfect state: + Drink we, last, the public fool, + Frantic love and frantic hate. + + * * * * * + + Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, + While we keep a little breath! + Drink to heavy Ignorance, + Hob and nob with brother Death! + +Is not the movement the same, though the modern speaks a wilder +recklessness? + +So in the best company we leave you, who were the life and soul of so +much company, good and bad. No poet, since the Psalmist of Israel, ever +gave the world more assurance of a man; none lived a life more strenuous, +engaged in an eternal conflict of the passions, and by them +overcome—“mighty and mightily fallen.” When we think of you, Byron +seems, as Plato would have said, remote by one degree from actual truth, +and Musset by a degree more remote than Byron. + + + + +XX. +_To Lord Byron_. + + +MY LORD, + + (Do you remember how Leigh Hunt + Enraged you once by writing _My dear Byron_?) + Books have their fates,—as mortals have who punt, + And _yours_ have entered on an age of iron. + Critics there be who think your satire blunt, + Your pathos, fudge; such perils must environ + Poets who in their time were quite the rage, + Though now there’s not a soul to turn their page. + Yes, there is much dispute about your worth, + And much is said which you might like to know + By modern poets here upon the earth, + Where poets live, and love each other so; + And, in Elysium, it may move your mirth + To hear of bards that pitch your praises low, + Though there be some that for your credit stickle, + As—Glorious Mat,—and not inglorious Nichol. + + (This kind of writing is my pet aversion, + I hate the slang, I hate the personalities, + I loathe the aimless, reckless, loose dispersion, + Of every rhyme that in the singer’s wallet is, + I hate it as you hated the _Excursion_, + But, while no man a hero to his valet is, + The hero’s still the model; I indite + The kind of rhymes that Byron oft would write.) + + There’s a Swiss critic whom I cannot rhyme to, + One Scherer, dry as sawdust, grim and prim. + Of him there’s much to say, if I had time to + Concern myself in any wise with _him_. + He seems to hate the heights he cannot climb to, + He thinks your poetry a coxcomb’s whim, + A good deal of his sawdust he has spilt on + Shakespeare, and Molière, and you, and Milton. + + Ay, much his temper is like Vivien’s mood, + Which found not Galahad pure, nor Lancelot brave; + Cold as a hailstorm on an April wood, + He buries poets in an icy grave, + His Essays—he of the Genevan hood! + Nothing so fine, but better doth he crave. + So stupid and so solemn in his spite + He dares to print that Molière could not write! + + Enough of these excursions; I was saying + That half our English Bards are turned Reviewers, + And Arnold was discussing and assaying + The weight and value of that work of yours, + Examining and testing it and weighing, + And proved, the gems are pure, the gold endures. + While Swinburne cries with an exceeding joy, + The stones are paste, and half the gold, alloy. + + In Byron, Arnold finds the greatest force, + Poetic, in this later age of ours; + His song, a torrent from a mountain source, + Clear as the crystal, singing with the showers, + Sweeps to the sea in unrestricted course + Through banks o’erhung with rocks and sweet with flowers; + None of your brooks that modestly meander, + But swift as Awe along the Pass of Brander. + + And when our century has clomb its crest, + And backward gazes o’er the plains of Time, + And counts its harvest, yours is still the best, + The richest garner in the field of rhyme + (The metaphoric mixture, ’tis comfest, + Is all my own, and is not quite sublime). + But fame’s not yours alone; you must divide all + The plums and pudding with the Bard of Rydal! + + WORDSWORTH and BYRON, these the lordly names + And these the gods to whom most incense burns. + “Absurd!” cries Swinburne, and in anger flames, + And in an Æschylean fury spurns + With impious foot your altar, and exclaims + And wreathes his laurels on the golden urns + Where Coleridge’s and Shelley’s ashes lie, + Deaf to the din and heedless of the cry. + + For Byron (Swinburne shouts) has never woven + One honest thread of life within his song; + As Offenbach is to divine Beethoven + So Byron is to Shelley (_This_ is strong!), + And on Parnassus’ peak, divinely cloven, + He may not stand, or stands by cruel wrong; + For Byron’s rank (the examiner has reckoned) + Is in the third class or a feeble second. + + “A Bernesque poet” at the very most, + And “never earnest save in politics,” + The Pegasus that he was wont to boast + A blundering, floundering hackney, full of tricks, + A beast that must be driven to the post + By whips and spurs and oaths and kicks and sticks, + A gasping, ranting, broken-winded brute, + That any judge of Pegasi would shoot; + + In sooth, a half-bred Pegasus, and far gone + In spavin, curb, and half a hundred woes. + And Byron’s style is “jolter-headed jargon;” + His verse is “only bearable in prose.” + So living poets write of those that _are_ gone, + And o’er the Eagle thus the Bantam crows; + And Swinburne ends where Verisopht began, + By owning you “a very clever man.” + + Or rather does not end: he still must utter + A quantity of the unkindest things. + Ah! were you here, I marvel, would you flutter + O’er such a foe the tempest of your wings? + ’Tis “rant and cant and glare and splash and splutter” + That rend the modest air when Byron sings. + There Swinburne stops: a critic rather fiery. + _Animis cælestibus tantæne iræ_? + + But whether he or Arnold in the right is, + Long is the argument, the quarrel long; + _Non nobis est_ to settle _tantas lites_; + No poet I, to judge of right or wrong: + But of all things I always think a fight is + The _most_ unpleasant in the lists of song; + When Marsyas of old was flayed, Apollo + Set an example which we need not follow. + + The fashion changes! Maidens do not wear, + As once they wore, in necklaces and lockets + A curl ambrosial of Lord Byron’s hair; + “Don Juan” is not always in our pockets— + Nay, a New Writer’s readers do not care + Much for your verse, but are inclined to mock its + Manners and morals. Ay, and most young ladies + To yours prefer the “Epic” called “of Hades”! + + I do not blame them; I’m inclined to think + That with the reigning taste ’tis vain to quarrel, + And Burns might teach his votaries to drink, + And Byron never meant to make them moral. + You yet have lovers true, who will not shrink + From lauding you and giving you the laurel; + The Germans too, those men of blood and iron, + Of all our poets chiefly swear by Byron. + + Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods! + Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit, + Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds, + Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit; + Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies’ rods, + Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit; + Beholding whom, men think how fairer far + Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! {215} + + + + +XXI. +_To Omar Khayyâm_. + + + WISE Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling + Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring, + The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose, + The wild white Roses you were wont to sing? + + Far in the South I know a Land divine, {216} + And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, + And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows + Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine. + + You were a Saint of unbelieving Days, + Liking your Life and happy in Men’s Praise; + Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough, + Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways. + + Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell, + Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell, + Content to know not all thou knowest now, + What’s Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well? + + The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, + Shall He torment them if they chance to spill? + Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast + Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will! + + So still were we, before the Months began + That rounded us and shaped us into Man. + So still we _shall_ be, surely, at the last, + Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban! + + Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought— + How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought— + Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, + In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought, + + Which gave our England for a captive Land + To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, + A gift to the Believer from the Priest, + Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! {218} + + Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave + Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save + His England, even of Harold Godwin’s son; + The high Tide murmurs by the Hero’s Grave! {219} + + And _thou_ wert wreathing Roses—who can tell?— + Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well, + Or satst at Wine in Nashâpûr, when dun + The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell! + + The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam! + Along the white Walls of his guarded Home + No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o’er the Wave + The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam! + + And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, + Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea; + The _Swan’s Path_ of his Fathers is his Grave: + His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be. + + His was the Age of Faith, when all the West + Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest; + And thou wert living then, and didst not heed + The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed! + + Ages of Progress! These eight hundred Years + Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or Fears, + And now!—she listens in the Wilderness + To _thee_, and half believeth what she hears! + + Hadst _thou_ THE SECRET? Ah, and who may tell? + “An Hour we have,” thou saidst; “Ah, waste it well!” + An Hour we have, and yet Eternity + Looms o’er us, and the Thought of Heaven or Hell! + + Nay, we can never be as wise as thou, + O idle Singer ’neath the blossomed Bough. + Nay, and we cannot be content to die. + _We_ cannot shirk the Questions “Where?” and “How?” + + Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content + Shall we of England go the way _he_ went— + The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose— + Nay, otherwise than _his_ our Day is spent! + + Serene he dwelt in fragrant Nashâpûr, + But we must wander while the Stars endure. + _He_ knew THE SECRET: we have none that knows, + No Man so sure as Omar once was sure! + + + + +XXII. +_To Q. Horatius Flaccus_. + + +IN what manner of Paradise are we to conceive that you, Horace, are +dwelling, or what region of immortality can give you such pleasures as +this life afforded? The country and the town, nature and men, who knew +them so well as you, or who ever so wisely made the best of those two +worlds? Truly here you had good things, nor do you ever, in all your +poems, look for more delight in the life beyond; you never expect +consolation for present sorrow, and when you once have shaken hands with +a friend the parting seems to you eternal. + + Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus + Tam cari capitis? + +So you sing, for the dear head you mourn has sunk, for ever, beneath the +wave. Virgil might wander forth bearing the golden branch “the Sibyl +doth to singing men allow,” and might visit, as one not wholly without +hope, the dim dwellings of the dead and the unborn. To him was it +permitted to see and sing “mothers and men, and the bodies outworn of +mighty heroes, boys and unwedded maids, and young men borne to the +funeral fire before their parent’s eyes.” The endless caravan swept past +him—“many as fluttering leaves that drop and fall in autumn woods when +the first frost begins; many as birds that flock landward from the great +sea when now the chill year drives them o’er the deep and leads them to +sunnier lands.” Such things was it given to the sacred poet to behold, +and “the happy seats and sweet pleasances of fortunate souls, where the +larger light clothes all the plains and dips them in a rosier gleam, +plains with their own new sun and stars before unknown.” Ah, not +_frustra pius_ was Virgil, as you say, Horace, in your melancholy song. +In him, we fancy, there was a happier mood than your melancholy patience. +“Not, though thou wert sweeter of song than Thracian Orpheus, with that +lyre whose lay led the dancing trees, not so would the blood return to +the empty shade of him whom once with dread wand, the inexorable God hath +folded with his shadowy flocks; but patience lighteneth what heaven +forbids us to undo.” + + Durum, sed levius fit patietia! + +It was all your philosophy in that last sad resort to which we are pushed +so often— + + “With close-lipped Patience for our only friend, + Sad Patience, too near neighbour of Despair.” + +The Epicurean is at one with the Stoic at last, and Horace with Marcus +Aurelius. “To go away from among men, if there are Gods, is not a thing +to be afraid of; but if indeed they do not exist, or if they have no +concern about human affairs, what is it to me to live in a universe +devoid of gods or devoid of providence?” + +An excellent philosophy, but easier to those for whom no Hope had dawned +or seemed to set. Yes! it is harder than common, Horace, for us to think +of _you_, still glad somewhere, among rivers like Liris and plains and +vine-clad hills, that + + Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt. + +It is hard, for you looked for no such thing. + + _Omnes una manet nox_ + _Et calcanda semel via leti_. + +You could not tell Mæcenas that you would meet him again; you could only +promise to tread the dark path with him. + + _Ibimus_, _ibimus_, + _Utcunque præcedes_, _supremum_ + _Carpere iter comites parati_. + +Enough, Horace, of these mortuary musings. You loved the lesson of the +roses, and now and again would speak somewhat like a death’s head over +your temperate cups of Sabine _ordinaire_. Your melancholy moral was but +meant to heighten the joy of your pleasant life, when wearied Italy, +after all her wars and civic bloodshed, had won a peaceful haven. The +harbour might be treacherous; the prince might turn to the tyrant; far +away on the wide Roman marches might be heard, as it were, the endless, +ceaseless monotone of beating horses’ hoofs and marching feet of men. +They were coming, they were nearing, like footsteps heard on wool; there +was a sound of multitudes and millions of barbarians, all the North, +_officina gentium_, mustering and marshalling her peoples. But their +coming was not to be to-day, nor to-morrow, nor to-day was the budding +Empire to blossom into the blood-red flower of Nero. In the lull between +the two tempests of Republic and Empire your odes sound “like linnets in +the pauses of the wind.” + +What joy there is in these songs! what delight of life, what an exquisite +Hellenic grace of art, what a manly nature to endure, what tenderness and +constancy of friendship, what a sense of all that is fair in the +glittering stream, the music of the waterfall, the hum of bees, the +silvery grey of the olive woods on the hillside! How human are all your +verses, Horace! what a pleasure is yours in the straining poplars, +swaying in the wind! what gladness you gain from the white crest of +Soracte, beheld through the fluttering snowflakes while the logs are +being piled higher on the hearth. You sing of women and wine—not all +wholehearted in your praise of them, perhaps, for passion frightens you, +and ’tis pleasure more than love that you commend to the young. Lydia +and Glycera, and the others, are but passing guests of a heart at ease in +itself, and happy enough when their facile reign is ended. You seem to +me like a man who welcomes middle age, and is more glad than Sophocles +was to “flee from these hard masters” the passions. In the fallow +leisure of life you glance round contented, and find all very good save +the need to leave all behind. Even that you take with an Italian +good-humour, as the folk of your sunny country bear poverty and hunger. + + _Durum_, _sed levius fit patientia_! + +To them, to you, the loveliness of your land is, and was, a thing to live +for. None of the Latin poets your fellows, or none but Virgil, seem to +me to have known so well as you, Horace, how happy and fortunate a thing +it was to be born in Italy. You do not say so, like your Virgil, in one +splendid passage, numbering the glories of the land as a lover might +count the perfections of his mistress. But the sentiment is ever in your +heart and often on your lips. + + Me nec tam patiens Lacedæmon, + Nec tam Larissæ percussit campus opimæ, + Quam domus Albuneæ resonantis + Et præceps Anio, ac Tiburni lucus, et uda + Mobilibus pomaria rivis. {229} + +So a poet should speak, and to every singer his own land should be +dearest. Beautiful is Italy with the grave and delicate outlines of her +sacred hills, her dark groves, her little cities perched like eyries on +the crags, her rivers gliding under ancient walls; beautiful is Italy, +her seas, and her suns: but dearer to me the long grey wave that bites +the rock below the minster in the north; dearer are the barren moor and +black peat-water swirling in tauny foam, and the scent of bog myrtle and +the bloom of heather, and, watching over the lochs, the green +round-shouldered hills. + +In affection for your native land, Horace, certainly the pride in great +Romans dead and gone made part, and you were, in all senses, a lover of +your country, your country’s heroes, your country’s gods. None but a +patriot could have sung that ode on Regulus, who died, as our own hero +died on an evil day, for the honour of Rome, as Gordon for the honour of +England. + + Fertur pudicæ conjugis osculum, + Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor, + Ab se removisse, et virilem + Torvus humi posuisse voltum: + + Donec labantes consilio patres + Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato, + Interque mærentes amicos + Egregius properaret exul. + + Atqui sciebat, quæ sibi barbarus + Tortor pararet: non aliter tamen + Dimovit obstantes propinquos, + Et populum reditus morantem, + + Quam si clientum longa negotia + Dijudicata lite relinqueret, + Tendens Venafranos in agros + Aut Lacedæmonium Tarentum. {231} + +We talk of the Greeks as your teachers. Your teachers they were, but +that poem could only have been written by a Roman! The strength, the +tenderness, the noble and monumental resolution and resignation—these are +the gifts of the lords of human things, the masters of the world. + +Your country’s heroes are dear to you, Horace, but you did not sing them +better than your country’s Gods, the pious protecting spirits of the +hearth, the farm, the field; kindly ghosts, it may be, of Latin fathers +dead or Gods framed in the image of these. What you actually believed we +know not, _you_ knew not. Who knows what he believes? _Parcus Deorum +cultor_ you bowed not often, it may be, in the temples of the state +religion and before the statues of the great Olympians; but the pure and +pious worship of rustic tradition, the faith handed down by the homely +elders, with _that_ you never broke. Clean hands and a pure heart, +these, with a sacred cake and shining grains of salt, you could offer to +the Lares. It was a benignant religion, uniting old times and new, men +living and men long dead and gone, in a kind of service and sacrifice +solemn yet familiar. + + _Te nihil attinet_ + _Tentare multa cæde bidentium_ + _Parvos coronantem marino_ + _Rore deos fragilique myrto_. + + _Immunis aram si tetigit manus_, + _Non sumptuosa blandior hostia_ + _Mellivit aversos Penates_ + _Farre pio et saliente mica_, {233} + +Farewell, dear Horace; farewell, thou wise and kindly heathen; of mortals +the most human, the friend of my friends and of so many generations of +men. + + _Ave atque Vale_! + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{13} I am informed that the _Natural History of Young Ladies_ is +attributed, by some writers, to another philosopher, the author of _The +Art of Pluck_. + +{48a} Rape of the Lock. + +{48b} In Mr. Hogarth’s Caricatura. + +{49} Elwin’s Pope, ii. 15. + +{50} “Poor Pope was always a hand-to-mouth liar.”—_Pope_, by Leslie +Stephen, 139. + +{64} The Greek ῥόμβος, mentioned by Lucian and Theocritus, was the +magical weapon of the Australians—the _turndun_. + +{160} Lord Napier and Ettrick points out to me that, unluckily, the +tradition is erroneous. Piers was not executed at all. William Cockburn +suffered in Edinburgh. But the _Border Minstrelsy_ overrides history. + +_Criminal Trials in Scotland_, by Robert Pitcairn, Esq. Vol. i. part i. +p. 144, A.D. 1530. 17 Jac. V. + +May 16. William Cokburne of Henderland, convicted (in presence of the +King) of high treason committed by him in bringing Alexander Forestare +and his son, Englishmen, to the plundering of Archibald Somervile; and +for treasonably bringing certain Englishmen to the lands of Glenquhome; +and for common theft, common reset of theft, out-putting and in-putting +thereof. Sentence. For which causes and crimes he has forfeited his +life, lands, and goods, movable and immovable; which shall be escheated +to the King. Beheaded. + +{169} “The Lesson of Jupiter.”—Nineteenth Century, October 1885. + +{215} Mr. Swinburne’s and Mr. Arnold’s diverse views of Byron will be +found in the _Selections_ by Mr. Arnold and in the _Nineteenth Century_. + +{216} The hills above San Remo, where rose-bushes are planted by the +shrines. Omar desired that his grave might be where the wind would +scatter rose-leaves over it. + +{218} Omar was contemporary with the battle of Hastings. + +{219} Per mandata Ducis, Rex hic, Heralde, quiescis, + +Ut custos maneas littoris et pelagi. + +{229} “Me neither resolute Sparta nor the rich Larissæan plain so +enraptures as the fane of echoing Albunea, the headlong Anio, the grove +of Tibur, the orchards watered by the wandering rills.” + +{231} “They say he put aside from him the pure lips of his wife and his +little children, like a man unfree, and with his brave face bowed +earthward sternly he waited till with such counsel as never mortal gave +he might strengthen the hearts of the Fathers, and through his mourning +friends go forth, a hero, into exile. Yet well he knew what things were +being prepared for him at the hands of the tormentors, who, none the +less, put aside the kinsmen that barred his path and the people that +would fain have delayed his return, passing through their midst as he +might have done if, his retainers’ weary business ended and the suits +adjudged, he were faring to his Venafran lands or to Dorian Tarentum.” + +{233} “Thou, Phidyle, hast no need to besiege the gods with slaughter so +great of sheep, thou who crownest thy tiny deities with myrtle rare and +rosemary. If but the hand be clean that touches the altar, then richest +sacrifice will not more appease the angered Penates than the duteous cake +and salt that crackles in the blaze.” + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS*** + + +******* This file should be named 1491-0.txt or 1491-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/9/1491 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Letters to Dead Authors + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 14, 2014 [eBook #1491] +[This file was first posted on 10 August 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1886 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>LETTERS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +DEAD AUTHORS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ANDREW LANG</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.<br /> +1886</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">TO</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">MISS THACKERAY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">THESE +EXERCISES</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">IN THE ART +OF DIPPING</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ARE +DEDICATED</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sixteen</span> of these Letters, which +were written at the suggestion of the Editor of the “St. +James’s Gazette,” appeared in that journal, from +which they are now reprinted, by the Editor’s kind +permission. They have been somewhat emended, and a few +additions have been made. The Letters to Horace, Byron, +Isaak Walton, Chapelain, Ronsard, and Theocritus have not been +published before.</p> +<p>The gem on the title-page, now engraved for the first time, is +a red cornelian in the British Museum, probably +Græco-Roman, and treated in an archaistic style. It +represents Hermes Psychagogos, with a Soul, and has some likeness +to the Baptism of Our Lord, as usually shown in art. +Perhaps it may be post-Christian. The gem was selected by +Mr. A. S. Murray.</p> +<p>It is, perhaps, superfluous to add that some of the Letters +are written rather to suit the Correspondent than to express the +writer’s own taste or opinions. The Epistle to Lord +Byron, especially, is “writ in a manner which is my +aversion.”</p> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To W. M. Thackeray</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Charles Dickens</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Pierre de Ronsard</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Herodotus</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Epistle to Mr. Alexander +Pope</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Lucian of Samosata</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Maître Françoys +Rabelais</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Jane Austen</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Master Isaak Walton</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To M. Chapelain</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Sir John Maundeville, +Kt.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Alexandre Dumas</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Theocritus</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Edgar Allan Poe</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Sir Walter Scott, Bart</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Eusebius of +Cæsarea</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Percy Bysshe Shelley</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Monsieur de Molière, Valet +de Chambre du Roi</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Robert Burns</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page195">195</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Lord Byron</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Omar Khayyâm</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page216">216</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Q. Horatius Flaccus</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>I.<br /> +<i>To W. M. Thackeray</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—There are many things +that stand in the way of the critic when he has a mind to praise +the living. He may dread the charge of writing rather to +vex a rival than to exalt the subject of his applause. He +shuns the appearance of seeking the favour of the famous, and +would not willingly be regarded as one of the many parasites who +now advertise each movement and action of contemporary +genius. “Such and such men of letters are passing +their summer holidays in the Val d’Aosta,” or the +Mountains of the Moon, or the Suliman Range, as it may +happen. So reports our literary “Court +Circular,” and all our <i>Précieuses</i> read the +tidings with enthusiasm. Lastly, if the critic be quite new +to the world of letters, he may superfluously fear to vex a poet +or a novelist by the abundance of his eulogy. No such +doubts perplex us when, with all our hearts, we would commend the +departed; for they have passed almost beyond the reach even of +envy; and to those pale cheeks of theirs no commendation can +bring the red.</p> +<p>You, above all others, were and remain without a rival in your +many-sided excellence, and praise of you strikes at none of those +who have survived your day. The increase of time only +mellows your renown, and each year that passes and brings you no +successor does but sharpen the keenness of our sense of +loss. In what other novelist, since Scott was worn down by +the burden of a forlorn endeavour, and died for honour’s +sake, has the world found so many of the fairest gifts +combined? If we may not call you a poet (for the first of +English writers of light verse did not seek that crown), who that +was less than a poet ever saw life with a glance so keen as +yours, so steady, and so sane? Your pathos was never cheap, +your laughter never forced; your sigh was never the pulpit trick +of the preacher. Your funny people—your Costigans and +Fokers—were not mere characters of trick and catch-word, +were not empty comic masks. Behind each the human heart was +beating; and ever and again we were allowed to see the features +of the man.</p> +<p>Thus fiction in your hands was not simply a profession, like +another, but a constant reflection of the whole surface of life: +a repeated echo of its laughter and its complaint. Others +have written, and not written badly, with the stolid professional +regularity of the clerk at his desk; you, like the Scholar Gipsy, +might have said that “it needs heaven-sent moments for this +skill.” There are, it will not surprise you, some +honourable women and a few men who call you a cynic; who speak of +“the withered world of Thackerayan satire;” who think +your eyes were ever turned to the sordid aspects of life—to +the mother-in-law who threatens to “take away her silver +bread-basket;” to the intriguer, the sneak, the termagant; +to the Beckys, and Barnes Newcomes, and Mrs. Mackenzies of this +world. The quarrel of these sentimentalists is really with +life, not with you; they might as wisely blame Monsieur Buffon +because there are snakes in his Natural History. Had you +not impaled certain noxious human insects, you would have better +pleased Mr. Ruskin; had you confined yourself to such +performances, you would have been more dear to the Neo-Balzacian +school in fiction.</p> +<p>You are accused of never having drawn a good woman who was not +a doll, but the ladies that bring this charge seldom remind us +either of Lady Castlewood or of Theo or Hetty Lambert. The +best women can pardon you Becky Sharp and Blanche Amory; they +find it harder to forgive you Emmy Sedley and Helen +Pendennis. Yet what man does not know in his heart that the +best women—God bless them—lean, in their characters, +either to the sweet passiveness of Emmy or to the sensitive and +jealous affections of Helen? ’Tis Heaven, not you, +that made them so; and they are easily pardoned, both for being a +very little lower than the angels and for their gentle ambition +to be painted, as by Guido or Guercino, with wings and harps and +haloes. So ladies have occasionally seen their own faces in +the glass of fancy, and, thus inspired, have drawn Romola and +Consuelo. Yet when these fair idealists, Mdme. Sand and +George Eliot, designed Rosamund Vincy and Horace, was there not a +spice of malice in the portraits which we miss in your least +favourable studies?</p> +<p>That the creator of Colonel Newcome and of Henry Esmond was a +snarling cynic; that he who designed Rachel Esmond could not draw +a good woman: these are the chief charges (all indifferent now to +you, who were once so sensitive) that your admirers have to +contend against. A French critic, M. Taine, also protests +that you do preach too much. Did any author but yourself so +frequently break the thread (seldom a strong thread) of his plot +to converse with his reader and moralise his tale, we also might +be offended. But who that loves Montaigne and Pascal, who +that likes the wise trifling of the one and can bear with the +melancholy of the other, but prefers your preaching to +another’s playing!</p> +<p>Your thoughts come in, like the intervention of the Greek +Chorus, as an ornament and source of fresh delight. Like +the songs of the Chorus, they bid us pause a moment over the +wider laws and actions of human fate and human life, and we turn +from your persons to yourself, and again from yourself to your +persons, as from the odes of Sophocles or Aristophanes to the +action of their characters on the stage. Nor, to my taste, +does the mere music and melancholy dignity of your style in these +passages of meditation fall far below the highest efforts of +poetry. I remember that scene where Clive, at Barnes +Newcome’s Lecture on the Poetry of the Affections, sees +Ethel who is lost to him. “And the past and its dear +histories, and youth and its hopes and passions, and tones and +looks for ever echoing in the heart and present in the +memory—these, no doubt, poor Clive saw and heard as he +looked across the great gulf of time, and parting and grief, and +beheld the woman he had loved for many years.”</p> +<p><i>For ever echoing in the heart and present in the +memory</i>: who has not heard these tones, who does not hear them +as he turns over your books that, for so many years, have been +his companions and comforters? We have been young and old, +we have been sad and merry with you, we have listened to the +midnight chimes with Pen and Warrington, have stood with you +beside the death-bed, have mourned at that yet more awful funeral +of lost love, and with you have prayed in the inmost chapel +sacred to our old and immortal affections, <i>à +léal souvenir</i>! And whenever you speak for +yourself, and speak in earnest, how magical, how rare, how lonely +in our literature is the beauty of your sentences! “I +can’t express the charm of them” (so you write of +George Sand; so we may write of you): “they seem to me like +the sound of country bells, provoking I don’t know what +vein of music and meditation, and falling sweetly and sadly on +the ear.” Surely that style, so fresh, so rich, so +full of surprises—that style which stamps as classical your +fragments of slang, and perpetually astonishes and +delights—would alone give immortality to an author, even +had he little to say. But you, with your whole wide world +of fops and fools, of good women and brave men, of honest +absurdities and cheery adventurers: you who created the Steynes +and Newcomes, the Beckys and Blanches, Captain Costigan and F. +B., and the Chevalier Strong—all that host of friends +imperishable—you must survive with Shakespeare and +Cervantes in the memory and affection of men.</p> +<h2><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>II.<br +/> +<i>To Charles Dickens</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—It has been said that +every man is born a Platonist or an Aristotelian, though the +enormous majority of us, to be sure, live and die without being +conscious of any invidious philosophic partiality whatever. +With more truth (though that does not imply very much) every +Englishman who reads may be said to be a partisan of yourself or +of Mr. Thackeray. Why should there be any partisanship in +the matter; and why, having two such good things as your novels +and those of your contemporary, should we not be silently happy +in the possession? Well, men are made so, and must needs +fight and argue over their tastes in enjoyment. For myself, +I may say that in this matter I am what the Americans do +<i>not</i> call a “Mugwump,” what English politicians +dub a “superior person”—that is, I take no +side, and attempt to enjoy the best of both.</p> +<p>It must be owned that this attitude is sometimes made a little +difficult by the vigour of your special devotees. They have +ceased, indeed, thank Heaven! to imitate you; and even in +“descriptive articles” the touch of Mr. Gigadibs, of +him whom “we almost took for the true Dickens,” has +disappeared. The young lions of the Press no longer mimic +your less admirable mannerisms—do not strain so much after +fantastic comparisons, do not (in your manner and Mr. +Carlyle’s) give people nick-names derived from their teeth, +or their complexion; and, generally, we are spared second-hand +copies of all that in your style was least to be commended. +But, though improved by lapse of time in this respect, your +devotees still put on little conscious airs of virtue, robust +manliness, and so forth, which would have irritated you very +much, and there survive some press men who seem to have read you +a little (especially your later works), and never to have read +anything else. Now familiarity with the pages of “Our +Mutual Friend” and “Dombey and Son” does not +precisely constitute a liberal education, and the assumption that +it does is apt (quite unreasonably) to prejudice people against +the greatest comic genius of modern times.</p> +<p>On the other hand, Time is at last beginning to sift the true +admirers of Dickens from the false. Yours, Sir, in the best +sense of the word, is a popular success, a popular +reputation. For example, I know that, in a remote and even +Pictish part of this kingdom, a rural household, humble and under +the shadow of a sorrow inevitably approaching, has found in +“David Copperfield” oblivion of winter, of sorrow, +and of sickness. On the other hand, people are now picking +up heart to say that “they cannot read Dickens,” and +that they particularly detest “Pickwick.” I +believe it was young ladies who first had the courage of their +convictions in this respect. “Tout sied aux +belles,” and the fair, in the confidence of youth, often +venture on remarkable confessions. In your “Natural +History of Young Ladies” I do not remember that you +describe the Humorous Young Lady. <a name="citation13"></a><a +href="#footnote13" class="citation">[13]</a> She is a very +rare bird indeed, and humour generally is at a deplorably low +level in England.</p> +<p>Hence come all sorts of mischief, arisen since you left us; +and it may be said that inordinate philanthropy, genteel sympathy +with Irish murder and arson, Societies for Badgering the Poor, +Esoteric Buddhism, and a score of other plagues, including what +was once called Æstheticism, are all, primarily, due to +want of humour. People discuss, with the gravest faces, +matters which properly should only be stated as the wildest +paradoxes. It naturally follows that, in a period almost +destitute of humour, many respectable persons “cannot read +Dickens,” and are not ashamed to glory in their +shame. We ought not to be angry with others for their +misfortunes; and yet when one meets the <i>crétins</i> who +boast that they cannot read Dickens, one certainly does feel much +as Mr. Samuel Weller felt when he encountered Mr. Job +Trotter.</p> +<p>How very singular has been the history of the decline of +humour! Is there any profound psychological truth to be +gathered from consideration of the fact that humour has gone out +with cruelty? A hundred years ago, eighty years +ago—nay, fifty years ago—we were a cruel but also a +humorous people. We had bull-baitings, and badger-drawings, +and hustings, and prize-fights, and cock-fights; we went to see +men hanged; the pillory and the stocks were no empty +“terrors unto evil-doers,” for there was commonly a +malefactor occupying each of these institutions. With all +this we had a broad-blown comic sense. We had Hogarth, and +Bunbury, and George Cruikshank, and Gilray; we had Leech and +Surtees, and the creator of Tittlebat Titmouse; we had the +Shepherd of the “Noctes,” and, above all, we had +<i>you</i>.</p> +<p>From the old giants of English fun—burly persons +delighting in broad caricature, in decided colours, in cockney +jokes, in swashing blows at the more prominent and obvious human +follies—from these you derived the splendid high spirits +and unhesitating mirth of your earlier works. Mr. Squeers, +and Sam Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and all the Pickwickians, and Mr. +Dowler, and John Browdie—these and their immortal +companions were reared, so to speak, on the beef and beer of that +naughty, fox-hunting, badger-baiting old England, which we have +improved out of existence. And these characters, assuredly, +are your best; by them, though stupid people cannot read about +them, you will live while there is a laugh left among us. +Perhaps that does not assure you a very prolonged existence, but +only the future can show.</p> +<p>The dismal seriousness of the time cannot, let us hope, last +for ever and a day. Honest old Laughter, the true +<i>lutin</i> of your inspiration, must have life left in him yet, +and cannot die; though it is true that the taste for your pathos, +and your melodrama, and plots constructed after your favourite +fashion (“Great Expectations” and the “Tale of +Two Cities” are exceptions) may go by and never be +regretted. Were people simpler, or only less clear-sighted, +as far as your pathos is concerned, a generation ago? +Jeffrey, the hard-headed shallow critic, who declared that +Wordsworth “would never do,” cried, “wept like +anything,” over your Little Nell. One still laughs as +heartily as ever with Dick Swiveller; but who can cry over Little +Nell?</p> +<p>Ah, Sir, how could you—who knew so intimately, who +remembered so strangely well the fancies, the dreams, the +sufferings of childhood—how could you “wallow naked +in the pathetic,” and massacre holocausts of the +Innocents? To draw tears by gloating over a child’s +death-bed, was it worthy of you? Was it the kind of work +over which our hearts should melt? I confess that Little +Nell might die a dozen times, and be welcomed by whole legions of +Angels, and I (like the bereaved fowl mentioned by Pet Marjory) +would remain unmoved.</p> +<blockquote><p>She was more than usual calm,<br /> +She did not give a single dam,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>wrote the astonishing child who diverted the leisure of +Scott. Over your Little Nell and your Little Dombey I +remain more than usual calm; and probably so do thousands of your +most sincere admirers. But about matter of this kind, and +the unseating of the fountains of tears, who can argue? +Where is taste? where is truth? What tears are +“manly, Sir, manly,” as Fred Bayham has it; and of +what lamentations ought we rather to be ashamed? +<i>Sunt lacrymæ rerum</i>; one has been moved in the cell +where Socrates tasted the hemlock; or by the river-banks where +Syracusan arrows slew the parched Athenians among the mire and +blood; or, in fiction, when Colonel Newcome says <i>Adsum</i>, or +over the diary of Clare Doria Forey, or where Aramis laments, +with strange tears, the death of Porthos. But over Dombey +(the Son), or Little Nell, one declines to snivel.</p> +<p>When an author deliberately sits down and says, “Now, +let us have a good cry,” he poisons the wells of +sensibility and chokes, at least in many breasts, the fountain of +tears. Out of “Dombey and Son” there is little +we care to remember except the deathless Mr. Toots; just as we +forget the melodramatics of “Martin +Chuzzlewit.” I have read in that book a score of +times; I never see it but I revel in it—in Pecksniff, and +Mrs. Gamp, and the Americans. But what the plot is all +about, what Jonas did, what Montagu Tigg had to make in the +matter, what all the pictures with plenty of shading illustrate, +I have never been able to comprehend. In the same way, one +of your most thorough-going admirers has allowed (in the licence +of private conversation) that “Ralph Nickleby and Monk are +too steep;” and probably a cultivated taste will always +find them a little precipitous.</p> +<p>“Too steep:”—the slang expresses that defect +of an ardent genius, carried above itself, and out of the air we +breathe, both in its grotesque and in its gloomy +imaginations. To force the note, to press fantasy too hard, +to deepen the gloom with black over the indigo, that was the +failing which proved you mortal. To take an instance in +little: when Pip went to Mr. Pumblechook’s, the boy thought +the seedsman “a very happy man to have so many little +drawers in his shop.” The reflection is thoroughly +boyish; but then you add, “I wondered whether the +flower-seeds and bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of +those jails and bloom.” That is not boyish at all; +that is the hard-driven, jaded literary fancy at work.</p> +<p>“So we arraign her; but she,” the Genius of +Charles Dickens, how brilliant, how kindly, how beneficent she +is! dwelling by a fountain of laughter imperishable; though there +is something of an alien salt in the neighbouring fountain of +tears. How poor the world of fancy would be, how +“dispeopled of her dreams,” if, in some ruin of the +social system, the books of Dickens were lost; and if The Dodger, +and Charley Bates, and Mr. Crinkle, and Miss Squeers and Sam +Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and Dick Swiveller were to perish, or to +vanish with Menander’s men and women! We cannot think +of our world without them; and, children of dreams as they are, +they seem more essential than great statesmen, artists, soldiers, +who have actually worn flesh and blood, ribbons and orders, gowns +and uniforms. May we not almost welcome “Free +Education”? for every Englishman who can read, unless he be +an Ass, is a reader the more for you.</p> +<p>P.S.—Alas, how strangely are we tempered, and how strong +is the national bias! I have been saying things of you that +I would not hear an enemy say. When I read, in the +criticism of an American novelist, about your “hysterical +emotionality” (for he writes in American), and your +“waste of verbiage,” I am almost tempted to deny that +our Dickens has a single fault, to deem you impeccable!</p> +<h3><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>III.<br /> +<i>To Pierre de Ronsard</i><br /> +(<span class="GutSmall">PRINCE OF POETS</span>)</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Master And Prince of +Poets</span>,—As we know what choice thou madest of a +sepulchre (a choice how ill fulfilled by the jealousy of Fate), +so we know well the manner of thy chosen immortality. In +the Plains Elysian, among the heroes and the ladies of old song, +there was thy Love with thee to enjoy her paradise in an eternal +spring.</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Là du plaisant Avril la saison +immortelle</i><br /> + <i>Sans eschange le suit</i>,<br /> +<i>La terre sans labour, de sa grasse mamelle</i>,<br /> + <i>Toute chose y produit</i>;<br /> +<i>D’enbas la troupe sainte autrefois amoureuse</i>,<br /> + <i>Nous honorant sur tous</i>,<br /> +<i>Viendra nous saluer, s’estimant bien-heureuse</i><br /> + <i>De s’accointer de nous</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There thou dwellest, with the learned lovers of old days, with +Belleau, and Du Bellay, and Baïf, and the flower of the +maidens of Anjou. Surely no rumour reaches thee, in that +happy place of reconciled affections, no rumour of the rudeness +of Time, the despite of men, and the change which stole from thy +locks, so early grey, the crown of laurels and of thine own +roses. How different from thy choice of a sepulchre have +been the fortunes of thy tomb!</p> +<blockquote><p>I will that none should break<br /> +The marble for my sake,<br /> + Wishful to make more fair<br /> + My sepulchre!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So didst thou sing, or so thy sweet numbers run in my rude +English. Wearied of Courts and of priories, thou didst +desire a grave beside thine own Loire, not remote from</p> +<blockquote><p>The caves, the founts that fall<br /> +From the high mountain wall,<br /> + That fall and flash and fleet,<br /> + With silver feet.</p> +<p>Only a laurel tree<br /> +Shall guard the grave of me;<br /> + Only Apollo’s bough<br /> + Shall shade me now!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Far other has been thy sepulchre: not in the free air, among +the field flowers, but in thy priory of Saint Cosme, with marble +for a monument, and no green grass to cover thee. Restless +wert thou in thy life; thy dust was not to be restful in thy +death. The Huguenots, <i>ces nouveaux Chrétiens qui +la France ont pillée</i>, destroyed thy tomb, and the +warning of the later monument,</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">ABI, NEFASTE, QUAM CALCUS HUMUM SACRA +EST,</span></p> +</blockquote> +<p>has not scared away malicious men. The storm that passed +over France a hundred years ago, more terrible than the religious +wars that thou didst weep for, has swept the column from the +tomb. The marble was broken by violent hands, and the +shattered sepulchre of the Prince of Poets gained a dusty +hospitality from the museum of a country town. Better had +been the laurel of thy desire, the creeping vine, and the ivy +tree.</p> +<p>Scarce more fortunate, for long, than thy monument was thy +memory. Thou hast not encountered, Master, in the Paradise +of Poets, Messieurs Malherbe, De Balzac, and +Boileau—Boileau who spoke of thee as <i>Ce poète +orgueilleux trébuché de si haut</i>!</p> +<p>These gallant gentlemen, I make no doubt, are happy after +their own fashion, backbiting each other and thee in the Paradise +of Critics. In their time they wrought thee much evil, +grumbling that thou wrotest in Greek and Latin (of which tongues +certain of them had but little skill), and blaming thy many lyric +melodies and the free flow of thy lines. What said M. de +Balzac to M. Chapelain? “M. de Malherbe, M. de +Grasse, and yourself must be very little poets, if Ronsard be a +great one.” Time has brought in his revenges, and +Messieurs Chapelain and De Grasse are as well forgotten as thou +art well remembered. Men could not always be deaf to thy +sweet old songs, nor blind to the beauty of thy roses and thy +loves. When they took the wax out of their ears that M. +Boileau had given them lest they should hear the singing of thy +Sirens, then they were deaf no longer, then they heard the old +deaf poet singing and made answer to his lays. Hast thou +not heard these sounds? have they not reached thee, the voices +and the lyres of Théophile Gautier and Alfred de +Musset? Methinks thou hast marked them, and been glad that +the old notes were ringing again and the old French lyric +measures tripping to thine ancient harmonies, echoing and +replying to the Muses of Horace and Catullus. Returning to +Nature, poets returned to thee. Thy monument has perished, +but not thy music, and the Prince of Poets has returned to his +own again in a glorious Restoration.</p> +<p>Through the dust and smoke of ages, and through the centuries +of wars we strain our eyes and try to gain a glimpse of thee, +Master, in thy good days, when the Muses walked with thee. +We seem to mark thee wandering silent through some little +village, or dreaming in the woods, or loitering among thy lonely +places, or in gardens where the roses blossom among wilder +flowers, or on river banks where the whispering poplars and +sighing reeds make answer to the murmur of the waters. Such +a picture hast thou drawn of thyself in the summer +afternoons.</p> +<blockquote><p>Je m’en vais pourmener tantost parmy la +plaine,<br /> +Tantost en un village, et tantost en un bois,<br /> +Et tantost par les lieux solitaires et cois.<br /> +J’aime fort les jardins qui sentent le sauvage,<br /> +J’aime le flot de l’eau qui gazoüille au +rivage.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still, methinks, there was a book in the hand of the grave and +learned poet; still thou wouldst carry thy Horace, thy Catullus, +thy Theocritus, through the gem-like weather of the +<i>Renouveau</i>, when the woods were enamelled with flowers, and +the young Spring was lodged, like a wandering prince, in his +great palaces hung with green:</p> +<blockquote><p>Orgueilleux de ses fleurs, enflé de sa +jeunesse,<br /> +Logé comme un grand Prince en ses vertes maisons!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Thou sawest, in these woods by Loire side, the fair shapes of +old religion, Fauns, Nymphs, and Satyrs, and heard’st in +the nightingale’s music the plaint of Philomel. The +ancient poets came back in the train of thyself and of the +Spring, and learning was scarce less dear to thee than love; and +thy ladies seemed fairer for the names they borrowed from the +beauties of forgotten days, Helen and Cassandra. How +sweetly didst thou sing to them thine old morality, and how +gravely didst thou teach the lesson of the Roses! Well +didst thou know it, well didst thou love the Rose, since thy +nurse, carrying thee, an infant, to the holy font, let fall on +thee the sacred water brimmed with floating blossoms of the +Rose!</p> +<blockquote><p>Mignonne, allons voir si la Rose,<br /> +Qui ce matin avoit desclose<br /> +Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,<br /> +A point perdu ceste vespree<br /> +Les plis de sa robe pourpree,<br /> +Et son teint au votre pareil.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And again,</p> +<blockquote><p>La belle Rose du Printemps,<br /> +Aubert, admoneste les hommes<br /> +Passer joyeusement le temps,<br /> +Et pendant que jeunes nous sommes,<br /> +Esbattre la fleur de nos ans.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In the same mood, looking far down the future, thou sangest of +thy lady’s age, the most sad, the most beautiful of thy sad +and beautiful lays; for if thy bees gathered much honey +’twas somewhat bitter to taste, like that of the Sardinian +yews. How clearly we see the great hall, the grey lady +spinning and humming among her drowsy maids, and how they waken +at the word, and she sees her spring in their eyes, and they +forecast their winter in her face, when she murmurs +“’Twas Ronsard sang of me.”</p> +<p>Winter, and summer, and spring, how swiftly they pass, and how +early time brought thee his sorrows, and grief cast her dust upon +thy head.</p> +<blockquote><p>Adieu ma Lyre, adieu fillettes,<br /> +Jadis mes douces amourettes,<br /> +Adieu, je sens venir ma fin,<br /> +Nul passetemps de ma jeunesse<br /> +Ne m’accompagne en la vieillesse,<br /> +Que le feu, le lict et le vin.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Wine, and a soft bed, and a bright fire: to this trinity of +poor pleasures we come soon, if, indeed, wine be left to +us. Poetry herself deserts us; is it not said that Bacchus +never forgives a renegade? and most of us turn recreants to +Bacchus. Even the bright fire, I fear, was not always there +to warm thine old blood, Master, or, if fire there were, the wood +was not bought with thy book-seller’s money. When +autumn was drawing in during thine early old age, in 1584, didst +thou not write that thou hadst never received a sou at the hands +of all the publishers who vended thy books? And as thou +wert about putting forth thy folio edition of 1584, thou didst +pray Buon, the bookseller, to give thee sixty crowns to buy wood +withal, and make thee a bright fire in winter weather, and +comfort thine old age with thy friend Gallandius. And if +Buon will not pay, then to try the other booksellers, “that +wish to take everything and give nothing.”</p> +<p>Was it knowledge of this passage, Master, or ignorance of +everything else, that made certain of the common steadfast dunces +of our days speak of thee as if thou hadst been a starveling, +neglected poetaster, jealous forsooth of Maître +Françoys Rabelais? See how ignorantly M. Fleury +writes, who teaches French literature withal to them of Muscovy, +and hath indited a Life of Rabelais. “Rabelais +était revêtu d’un emploi honorable; Ronsard +était traité en subalterne,” quoth this +wondrous professor. What! Pierre de Ronsard, a +gentleman of a noble house, holding the revenue of many abbeys, +the friend of Mary Stuart, of the Duc d’Orléans, of +Charles IX., <i>he</i> is <i>traité en subalterne</i>, and +is jealous of a frocked or unfrocked <i>manant</i> like +Maître Françoys! And then this amazing Fleury +falls foul of thine epitaph on Maître Françoys and +cries, “Ronsard a voulu faire des vers méchants; il +n’a fait que de méchants vers.” More +truly saith M. Sainte-Beuve, “If the good Rabelais had +returned to Meudon on the day when this epitaph was made over the +wine, he would, methinks, have laughed heartily.” But +what shall be said of a Professor like the egregious M. Fleury, +who holds that Ronsard was despised at Court? Was there a +party at tennis when the king would not fain have had thee on his +side, declaring that he ever won when Ronsard was his +partner? Did he not give thee benefices, and many priories, +and call thee his father in Apollo, and even, so they say, bid +thee sit down beside him on his throne? Away, ye scandalous +folk, who tell us that there was strife between the Prince of +Poets and the King of Mirth. Naught have ye by way of proof +of your slander but the talk of Jean Bernier, a scurrilous, +starveling apothecary, who put forth his fables in 1697, a +century and a half after Maître Françoys died. +Bayle quoted this fellow in a note, and ye all steal the tattle +one from another in your dull manner, and know not whence it +comes, nor even that Bayle would none of it and mocked its +author. With so little knowledge is history written, and +thus doth each chattering brook of a “Life” swell +with its tribute “that great Mississippi of +falsehood,” Biography.</p> +<h2><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>IV.<br +/> +<i>To Herodotus</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">To</span> Herodotus of Halicarnassus, +greeting.—Concerning the matters set forth in your +histories, and the tales you tell about both Greeks and +Barbarians, whether they be true, or whether they be false, men +dispute not little but a great deal. Wherefore I, being +concerned to know the verity, did set forth to make search in +every manner, and came in my quest even unto the ends of the +earth. For there is an island of the Cimmerians beyond the +Straits of Heracles, some three days’ voyage to a ship that +hath a fair following wind in her sails; and there it is said +that men know many things from of old: thither, then, I came in +my inquiry. Now, the island is not small, but large, +greater than the whole of Hellas; and they call it Britain. +In that island the east wind blows for ten parts of the year, and +the people know not how to cover themselves from the cold. +But for the other two months of the year the sun shines fiercely, +so that some of them die thereof, and others die of the frozen +mixed drinks; for they have ice even in the summer, and this ice +they put to their liquor. Through the whole of this island, +from the west even to the east, there flows a river called +Thames: a great river and a laborious, but not to be likened to +the River of Egypt.</p> +<p>The mouth of this river, where I stepped out from my ship, is +exceedingly foul and of an evil savour by reason of the city on +the banks. Now this city is several hundred parasangs in +circumference. Yet a man that needed not to breathe the air +might go round it in one hour, in chariots that run under the +earth; and these chariots are drawn by creatures that breathe +smoke and sulphur, such as Orpheus mentions in his +“Argonautica,” if it be by Orpheus. The people +of the town, when I inquired of them concerning Herodotus of +Halicarnassus, looked on me with amazement, and went straightway +about their business—namely, to seek out whatsoever new +thing is coming to pass all over the whole inhabited world, and +as for things old, they take no keep of them.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, by diligence I learned that he who in this land +knew most concerning Herodotus was a priest, and dwelt in the +priests’ city on the river which is called the City of the +Ford of the Ox. But whether Io, when she wore a cow’s +shape, had passed by that way in her wanderings, and thence comes +the name of that city, I could not (though I asked all men I met) +learn aught with certainty. But to me, considering this, it +seemed that Io must have come thither. And now farewell to +Io.</p> +<p>To the City of the Priests there are two roads: one by land; +and one by water, following the river. To a well-girdled +man, the land journey is but one day’s travel; by the river +it is longer but more pleasant. Now that river flows, as I +said, from the west to the east. And there is in it a fish +called chub, which they catch; but they do not eat it, for a +certain sacred reason. Also there is a fish called trout, +and this is the manner of his catching. They build for this +purpose great dams of wood, which they call weirs. Having +built the weir they sit upon it with rods in their hands, and a +line on the rod, and at the end of the line a little fish. +There then they “sit and spin in the sun,” as one of +their poets says, not for a short time but for many days, having +rods in their hands and eating and drinking. In this wise +they angle for the fish called trout; but whether they ever catch +him or not, not having seen it, I cannot say; for it is not +pleasant to me to speak things concerning which I know not the +truth.</p> +<p>Now, after sailing and rowing against the stream for certain +days, I came to the City of the Ford of the Ox. Here the +river changes his name, and is called Isis, after the name of the +goddess of the Egyptians. But whether the Britons brought +the name from Egypt or whether the Egyptians took it from the +Britons, not knowing I prefer not to say. But to me it +seems that the Britons are a colony of the Egyptians, or the +Egyptians a colony of the Britons. Moreover, when I was in +Egypt I saw certain soldiers in white helmets, who were certainly +British. But what they did there (as Egypt neither belongs +to Britain nor Britain to Egypt) I know not, neither could they +tell me. But one of them replied to me in that line of +Homer (if the Odyssey be Homer’s), “We have come to a +sorry Cyprus, and a sad Egypt.” Others told me that +they once marched against the Ethiopians, and having defeated +them several times, then came back again, leaving their property +to the Ethiopians. But as to the truth of this I leave it +to every man to form his own opinion.</p> +<p>Having come into the City of the Priests, I went forth into +the street, and found a priest of the baser sort, who for a piece +of silver led me hither and thither among the temples, +discoursing of many things.</p> +<p>Now it seemed to me a strange thing that the city was empty, +and no man dwelling therein, save a few priests only, and their +wives, and their children, who are drawn to and fro in little +carriages dragged by women. But the priest told me that +during half the year the city was desolate, for that there came +somewhat called “The Long,” or “The Vac,” +and drave out the young priests. And he said that these did +no other thing but row boats, and throw balls from one to the +other, and this they were made to do, he said, that the young +priests might learn to be humble, for they are the proudest of +men. But whether he spoke truth or not I know not, only I +set down what he told me. But to anyone considering it, +this appears rather to jump with his story—namely, that the +young priests have houses on the river, painted of divers +colours, all of them empty.</p> +<p>Then the priest, at my desire, brought me to one of the +temples, that I might seek out all things concerning Herodotus +the Halicarnassian, from one who knew. Now this temple is +not the fairest in the city, but less fair and goodly than the +old temples, yet goodlier and more fair than the new temples; and +over the roof there is the image of an eagle made of +stone—no small marvel, but a great one, how men came to +fashion him; and that temple is called the House of Queens. +Here they sacrifice a boar once every year; and concerning this +they tell a certain sacred story which I know but will not +utter.</p> +<p>Then I was brought to the priest who had a name for knowing +most about Egypt, and the Egyptians, and the Assyrians, and the +Cappadocians, and all the kingdoms of the Great King. He +came out to me, being attired in a black robe, and wearing on his +head a square cap. But why the priests have square caps I +know, and he who has been initiated into the mysteries which they +call “Matric” knows, but I prefer not to tell. +Concerning the square cap, then, let this be sufficient. +Now, the priest received me courteously, and when I asked him, +concerning Herodotus, whether he were a true man or not, he +smiled and answered “Abu Goosh,” which, in the tongue +of the Arabians, means “The Father of Liars.” +Then he went on to speak concerning Herodotus, and he said in his +discourse that Herodotus not only told the thing which was not, +but that he did so wilfully, as one knowing the truth but +concealing it. For example, quoth he, “Solon never +went to see Croesus, as Herodotus avers; nor did those about +Xerxes ever dream dreams; but Herodotus, out of his abundant +wickedness, invented these things.”</p> +<p>“Now behold,” he went on, “how the curse of +the Gods falls upon Herodotus. For he pretends that he saw +Cadmeian inscriptions at Thebes. Now I do not believe there +were any Cadmeian inscriptions there: therefore Herodotus is most +manifestly lying. Moreover, this Herodotus never speaks of +Sophocles the Athenian, and why not? Because he, being a +child at school, did not learn Sophocles by heart: for the +tragedies of Sophocles could not have been learned at school +before they were written, nor can any man quote a poet whom he +never learned at school. Moreover, as all those about +Herodotus knew Sophocles well, he could not appear to them to be +learned by showing that he knew what they knew also.” +Then I thought the priest was making game and sport, saying first +that Herodotus could know no poet whom he had not learned at +school, and then saying that all the men of his time well knew +this poet, “about whom everyone was talking.” +But the priest seemed not to know that Herodotus and Sophocles +were friends, which is proved by this, that Sophocles wrote an +ode in praise of Herodotus.</p> +<p>Then he went on, and though I were to write with a hundred +hands (like Briareus, of whom Homer makes mention) I could not +tell you all the things that the priest said against Herodotus, +speaking truly, or not truly, or sometimes correctly and +sometimes not, as often befalls mortal men. For Herodotus, +he said, was chiefly concerned to steal the lore of those who +came before him, such as Hecatæus, and then to escape +notice as having stolen it. Also he said that, being +himself cunning and deceitful, Herodotus was easily beguiled by +the cunning of others, and believed in things manifestly false, +such as the story of the Phoenix-bird.</p> +<p>Then I spoke, and said that Herodotus himself declared that he +could not believe that story; but the priest regarded me +not. And he said that Herodotus had never caught a +crocodile with cold pig, nor did he ever visit Assyria, nor +Babylon, nor Elephantine; but, saying that he had been in these +lands, said that which was not true. He also declared that +Herodotus, when he travelled, knew none of the Fat Ones of the +Egyptians, but only those of the baser sort. And he called +Herodotus a thief and a beguiler, and “the same with intent +to deceive,” as one of their own poets writes. And, +to be short, Herodotus, I could not tell you in one day all the +charges which are now brought against you; but concerning the +truth of these things, <i>you</i> know, not least, but most, as +to yourself being guilty or innocent. Wherefore, if you +have anything to show or set forth whereby you may be relieved +from the burden of these accusations, now is the time. Be +no longer silent; but, whether through the Oracle of the Dead, or +the Oracle of Branchidæ, or that in Delphi, or Dodona, or +of Amphiaraus at Oropus, speak to your friends and lovers +(whereof I am one from of old) and let men know the very +truth.</p> +<p>Now, concerning the priests in the City of the Ford of the Ox, +it is to be said that of all men whom we know they receive +strangers most gladly, feasting them all day. Moreover, +they have many drinks, cunningly mixed, and of these the best is +that they call Archdeacon, naming it from one of the +priests’ offices. Truly, as Homer says (if the +Odyssey be Homer’s), “when that draught is poured +into the bowl then it is no pleasure to refrain.”</p> +<p>Drinking of this wine, or nectar, Herodotus, I pledge you, and +pour forth some deal on the ground, to Herodotus of +Halicarnassus, in the House of Hades.</p> +<p>And I wish you farewell, and good be with you. Whether +the priest spoke truly, or not truly, even so may such good +things betide you as befall dead men.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>V.<br +/> +<i>Epistle to Mr. Alexander Pope</i>.</h2> +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">From</span> mortal Gratitude, +decide, my Pope,<br /> +Have Wits Immortal more to fear or hope?<br /> +Wits toil and travail round the Plant of Fame,<br /> +Their Works its Garden, and its Growth their Aim,<br /> +Then Commentators, in unwieldy Dance,<br /> +Break down the Barriers of the trim Pleasance,<br /> +Pursue the Poet, like Actæon’s Hounds,<br /> +Beyond the fences of his Garden Grounds,<br /> +Rend from the singing Robes each borrowed Gem,<br /> +Rend from the laurel’d Brows the Diadem,<br /> +And, if one Rag of Character they spare,<br /> +Comes the Biographer, and strips it bare!</p> +<p>Such, Pope, has been thy Fortune, such thy Doom.<br /> +Swift the Ghouls gathered at the Poet’s Tomb,<br /> +With Dust of Notes to clog each lordly Line,<br /> +Warburton, Warton, Croker, Bowles, combine!<br /> +Collecting Cackle, Johnson condescends<br /> +To <i>interview</i> the Drudges of your Friends.<br /> +Thus though your Courthope holds your merits high,<br /> +And still proclaims your Poems <i>Poetry</i>,<br /> +Biographers, un-Boswell-like, have sneered,<br /> +And Dunces edit him whom Dunces feared!</p> +<p>They say, “what say they?” Not in vain You +ask;<br /> +To tell you what they say, behold my Task!<br /> +“Methinks already I your Tears survey”<br /> +As I repeat “the horrid Things they say.” <a +name="citation48a"></a><a href="#footnote48a" +class="citation">[48a]</a></p> +<p>Comes El-n first: I fancy you’ll agree<br /> +Not frenzied Dennis smote so fell as he;<br /> +For El-n’s Introduction, crabbed and dry,<br /> +Like Churchill’s Cudgel’s <a +name="citation48b"></a><a href="#footnote48b" +class="citation">[48b]</a> marked with <i>Lie</i>, and +<i>Lie</i>!</p> +<p>“Too dull to know what his own System meant,<br /> +Pope yet was skilled new Treasons to invent;<br /> +A Snake that puffed himself and stung his Friends,<br /> +Few Lied so frequent, for such little Ends;<br /> +His mind, like Flesh inflamed, <a name="citation49"></a><a +href="#footnote49" class="citation">[49]</a> was raw and sore,<br +/> +And still, the more he writhed, he stung the more!<br /> +Oft in a Quarrel, never in the Right,<br /> +His Spirit sank when he was called to fight.<br /> +Pope, in the Darkness mining like a Mole,<br /> +Forged on Himself, as from Himself he stole,<br /> +And what for Caryll once he feigned to feel,<br /> +Transferred, in Letters never sent, to Steele!<br /> +Still he denied the Letters he had writ,<br /> +And still mistook Indecency for Wit.<br /> +His very Grammar, so De Quincey cries,<br /> +‘Detains the Reader, and at times defies!’”</p> +<p>Fierce El-n thus: no Line escapes his Rage,<br /> +And furious Foot-notes growl ’neath every Page:<br /> +See St-ph-n next take up the woful Tale,<br /> +Prolong the Preaching, and protract the Wail!<br /> +“Some forage Falsehoods from the North and South,<br /> +But Pope, poor D-l, lied from Hand to Mouth; <a +name="citation50"></a><a href="#footnote50" +class="citation">[50]</a><br /> +Affected, hypocritical, and vain,<br /> +A Book in Breeches, and a Fop in Grain;<br /> +A Fox that found not the high Clusters sour,<br /> +The Fanfaron of Vice beyond his power,<br /> +Pope yet possessed”—(the Praise will make you +start)—<br /> +“Mean, morbid, vain, he yet possessed a Heart!<br /> +And still we marvel at the Man, and still<br /> +Admire his Finish, and applaud his Skill:<br /> +Though, as that fabled Barque, a phantom Form,<br /> +Eternal strains, nor rounds the Cape of Storm,<br /> +Even so Pope strove, nor ever crossed the Line<br /> +That from the Noble separates the Fine!”</p> +<p>The Learned thus, and who can quite reply,<br /> +Reverse the Judgment, and Retort the Lie?<br /> +You reap, in armèd Hates that haunt your Name,<br /> +Reap what you sowed, the Dragon’s Teeth of Fame:<br /> +You could not write, and from unenvious Time<br /> +Expect the Wreath that crowns the lofty Rhyme,<br /> +You still must fight, retreat, attack, defend,<br /> +And oft, to snatch a Laurel, lose a Friend!</p> +<p>The Pity of it! And the changing Taste<br /> +Of changing Time leaves half your Work a Waste!<br /> +My Childhood fled your Couplet’s clarion tone,<br /> +And sought for Homer in the Prose of Bohn.<br /> +Still through the Dust of that dim Prose appears<br /> +The Flight of Arrows and the Sheen of Spears;<br /> +Still we may trace what Hearts heroic feel,<br /> +And hear the Bronze that hurtles on the Steel!<br /> +But, ah, your Iliad seems a half-pretence,<br /> +Where Wits, not Heroes, prove their Skill in Fence,<br /> +And great Achilles’ Eloquence doth show<br /> +As if no Centaur trained him, but Boileau!</p> +<p>Again, your Verse is orderly,—and more,—<br /> +“The Waves behind impel the Waves before;”<br /> +Monotonously musical they glide,<br /> +Till Couplet unto Couplet hath replied.<br /> +But turn to Homer! How his Verses sweep!<br /> +Surge answers Surge and Deep doth call on Deep;<br /> +This Line in Foam and Thunder issues forth,<br /> +Spurred by the West or smitten by the North,<br /> +Sombre in all its sullen Deeps, and all<br /> +Clear at the Crest, and foaming to the Fall,<br /> +The next with silver Murmur dies away,<br /> +Like Tides that falter to Calypso’s Bay!</p> +<p>Thus Time, with sordid Alchemy and dread,<br /> +Turns half the Glory of your Gold to Lead;<br /> +Thus Time,—at Ronsard’s wreath that vainly +bit,—<br /> +Has marred the Poet to preserve the Wit,<br /> +Who almost left on Addison a stain,<br /> +Whose Knife cut cleanest with a poisoned pain,—<br /> +Yet Thou (strange Fate that clings to all of Thine!)<br /> +When most a Wit dost most a Poet shine.<br /> +In Poetry thy Dunciad expires,<br /> +When Wit has shot “her momentary Fires.”<br /> +’Tis Tragedy that watches by the Bed<br /> +“Where tawdry Yellow strove with dirty Red,”<br /> +And Men, remembering all, can scarce deny<br /> +To lay the Laurel where thine Ashes lie!</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>VI.<br +/> +<i>To Lucian of Samosata</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> what bower, oh Lucian, of your +rediscovered Islands Fortunate are you now reclining; the delight +of the fair, the learned, the witty, and the brave? In that +clear and tranquil climate, whose air breathes of “violet +and lily, myrtle, and the flower of the vine,”</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Where the daisies are rose-scented</i>,<br /> +<i>And the Rose herself has got</i><br /> +<i>Perfume which on earth is not</i>,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>among the music of all birds, and the wind-blown notes of +flutes hanging on the trees, methinks that your laughter sounds +most silvery sweet, and that Helen and fair Charmides are still +of your company. Master of mirth, and Soul the best +contented of all that have seen the world’s ways clearly, +most clear-sighted of all that have made tranquillity their +bride, what other laughers dwell with you, where the crystal and +fragrant waters wander round the shining palaces and the temples +of amethyst?</p> +<p>Heine surely is with you; if, indeed, it was not one Syrian +soul that dwelt among alien men, Germans and Romans, in the +bodily tabernacles of Heine and of Lucian. But he was +fallen on evil times and evil tongues; while Lucian, as witty as +he, as bitter in mockery, as happily dowered with the magic of +words, lived long and happily and honoured, imprisoned in no +“mattress-grave.” Without Rabelais, without +Voltaire, without Heine, you would find, methinks, even the joys +of your Happy Islands lacking in zest; and, unless Plato came by +your way, none of the ancients could meet you in the lists of +sportive dialogue.</p> +<p>There, among the vines that bear twelve times in the year, +more excellent than all the vineyards of Touraine, while the +song-birds bring you flowers from vales enchanted, and the shapes +of the Blessed come and go, beautiful in wind-woven raiment of +sunset hues; there, in a land that knows not age, nor winter, +midnight, nor autumn, nor noon, where the silver twilight of +summer-dawn is perennial, where youth does not wax spectre-pale +and die; there, my Lucian, you are crowned the Prince of the +Paradise of Mirth.</p> +<p>Who would bring you, if he had the power, from the banquet +where Homer sings: Homer, who, in mockery of commentators, past +and to come, German and Greek, informed you that he was by birth +a Babylonian? Yet, if you, who first wrote Dialogues of the +Dead, could hear the prayer of an epistle wafted to “lands +indiscoverable in the unheard-of West,” you might visit +once more a world so worthy of such a mocker, so like the world +you knew so well of old.</p> +<p>Ah, Lucian, we have need of you, of your sense and of your +mockery! Here, where faith is sick and superstition is +waking afresh; where gods come rarely, and spectres appear at +five shillings an interview; where science is popular, and +philosophy cries aloud in the market-place, and clamour does duty +for government, and Thais and Lais are names of power—here, +Lucian, is room and scope for you. Can I not imagine a new +“Auction of Philosophers,” and what wealth might be +made by him who bought these popular sages and lecturers at his +estimate, and vended them at their own?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Whom shall we put first up +to auction?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Zeus</span>: That German in spectacles; he +seems a highly respectable man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Ho, Pessimist, come down +and let the public view you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Zeus</span>: Go on, put him up and have +done with him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Who bids for the Life +Miserable, for extreme, complete, perfect, unredeemable +perdition? What offers for the universal extinction of the +species, and the collapse of the Conscious?</p> +<p>A <span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: He does not look at +all a bad lot. May one put him through his paces?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Certainly; try your +luck.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: What is your name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pessimist</span>: Hartmann.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: What can you teach +me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pessimist</span>: That Life is not worth +Living.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: Wonderful! Most +edifying! How much for this lot?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Two hundred pounds.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: I will write you a +cheque for the money. Come home, Pessimist, and begin your +lessons without more ado.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Attention! Here is a +magnificent article—the Positive Life, the Scientific Life, +the Enthusiastic Life. Who bids for a possible place in the +Calendar of the Future?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: What does he call +himself? he has a very French air.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hermes</span>: Put your own questions.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: What’s your +pedigree, my Philosopher, and previous performances?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Positivist</span>: I am by Rousseau out of +Catholicism, with a strain of the Evolution blood.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: What do you believe +in?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Positivist</span>: In Man, with a large +M.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: Not in individual +Man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Positivist</span>: By no means; not even +always in Mr. Gladstone. All men, all Churches, all +parties, all philosophies, and even the other sect of our own +Church, are perpetually in the wrong. Buy me, and listen to +me, and you will always be in the right.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: And, after this life, +what have you to offer me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Positivist</span>: A distinguished +position in the Choir Invisible; but not, of course, conscious +immortality.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Purchaser</span>: Take him away, and put +up another lot.</p> +<p>Then the Hegelian, with his Notion, and the Darwinian, with +his notions, and the Lotzian, with his Broad Church mixture of +Religion and Evolution, and the Spencerian, with that Absolute +which is a sort of a something, might all be offered with their +divers wares; and cheaply enough, Lucian, you would value them in +this auction of Sects. “There is but one way to +Corinth,” as of old; but which that way may be, oh master +of Hermotimus, we know no more than he did of old; and still we +find, of all philosophies, that the Stoic route is most to be +recommended. But we have our Cyrenaics too, though they are +no longer “clothed in purple, and crowned with flowers, and +fond of drink and of female flute-players.” Ah, here +too, you might laugh, and fail to see where the Pleasure lies, +when the Cyrenaics are no “judges of cakes” (nor of +ale, for that matter), and are strangers in the Courts of +Princes. “To despise all things, to make use of all +things, in all things to follow pleasure only:” that is not +the manner of the new, if it were the secret of the older +Hedonism.</p> +<p>Then, turning from the philosophers to the seekers after a +sign, what change, Lucian, would you find in them and their +ways? None; they are quite unaltered. Still our +Peregrinus, and our Peregrina too, come to us from the East, or, +if from the West, they take India on their way—India, that +secular home of drivelling creeds, and of religion in its +sacerdotage. Still they prattle of Brahmins and Buddhism; +though, unlike Peregrinus, they do not publicly burn themselves +on pyres, at Epsom Downs, after the Derby. We are not so +fortunate in the demise of our Theosophists; and our police, less +wise than the Hellenodicæ, would probably not permit the +Immolation of the Quack. Like your Alexander, they deal in +marvels and miracles, oracles and warnings. All such bogy +stories as those of your “Philopseudes,” and the +ghost of the lady who took to table-rapping because one of her +best slippers had not been burned with her body, are gravely +investigated by the Psychical Society.</p> +<p>Even your ignorant Bibliophile is still with us—the man +without a tinge of letters, who buys up old manuscripts +“because they are stained and gnawed, and who goes, for +proof of valued antiquity, to the testimony of the +book-worms.” And the rich Bibliophile now, as in your +satire, clothes his volumes in purple morocco and gay +<i>dorures</i>, while their contents are sealed to him.</p> +<p>As to the topics of satire and gay curiosity which occupy the +lady known as “Gyp,” and M. Halévy in his +“Les Petites Cardinal,” if you had not exhausted the +matter in your “Dialogues of Hetairai,” you would be +amused to find the same old traits surviving without a touch of +change. One reads, in Halévy’s French, of +Madame Cardinal, and, in your Greek, of the mother of Philinna, +and marvels that eighteen hundred years have not in one single +trifle altered the mould. Still the old shabby light-loves, +the old greed, the old luxury and squalor. Still the +unconquerable superstition that now seeks to tell fortunes by the +cards, and, in your time, resorted to the sorceress with her +magical “bull-roarer” or <i>turndun</i>. <a +name="citation64"></a><a href="#footnote64" +class="citation">[64]</a></p> +<p>Yes, Lucian, we are the same vain creatures of doubt and +dread, of unbelief and credulity, of avarice and pretence, that +you knew, and at whom you smiled. Nay, our very +“social question” is not altered. Do you not +write, in “The Runaways,” “The artisans will +abandon their workshops, and leave their trades, when they see +that, with all the labour that bows their bodies from dawn to +dark, they make a petty and starveling pittance, while men that +toil not nor spin are floating in Pactolus”?</p> +<p>They begin to see this again as of yore; but whether the end +of their vision will be a laughing matter, you, fortunate Lucian, +do not need to care. Hail to you, and farewell!</p> +<h2><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>VII.<br /> +<i>To Maître Françoys Rabelais</i>.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OF THE COMING OF THE +COQCIGRUES.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Master</span>,—In the Boreal and +Septentrional lands, turned aside from the noonday and the sun, +there dwelt of old (as thou knowest, and as Olaus voucheth) a +race of men, brave, strong, nimble, and adventurous, who had no +other care but to fight and drink. There, by reason of the +cold (as Virgil witnesseth), men break wine with axes. To +their minds, when once they were dead and gotten to Valhalla, or +the place of their Gods, there would be no other pleasure but to +swig, tipple, drink, and boose till the coming of that last +darkness and Twilight, wherein they, with their deities, should +do battle against the enemies of all mankind; which day they +rather desired than dreaded.</p> +<p>So chanced it also with Pantagruel and Brother John and their +company, after they had once partaken of the secret of the +<i>Dive Bouteille</i>. Thereafter they searched no longer; +but, abiding at their ease, were merry, frolic, jolly, gay, glad, +and wise; only that they always and ever did expect the awful +Coming of the Coqcigrues. Now concerning the day of that +coming, and the nature of them that should come, they knew +nothing; and for his part Panurge was all the more adread, as +Aristotle testifieth that men (and Panurge above others) most +fear that which they know least. Now it chanced one day, as +they sat at meat, with viands rare, dainty, and precious as ever +Apicius dreamed of, that there fluttered on the air a faint sound +as of sermons, speeches, orations, addresses, discourses, +lectures, and the like; whereat Panurge, pricking up his ears, +cried, “Methinks this wind bloweth from Midlothian,” +and so fell a trembling.</p> +<p>Next, to their aural orifices, and the avenues audient of the +brain, was borne a very melancholy sound as of harmoniums, hymns, +organ-pianos, psalteries, and the like, all playing different +airs, in a kind most hateful to the Muses. Then said +Panurge, as well as he might for the chattering of his teeth: +“May I never drink if here come not the Coqcigrues!” +and this saying and prophecy of his was true and inspired. +But thereon the others began to mock, flout, and gird at Panurge +for his cowardice. “Here am I!” cried Brother +John, “well-armed and ready to stand a siege; being +entrenched, fortified, hemmed-in and surrounded with great +pasties, huge pieces of salted beef, salads, fricassees, hams, +tongues, pies, and a wilderness of pleasant little tarts, +jellies, pastries, trifles, and fruits of all kinds, and I shall +not thirst while I have good wells, founts, springs, and sources +of Bordeaux wine, Burgundy, wine of the Champagne country, sack +and Canary. A fig for thy Coqcigrues!”</p> +<p>But even as he spoke there ran up suddenly a whole legion, or +rather army, of physicians, each armed with laryngoscopes, +stethoscopes, horoscopes, microscopes, weighing machines, and +such other tools, engines, and arms as they had who, after thy +time, persecuted Monsieur de Pourceaugnac! And they all, +rushing on Brother John, cried out to him, “Abstain! +Abstain!” And one said, “I have well diagnosed +thee, and thou art in a fair way to have the gout.” +“I never did better in my days,” said Brother +John. “Away with thy meats and drinks!” they +cried. And one said, “He must to Royat;” and +another, “Hence with him to Aix;” and a third, +“Banish him to Wiesbaden;” and a fourth, “Hale +him to Gastein;” and yet another, “To Barbouille with +him in chains!”</p> +<p>And while others felt his pulse and looked at his tongue, they +all wrote prescriptions for him like men mad. “For +thy eating,” cried he that seemed to be their leader, +“No soup!” “No soup!” quoth Brother +John; and those cheeks of his, whereat you might have warmed your +two hands in the winter solstice, grew white as lilies. +“Nay! and no salmon, nor any beef nor mutton! A +little chicken by times, <i>pericolo tuo</i>! Nor any game, +such as grouse, partridge, pheasant, capercailzie, wild duck; nor +any cheese, nor fruit, nor pastry, nor coffee, nor <i>eau de +vie</i>; and avoid all sweets. No veal, pork, nor made +dishes of any kind.” “Then what may I +eat?” quoth the good Brother, whose valour had oozed out of +the soles of his sandals. “A little cold bacon at +breakfast—no eggs,” quoth the leader of the strange +folk, “and a slice of toast without butter.” +“And for thy drink”—(“What?” gasped +Brother John)—“one dessert-spoonful of whisky, with a +pint of the water of Apollinaris at luncheon and dinner. No +more!” At this Brother John fainted, falling like a +great buttress of a hill, such as Taygetus or Erymanthus.</p> +<p>While they were busy with him, others of the frantic folk had +built great platforms of wood, whereon they all stood and spoke +at once, both men and women. And of these some wore red +crosses on their garments, which meaneth “Salvation;” +and others wore white crosses, with a little black button of +crape, to signify “Purity;” and others bits of blue +to mean “Abstinence.” While some of these +pursued Panurge others did beset Pantagruel; asking him very long +questions, whereunto he gave but short answers. Thus they +asked:—</p> +<p>Have ye Local Option here?—Pan.: What?</p> +<p>May one man drink if his neighbour be not athirst?—Pan.: +Yea!</p> +<p>Have ye Free Education?—Pan.: What?</p> +<p>Must they that have, pay to school them that have +not?—Pan.: Nay!</p> +<p>Have ye free land?—Pan.: What?</p> +<p>Have ye taken the land from the farmer, and given it to the +tailor out of work and the candlemaker masterless?—Pan.: +Nay!</p> +<p>Have your women folk votes?—Pan.: Bosh!</p> +<p>Have ye got religion?—Pan.: How?</p> +<p>Do you go about the streets at night, brawling, blowing a +trumpet before you, and making long prayers?—Pan.: Nay!</p> +<p>Have you manhood suffrage?—Pan.: Eh?</p> +<p>Is Jack as good as his master?—Pan.: Nay!</p> +<p>Have you joined the Arbitration Society?—Pan.: +<i>Quoy</i>?</p> +<p>Will you let another kick you, and will you ask his neighbour +if you deserve the same?—Pan.: Nay!</p> +<p>Do you eat what you list?—Pan.: Ay!</p> +<p>Do you drink when you are athirst?—Pan.: Ay!</p> +<p>Are you governed by the free expression of the popular +will?—Pan.: How?</p> +<p>Are you servants of priests, pulpits, and penny +papers?—Pan.: NO!</p> +<p>Now, when they heard these answers of Pantagruel they all +fell, some a weeping, some a praying, some a swearing, some an +arbitrating, some a lecturing, some a caucussing, some a +preaching, some a faith-healing, some a miracle-working, some a +hypnotising, some a writing to the daily press; and while they +were thus busy, like folk distraught, “reforming the +island,” Pantagruel burst out a laughing; whereat they were +greatly dismayed; for laughter killeth the whole race of +Coqcigrues, and they may not endure it.</p> +<p>Then Pantagruel and his company stole aboard a barque that +Panurge had ready in the harbour. And having provisioned +her well with store of meat and good drink, they set sail for the +kingdom of Entelechy, where, having landed, they were kindly +entreated; and there abide to this day; drinking of the sweet and +eating of the fat, under the protection of that intellectual +sphere which hath in all places its centre and nowhere its +circumference.</p> +<p>Such was their destiny; there was their end appointed, and +thither the Coqcigrues can never come. For all the air of +that land is full of laughter, which killeth Coqcigrues; and +there aboundeth the herb Pantagruelion. But for thee, +Master Françoys, thou art not well liked in this island of +ours, where the Coqcigrues are abundant, very fierce, cruel, and +tyrannical. Yet thou hast thy friends, that meet and drink +to thee, and wish thee well wheresoever thou hast found thy +<i>grand peut-être</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>VIII.<br /> +<i>To Jane Austen</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Madam</span>,—If to the enjoyments +of your present state be lacking a view of the minor infirmities +or foibles of men, I cannot but think (were the thought +permitted) that your pleasures are yet incomplete. +Moreover, it is certain that a woman of parts who has once +meddled with literature will never wholly lose her love for the +discussion of that delicious topic, nor cease to relish what (in +the cant of our new age) is styled “literary +shop.” For these reasons I attempt to convey to you +some inkling of the present state of that agreeable art which +you, madam, raised to its highest pitch of perfection.</p> +<p>As to your own works (immortal, as I believe), I have but +little that is wholly cheering to tell one who, among women of +letters, was almost alone in her freedom from a lettered +vanity. You are not a very popular author: your volumes are +not found in gaudy covers on every bookstall; or, if found, are +not perused with avidity by the Emmas and Catherines of our +generation. ’Tis not long since a blow was dealt (in +the estimation of the unreasoning) at your character as an author +by the publication of your familiar letters. The editor of +these epistles, unfortunately, did not always take your +witticisms, and he added others which were too unmistakably his +own. While the injudicious were disappointed by the absence +of your exquisite style and humour, the wiser sort were the more +convinced of your wisdom. In your letters (knowing your +correspondents) you gave but the small personal talk of the hour, +for them sufficient; for your books you reserved matter and +expression which are imperishable. Your admirers, if not +very numerous, include all persons of taste, who, in your favour, +are apt somewhat to abate the rule, or shake off the habit, which +commonly confines them to but temperate laudation.</p> +<p>’Tis the fault of all art to seem antiquated and faded +in the eyes of the succeeding generation. The manners of +your age were not the manners of to-day, and young gentlemen and +ladies who think Scott “slow,” think Miss Austen +“prim” and “dreary.” Yet, even +could you return among us, I scarcely believe that, speaking the +language of the hour, as you might, and versed in its habits, you +would win the general admiration. For how tame, madam, are +your characters, especially your favourite heroines! how limited +the life which you knew and described! how narrow the range of +your incidents! how correct your grammar!</p> +<p>As heroines, for example, you chose ladies like Emma, and +Elizabeth, and Catherine: women remarkable neither for the +brilliance nor for the degradation of their birth; women wrapped +up in their own and the parish’s concerns, ignorant of +evil, as it seems, and unacquainted with vain yearnings and +interesting doubts. Who can engage his fancy with their +match-makings and the conduct of their affections, when so many +daring and dazzling heroines approach and solicit his regard?</p> +<p>Here are princesses dressed in white velvet stamped with +golden fleurs-de-lys—ladies with hearts of ice and lips of +fire, who count their roubles by the million, their lovers by the +score, and even their husbands, very often, in figures of some +arithmetical importance. With these are the immaculate +daughters of itinerant Italian musicians—maids whose souls +are unsoiled amidst the contaminations of our streets, and whose +acquaintance with the art of Phidias and Praxiteles, of +Dædalus and Scopas, is the more admirable, because entirely +derived from loving study of the inexpensive collections vended +by the plaster-of-Paris man round the corner. When such +heroines are wooed by the nephews of Dukes, where are your Emmas +and Elizabeths? Your volumes neither excite nor satisfy the +curiosities provoked by that modern and scientific fiction, which +is greatly admired, I learn, in the United States, as well as in +France and at home.</p> +<p>You erred, it cannot be denied, with your eyes open. +Knowing Lydia and Kitty so intimately as you did, why did you +make of them almost insignificant characters? With Lydia +for a heroine you might have gone far; and, had you devoted three +volumes, and the chief of your time, to the passions of Kitty, +you might have held your own, even now, in the circulating +library. How Lyddy, perched on a corner of the roof, first +beheld her Wickham; how, on her challenge, he climbed up by a +ladder to her side; how they kissed, caressed, swung on gates +together, met at odd seasons, in strange places, and finally +eloped: all this might have been put in the mouth of a jealous +elder sister, say Elizabeth, and you would not have been less +popular than several favourites of our time. Had you cast +the whole narrative into the present tense, and lingered lovingly +over the thickness of Mary’s legs and the softness of +Kitty’s cheeks, and the blonde fluffiness of +Wickham’s whiskers, you would have left a romance still +dear to young ladies.</p> +<p>Or, again, you might entrance fair students still, had you +concentrated your attention on Mrs. Rushworth, who eloped with +Henry Crawford. These should have been the chief figures of +“Mansfield Park.” But you timidly decline to +tackle Passion. “Let other pens,” you write, +“dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious +subjects as soon as I can.” Ah, <i>there</i> is the +secret of your failure! Need I add that the vulgarity and +narrowness of the social circles you describe impair your +popularity? I scarce remember more than one lady of title, +and but very few lords (and these unessential) in all your +tales. Now, when we all wish to be in society, we demand +plenty of titles in our novels, at any rate, and we get lords +(and very queer lords) even from Republican authors, born in a +country which in your time was not renowned for its +literature. I have heard a critic remark, with a decided +air of fashion, on the brevity of the notice which your +characters give each other when they offer invitations to +dinner. “An invitation to dinner next day was +despatched,” and this demonstrates that your acquaintance +“went out” very little, and had but few +engagements. How vulgar, too, is one of your heroines, who +bids Mr. Darcy “keep his breath to cool his +porridge.” I blush for Elizabeth! It were +superfluous to add that your characters are debased by being +invariably mere members of the Church of England as by law +established. The Dissenting enthusiast, the open soul that +glides from Esoteric Buddhism to the Salvation Army, and from the +Higher Pantheism to the Higher Paganism, we look for in vain +among your studies of character. Nay, the very words I +employ are of unknown sound to you; so how can you help us in the +stress of the soul’s travailings?</p> +<p>You may say that the soul’s travailings are no affair of +yours; proving thereby that you have indeed but a lowly +conception of the duty of the novelist. I only remember one +reference, in all your works, to that controversy which occupies +the chief of our attention—the great controversy on +Creation or Evolution. Your Jane Bennet cries: “I +have no idea of there being so much Design in the world as some +persons imagine.” Nor do you touch on our mighty +social question, the Land Laws, save when Mrs. Bennet appears as +a Land Reformer, and rails bitterly against the cruelty “of +settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in +favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.” +There, madam, in that cruelly unjust performance, what a text you +had for a <i>tendenz-romanz</i>. Nay, you can allow Kitty +to report that a Private had been flogged, without introducing a +chapter on Flogging in the Army. But you formally declined +to stretch your matter out, here and there, “with solemn +specious nonsense about something unconnected with the +story.” No “padding” for Miss Austen! in +fact, madam, as you were born before Analysis came in, or +Passion, or Realism, or Naturalism, or Irreverence, or Religious +Open-mindedness, you really cannot hope to rival your literary +sisters in the minds of a perplexed generation. Your +heroines are not passionate, we do not see their red wet cheeks, +and tresses dishevelled in the manner of our frank young +Mænads. What says your best successor, a lady who +adds fresh lustre to a name that in fiction equals yours? +She says of Miss Austen: “Her heroines have a stamp of +their own. <i>They have a certain gentle self-respect and +humour and hardness of heart</i> . . . Love with them does not +mean a passion as much as an interest, deep and +silent.” I think one prefers them so, and that +Englishwomen should be more like Anne Elliot than Maggie +Tulliver. “All the privilege I claim for my own sex +is that of loving longest when existence or when hope is +gone,” said Anne; perhaps she insisted on a monopoly that +neither sex has all to itself. Ah, madam, what a relief it +is to come back to your witty volumes, and forget the follies of +to-day in those of Mr. Collins and of Mrs. Bennet! How +fine, nay, how noble is your art in its delicate reserve, never +insisting, never forcing the note, never pushing the sketch into +the caricature! You worked, without thinking of it, in the +spirit of Greece, on a labour happily limited, and exquisitely +organised. “Dear books,” we say, with Miss +Thackeray—“dear books, bright, sparkling with wit and +animation, in which the homely heroines charm, the dull hours +fly, and the very bores are enchanting.”</p> +<h2><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>IX.<br +/> +<i>To Master Isaak Walton</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Father Isaak</span>,—When I would be +quiet and go angling it is my custom to carry in my wallet thy +pretty book, “The Compleat Angler.” Here, +methinks, if I find not trout I shall find content, and good +company, and sweet songs, fair milkmaids, and country +mirth. For you are to know that trout be now scarce and +whereas he was ever a fearful fish, he hath of late become so +wary that none but the cunningest anglers may be even with +him.</p> +<p>It is not as it was in your time, Father, when a man might +leave his shop in Fleet Street, of a holiday, and, when he had +stretched his legs up Tottenham Hill, come lightly to meadows +chequered with waterlilies and lady-smocks, and so fall to his +sport. Nay, now have the houses so much increased, like a +spreading sore (through the breaking of that excellent law of the +Conscientious King and blessed Martyr, whereby building beyond +the walls was forbidden), that the meadows are all swallowed up +in streets. And as to the River Lea, wherein you took many +a good trout, I read in the news sheets that “its bed is +many inches thick in horrible filth, and the air for more than +half a mile on each side of it is polluted with a horrible, +sickening stench,” so that we stand in dread of a new +Plague, called the Cholera. And so it is all about London +for many miles, and if a man, at heavy charges, betake himself to +the fields, lo you, folk are grown so greedy that none will +suffer a stranger to fish in his water.</p> +<p>So poor anglers are in sore straits. Unless a man be +rich and can pay great rents, he may not fish in England, and +hence spring the discontents of the times, for the angler is full +of content, if he do but take trout, but if he be driven from the +waterside, he falls, perchance, into evil company, and cries out +to divide the property of the gentle folk. As many now do, +even among Parliament-men, whom you loved not, Father Isaak, +neither do I love them more than Reason and Scripture bid each of +us be kindly to his neighbour. But, behold, the causes of +the ill content are not yet all expressed, for even where a man +hath licence to fish, he will hardly take trout in our age, +unless he be all the more cunning. For the fish, harried +this way and that by so many of your disciples, is exceeding shy +and artful, nor will he bite at a fly unless it falleth lightly, +just above his mouth, and floateth dry over him, for all the +world like the natural <i>ephemeris</i>. And we may no +longer angle with worm for him, nor with penk or minnow, nor with +the natural fly, as was your manner, but only with the +artificial, for the more difficulty the more diversion. For +my part I may cry, like Viator in your book, “Master, I can +neither catch with the first nor second Angle: I have no +fortune.”</p> +<p>So we fare in England, but somewhat better north of the Tweed, +where trout are less wary, but for the most part small, except in +the extreme rough north, among horrid hills and lakes. +Thither, Master, as methinks you may remember, went Richard +Franck, that called himself <i>Philanthropus</i>, and was, as it +were, the Columbus of anglers, discovering for them a new +Hyperborean world. But Franck, doubtless, is now an angler +in the Lake of Darkness, with Nero and other tyrants, for he +followed after Cromwell, the man of blood, in the old riding +days. How wickedly doth Franck boast of that leader of the +giddy multitude, “when they raged, and became restless to +find out misery for themselves and others, and the rabble would +herd themselves together,” as you said, “and +endeavour to govern and act in spite of authority.” +So you wrote; and what said Franck, that recreant angler? +Doth he not praise “Ireton, Vane, Nevill, and Martin, and +the most renowned, valorous, and victorious conqueror, Oliver +Cromwell”? Natheless, with all his sins on his head, +this Franck discovered Scotland for anglers, and my heart turns +to him when he praises “the glittering and resolute streams +of Tweed.”</p> +<p>In those wilds of Assynt and Loch Rannoch, Father, we, thy +followers, may yet take trout, and forget the evils of the +times. But, to be done with Franck, how harshly he speaks +of thee and thy book. “For you may dedicate your +opinion to what scribbling putationer you please; the <i>Compleat +Angler</i> if you will, who tells you of a tedious fly story, +extravagantly collected from antiquated authors, such as Gesner +and Dubravius.” Again he speaks of “Isaac +Walton, whose authority to me seems alike authentick, as is the +general opinion of the vulgar prophet,” &c.</p> +<p>Certain I am that Franck, if a better angler than thou, was a +worse man, who, writing his “Dialogues Piscatorial” +or “Northern Memoirs” five years after the world +welcomed thy “Compleat Angler,” was jealous of thy +favour with the people, and, may be, hated thee for thy loyalty +and sound faith. But, Master, like a peaceful man avoiding +contention, thou didst never answer this blustering Franck, but +wentest quietly about thy quiet Lea, and left him his roaring +Brora and windy Assynt. How could this noisy man know +thee—and know thee he did, having argued with thee in +Stafford—and not love Isaak Walton? A pedant angler, +I call him, a plaguy angler, so let him huff away, and turn we to +thee and to thy sweet charm in fishing for men.</p> +<p>How often, studying in thy book, have I hummed to myself that +of Horace—</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Laudis amore tumes? Sunt certa piacula +quæ te</i><br /> +<i>Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So healing a book for the frenzy of fame is thy discourse on +meadows, and pure streams, and the country life. How +peaceful, men say, and blessed must have been the life of this +old man, how lapped in content, and hedged about by his own +humility from the world! They forget, who speak thus, that +thy years, which were many, were also evil, or would have seemed +evil to divers that had tasted of thy fortunes. Thou wert +poor, but that, to thee, was no sorrow, for greed of money was +thy detestation. Thou wert of lowly rank, in an age when +gentle blood was alone held in regard; yet thy virtues made thee +hosts of friends, and chiefly among religious men, bishops, and +doctors of the Church. Thy private life was not +unacquainted with sorrow; thy first wife and all her fair +children were taken from thee like flowers in spring, though, in +thine age, new love and new offspring comforted thee like +“the primrose of the later year.” Thy private +griefs might have made thee bitter, or melancholy, so might the +sorrows of the State and of the Church, which were deprived of +their heads by cruel men, despoiled of their wealth, the pious +driven, like thee, from their homes; fear everywhere, everywhere +robbery and confusion: all this ruin might have angered another +temper. But thou, Father, didst bear all with so much +sweetness as perhaps neither natural temperament, nor a firm +faith, nor the love of angling could alone have displayed. +For we see many anglers (as witness Richard Franck aforesaid) who +are angry men, and myself, when I get my hooks entangled at every +cast in a tree, have come nigh to swear prophane.</p> +<p>Also we see religious men that are sour and fanatical, no rare +thing in the party that professes godliness. But neither +private sorrow nor public grief could abate thy natural +kindliness, nor shake a religion which was not untried, but had, +indeed, passed through the furnace like fine gold. For if +we find not Faith at all times easy, because of the oppositions +of Science, and the searching curiosity of men’s minds, +neither was Faith a matter of course in thy day. For the +learned and pious were greatly tossed about, like worthy Mr. +Chillingworth, by doubts wavering between the Church of Rome and +the Reformed Church of England. The humbler folk, also, +were invited, now here, now there, by the clamours of fanatical +Nonconformists, who gave themselves out to be somebody, while +Atheism itself was not without many to witness to it. +Therefore, such a religion as thine was not, so to say, a mere +innocence of evil in the things of our Belief, but a reasonable +and grounded faith, strong in despite of oppositions. Happy +was the man in whom temper, and religion, and the love of the +sweet country and an angler’s pastime so conveniently +combined; happy the long life which held in its hand that +threefold clue through the labyrinth of human fortunes! +Around thee Church and State might fall in ruins, and might be +rebuilded, and thy tears would not be bitter, nor thy triumph +cruel.</p> +<p>Thus, by God’s blessing, it befell thee</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Nec turpem senectam</i><br /> +<i>Degere, nec cithara carentem</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I would, Father, that I could get at the verity about thy +poems. Those recommendatory verses with which thou didst +grace the Lives of Dr. Donne and others of thy friends, redound +more to the praise of thy kind heart than thy fancy. But +what or whose was the pastoral poem of “Thealma and +Clearchus,” which thou didst set about printing in 1678, +and gavest to the world in 1683? Thou gavest John Chalkhill +for the author’s name, and a John Chalkhill of thy kindred +died at Winchester, being eighty years of his age, in 1679. +Now thou speakest of John Chalkhill as “a friend of Edmund +Spenser’s,” and how could this be?</p> +<p>Are they right who hold that John Chalkhill was but a name of +a friend, borrowed by thee out of modesty, and used as a cloak to +cover poetry of thine own inditing? When Mr. Flatman writes +of Chalkhill, ’tis in words well fitted to thine own +merit:</p> +<blockquote><p>Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows<br /> +Except himself, who charitably shows<br /> +The ready road to virtue and to praise,<br /> +The road to many long and happy days.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>However it be, in that road, by quiet streams and through +green pastures, thou didst walk all thine almost century of +years, and we, who stray into thy path out of the highway of +life, we seem to hold thy hand, and listen to thy cheerful +voice. If our sport be worse, may our content be equal, and +our praise, therefore, none the less. Father, if Master +Stoddard, the great fisher of Tweedside, be with thee, greet him +for me, and thank him for those songs of his, and perchance he +will troll thee a catch of our dear River.</p> +<blockquote><p>Tweed! winding and wild! where the heart is +unbound,<br /> +They know not, they dream not, who linger around,<br /> +How the saddened will smile, and the wasted rewin<br /> +From thee—the bliss withered within.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Or perhaps thou wilt better love,</p> +<blockquote><p>The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,<br /> + And Manor wi’ its mountain rills,<br /> +An’ Etterick, whose waters twine<br /> + Wi’ Yarrow frae the forest hills;<br /> +An’ Gala, too, and Teviot bright,<br /> + An’ mony a stream o’ playfu’ +speed,<br /> +Their kindred valleys a’ unite<br /> + Amang the braes o’ bonnie Tweed!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So, Master, may you sing against each other, you two good old +anglers, like Peter and Corydon, that sang in your golden +age.</p> +<h2><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>X.<br +/> +<i>To M. Chapelain</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Monsieur</span>,—You were a popular +poet, and an honourable, over-educated, upright gentleman. +Of the latter character you can never be deprived, and I doubt +not it stands you in better stead where you are, than the laurels +which flourished so gaily, and faded so soon.</p> +<blockquote><p>Laurel is green for a season, and Love is fair for +a day,<br /> +But Love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not +May.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I know not if Mr. Swinburne is correct in his botany, but +<i>your</i> laurel certainly outlived not May, nor can we hope +that you dwell where Orpheus and where Homer are. Some +other crown, some other Paradise, we cannot doubt it, awaited +<i>un si bon homme</i>. But the moral excellence that even +Boileau admitted, <i>la foi, l’honneur, la +probité</i>, do not in Parnassus avail the popular poet, +and some luckless Glatigny or Théophile, Regnier or +Gilbert, attains a kind of immortality denied to the man of many +contemporary editions, and of a great commercial success.</p> +<p>If ever, for the confusion of Horace, any Poet was Made, you, +Sir, should have been that fortunately manufactured +article. You were, in matters of the Muses, the child of +many prayers. Never, since Adam’s day, have any +parents but yours prayed for a poet-child. Then Destiny, +that mocks the desires of men in general, and fathers in +particular, heard the appeal, and presented M. Chapelain and +Jeanne Corbière his wife with the future author of +“La Pucelle.” Oh futile hopes of men, <i>O +pectora cæca</i>! All was done that education could +do for a genius which, among other qualities, “especially +lacked fire and imagination,” and an ear for +verse—sad defects these in a child of the Muses. Your +training in all the mechanics and metaphysics of criticism might +have made you exclaim, like Rasselas, “Enough! Thou +hast convinced me that no human being can ever be a +Poet.” Unhappily, you succeeded in convincing +Cardinal Richelieu that to be a Poet was well within your powers, +you received a pension of one thousand crowns, and were made +Captain of the Cardinal’s Minstrels, as M. de +Tréville was Captain of the King’s Musketeers.</p> +<p>Ah, pleasant age to live in, when good intentions in poetry +were more richly endowed than ever is Research, even Research in +Prehistoric English, among us niggard moderns! How I wish I +knew a Cardinal, or even, as you did, a Prime Minister, who would +praise and pension <i>me</i>; but envy be still! Your +existence was made happy indeed; you constructed odes, corrected +sonnets, presided at the Hôtel Rambouillet, while the +learned ladies were still young and fair, and you enjoyed a +prodigious celebrity on the score of your yet unpublished +Epic. “Who, indeed,” says a sympathetic author, +M. Théophile Gautier, “who could expect less than a +miracle from a man so deeply learned in the laws of art—a +perfect Turk in the science of poetry, a person so well +pensioned, and so favoured by the great?” Bishops and +politicians combined in perfect good faith to advertise your +merits. Hard must have been the heart that could resist the +testimonials of your skill as a poet offered by the Duc de +Montausier, and the learned Huet, Bishop of Avranches, and +Monseigneur Godeau, Bishop of Vence, and M. Colbert, who had such +a genius for finance.</p> +<p>If bishops and politicians and Prime Ministers skilled in +finance, and some critics (Ménage and Sarrazin and +Vaugelas), if ladies of birth and taste, if all the world in +fact, combined to tell you that you were a great poet, how can we +blame you for taking yourself seriously, and appraising yourself +at the public estimate?</p> +<p>It was not in human nature to resist the evidence of the +bishops especially, and when every minor poet believes in himself +on the testimony of his own conceit, you may be acquitted of +vanity if you listened to the plaudits of your friends. +Nay, you ventured to pronounce judgment on +contemporaries—whom Posterity has preferred to your +perfections. “Molière,” said you, +“understands the genius of comedy, and presents it in a +natural style. The plot of his best pieces is borrowed, but +not without judgment; his <i>morale</i> is fair, and he has only +to avoid scurrility.”</p> +<p>Excellent, unconscious, popular Chapelain!</p> +<p>Of yourself you observed, in a Report on contemporary +literature, that your “courage and sincerity never allowed +you to tolerate work not absolutely good.” And yet +you regarded “La Pucelle” with some complacency.</p> +<p>On the “Pucelle” you were occupied during a +generation of mortal men. I marvel not at the length of +your labours, as you received a yearly pension till the Epic was +finished, but your Muse was no Alcmena, and no Hercules was the +result of that prolonged night of creation. First you +gravely wrote out all the composition in prose: the task occupied +you for five whole years. Ah, why did you not leave it in +that commonplace but appropriate medium? What says the +Précieuse about you in Boileau’s satire?</p> +<blockquote><p>In Chapelain, for all his foes have said,<br /> +She finds but one defect, he can’t be read;<br /> +Yet thinks the world might taste his Maiden’s woes,<br /> +If only he would turn his verse to prose!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The verse had been prose, and prose, perhaps, it should have +remained. Yet for this precious “Pucelle,” in +the age when “Paradise Lost” was sold for five +pounds, you are believed to have received about four +thousand. Horace was wrong, mediocre poets may exist (now +and then), and he was a wise man who first spoke of <i>aurea +mediocritas</i>. At length the great work was achieved, a +work thrice blessed in its theme, that divine Maiden to whom +France owes all, and whom you and Voltaire have recompensed so +strangely. In folio, in italics, with a score of portraits +and engravings, and <i>culs de lampe</i>, the great work was +given to the world, and had a success. Six editions in +eighteen months are figures which fill the poetic heart with envy +and admiration. And then, alas! the bubble burst. A +great lady, Madame de Longueville, hearing the +“Pucelle” read aloud, murmured that it was +“perfect indeed, but perfectly wearisome.” Then +the satires began, and the satirists never left you till your +poetic reputation was a rag, till the mildest Abbé at +Ménage’s had his cheap sneer for Chapelain.</p> +<p>I make no doubt, Sir, that envy and jealousy had much to do +with the onslaught on your “Pucelle.” These +qualities, alas! are not strange to literary minds; does not even +Hesiod tell us that “potter hates potter, and poet hates +poet”? But contemporary spites do not harm true +genius. Who suffered more than Molière from +cabals? Yet neither the court nor the town ever deserted +him, and he is still the joy of the world. I admit that his +adversaries were weaker than yours. What were Boursault and +Le Boulanger, and Thomas Corneille and De Visé, what were +they all compared to your enemy, Boileau? Brossette tells a +story which really makes a man pity you. You remember M. de +Puimorin, who, to be in the fashion, laughed at your once popular +Epic. “It is all very well,” said you, +“for a man to laugh who cannot even read.” +Whereon M. de Puimorin replied: “Qu’il n’avoit +que trop sû lire, depuis que Chapelain s’étoit +avisé de faire imprimer.” A new horror had +been added to the accomplishment of reading since Chapelain had +published. This repartee was applauded, and M. de Puimorin +tried to turn it into an epigram. He did complete the last +couplet,</p> +<blockquote><p>Hélas! pour mes péchés, je +n’ai sû que trop lire<br /> +Depuis que tu fais imprimer.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But by no labour would M. de Puimorin achieve the first two +lines of his epigram. Then you remember what great allies +came to his assistance. I almost blush to think that M. +Despréaux, M. Racine, and M. de Molière, the three +most renowned wits of the time, conspired to complete the poor +jest, and assail you. Well, bubble as your poetry was, you +may be proud that it needed all these sharpest of pens to prick +the bubble. Other poets, as popular as you, have been +annihilated by an article. Macaulay put forth his hand, and +“Satan Montgomery” was no more. It did not need +a Macaulay, the laughter of a mob of little critics was enough to +blow him into space; but you probably have met Montgomery, and of +contemporary failures or successes I do not speak.</p> +<p>I wonder, sometimes, whether the consensus of criticism ever +made you doubt for a moment whether, after all, you were not a +false child of Apollo? Was your complacency tortured, as +the complacency of true poets has occasionally been, by +doubts? Did you expect posterity to reverse the verdict of +the satirists, and to do you justice? You answered your +earliest assailant, Linière, and, by a few changes of +words, turned his epigrams into flattery. But I fancy, on +the whole, you remained calm, unmoved, wrapped up in admiration +of yourself. According to M. de Marivaux, who reviewed, as +I am doing, the spirits of the mighty dead, you “conceived, +on the strength of your reputation, a great and serious +veneration for yourself and your genius.” Probably +you were protected by the invulnerable armour of an honest +vanity, probably you declared that mere jealousy dictated the +lines of Boileau, and that Chapelain’s real fault was his +popularity, and his pecuniary success,</p> +<blockquote><p>Qu’il soit le mieux renté de tous les +beaux-esprits.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This, you would avow, was your offence, and perhaps you were +not altogether mistaken. Yet posterity declines to read a +line of yours, and, as we think of you, we are again set face to +face with that eternal problem, how far is popularity a test of +poetry? Burns was a poet: and popular. Byron was a +popular poet, and the world agrees in the verdict of their own +generations. But Montgomery, though he sold so well, was no +poet, nor, Sir, I fear, was your verse made of the stuff of +immortality. Criticism cannot hurt what is truly great; the +Cardinal and the Academy left Chimène as fair as ever, and +as adorable. It is only pinchbeck that perishes under the +acids of satire: gold defies them. Yet I sometimes ask +myself, does the existence of popularity like yours justify the +malignity of satire, which blesses neither him who gives, nor him +who takes? Are poisoned arrows fair against a bad +poet? I doubt it, Sir, holding that, even unpricked, a +poetic bubble must soon burst by its own nature. Yet satire +will assuredly be written so long as bad poets are successful, +and bad poets will assuredly reflect that their assailants are +merely envious, and (while their vogue lasts) that the purchasing +public is the only judge. After all, the bad poet who is +popular and “sells” is not a whit worse than the bad +poets who are unpopular, and who deride his songs.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Monsieur,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Votre très-humble serviteur, +&c.</p> +<h2><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>XI.<br /> +<i>To Sir John Maundeville</i>, <i>Kt.</i><br /> +(<span class="GutSmall">OF THE WAYS INTO YNDE</span>.)</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir John</span>,—Wit you well that +men holden you but light, and some clepen you a Liar. And +they say that you never were born in Englond, in the town of +Seynt Albones, nor have seen and gone through manye diverse +Londes. And there goeth an old knight at arms, and one that +connes Latyn, and hath been beyond the sea, and hath seen Prester +John’s country. And he hath been in an Yle that men +clepen Burmah, and there bin women bearded. Now men call +him Colonel Henry Yule, and he hath writ of thee in his great +booke, Sir John, and he holds thee but lightly. For he +saith that ye did pill your tales out of Odoric his book, and +that ye never saw snails with shells as big as houses, nor never +met no Devyls, but part of that ye say, ye took it out of William +of Boldensele his book, yet ye took not his wisdom, withal, but +put in thine own foolishness. Nevertheless, Sir John, for +the frailty of Mankynde, ye are held a good fellow, and a merry; +so now, come, let me tell you of the new ways into Ynde.</p> +<p>In that Lond they have a Queen that governeth all the Lond, +and all they ben obeyssant to her. And she is the Queen of +Englond; for Englishmen have taken all the Lond of Ynde. +For they were right good werryoures of old, and wyse, noble, and +worthy. But of late hath risen a new sort of Englishman +very puny and fearful, and these men clepen Radicals. And +they go ever in fear, and they scream on high for dread in the +streets and the houses, and they fain would flee away from all +that their fathers gat them with the sword. And this sort +men call Scuttleres, but the mean folk and certain of the baser +sort hear them gladly, and they say ever that Englishmen should +flee out of Ynde.</p> +<p>Fro Englond men gon to Ynde by many dyverse Contreyes. +For Englishmen ben very stirring and nymble. For they ben +in the seventh climate, that is of the Moon. And the Moon +(ye have said it yourself, Sir John, natheless, is it true) is of +lightly moving, for to go diverse ways, and see strange things, +and other diversities of the Worlde. Wherefore Englishmen +be lightly moving, and far wandering. And they gon to Ynde +by the great Sea Ocean. First come they to Gibraltar, that +was the point of Spain, and builded upon a rock; and there ben +apes, and it is so strong that no man may take it. +Natheless did Englishmen take it fro the Spanyard, and all to +hold the way to Ynde. For ye may sail all about Africa, and +past the Cape men clepen of Good Hope, but that way unto Ynde is +long and the sea is weary. Wherefore men rather go by the +Midland sea, and Englishmen have taken many Yles in that sea.</p> +<p>For first they have taken an Yle that is clept Malta; and +therein built they great castles, to hold it against them of +Fraunce, and Italy, and of Spain. And from this Ile of +Malta Men gon to Cipre. And Cipre is right a good Yle, and +a fair, and a great, and it hath 4 principal Cytees within +him. And at Famagost is one of the principal Havens of the +sea that is in the world, and Englishmen have but a lytel while +gone won that Yle from the Sarazynes. Yet say that sort of +Englishmen where of I told you, that is puny and sore adread, +that the Lond is poisonous and barren and of no avail, for that +Lond is much more hotter than it is here. Yet the +Englishmen that ben werryoures dwell there in tents, and the +skill is that they may ben the more fresh.</p> +<p>From Cypre, Men gon to the Lond of Egypte, and in a Day and a +Night he that hath a good wind may come to the Haven of +Alessandrie. Now the Lond of Egypt longeth to the Soudan, +yet the Soudan longeth not to the Lond of Egypt. And when I +say this, I do jape with words, and may hap ye understond me +not. Now Englishmen went in shippes to Alessandrie, and +brent it, and over ran the Lond, and their soudyours warred agen +the Bedoynes, and all to hold the way to Ynde. For it is +not long past since Frenchmen let dig a dyke, through the narrow +spit of lond, from the Midland sea to the Red sea, wherein was +Pharaoh drowned. So this is the shortest way to Ynde there +may be, to sail through that dyke, if men gon by sea.</p> +<p>But all the Lond of Egypt is clepen the Vale enchaunted; for +no man may do his business well that goes thither, but always +fares he evil, and therefore clepen they Egypt the Vale perilous, +and the sepulchre of reputations. And men say there that is +one of the entrees of Helle. In that Vale is plentiful lack +of Gold and Silver, for many misbelieving men, and many Christian +men also, have gone often time for to take of the Thresoure that +there was of old, and have pilled the Thresoure, wherefore there +is none left. And Englishmen have let carry thither great +store of our Thresoure, 9,000,000 of Pounds sterling, and whether +they will see it agen I misdoubt me. For that Vale is alle +fulle of Develes and Fiendes that men clepen Bondholderes, for +that Egypt from of olde is the Lond of Bondage. And +whatsoever Thresoure cometh into the Lond, these Devyls of +Bondholders grabben the same. Natheless by that Vale do +Englishmen go unto Ynde, and they gon by Aden, even to Kurrachee, +at the mouth of the Flood of Ynde. Thereby they send their +souldyours, when they are adread of them of Muscovy.</p> +<p>For, look you, there is another way into Ynde, and thereby the +men of Muscovy are fain to come, if the Englishmen let them +not. That way cometh by Desert and Wildernesse, from the +sea that is clept Caspian, even to Khiva, and so to Merv; and +then come ye to Zulfikar and Penjdeh, and anon to Herat, that is +called the Key of the Gates of Ynde. Then ye win the lond +of the Emir of the Afghauns, a great prince and a rich, and he +hath in his Thresoure more crosses, and stars, and coats that +captains wearen, than any other man on earth.</p> +<p>For all they of Muscovy, and all Englishmen maken him gifts, +and he keepeth the gifts, and he keepeth his own counsel. +For his lond lieth between Ynde and the folk of Muscovy, +wherefore both Englishmen and men of Muscovy would fain have him +friendly, yea, and independent. Wherefore they of both +parties give him clocks, and watches, and stars, and crosses, and +culverins, and now and again they let cut the throats of his men +some deal, and pill his country. Thereby they both set up +their rest that the Emir will be independent, yea, and +friendly. But his men love him not, neither love they the +English, nor the Muscovy folk, for they are worshippers of +Mahound, and endure not Christian men. And they love not +them that cut their throats, and burn their country.</p> +<p>Now they of Muscovy ben Devyls, and they ben subtle for to +make a thing seme otherwise than it is, for to deceive +mankind. Wherefore Englishmen putten no trust in them of +Muscovy, save only the Englishmen clept Radicals, for they make +as if they loved these Develes, out of the fear and dread of war +wherein they go, and would be slaves sooner than fight. But +the folk of Ynde know not what shall befall, nor whether they of +Muscovy will take the Lond, or Englishmen shall keep it, so that +their hearts may not enduren for drede. And methinks that +soon shall Englishmen and Muscovy folk put their bodies in +adventure, and war one with another, and all for the way to +Ynde.</p> +<p>But St. George for Englond, I say, and so enough; and may the +Seyntes hele thee, Sir John, of thy Gowtes Artetykes, that thee +tormenten. But to thy Boke I list not to give no +credence.</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>XII.<br /> +<i>To Alexandre Dumas</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—There are moments when +the wheels of life, even of such a life as yours, run slow, and +when mistrust and doubt overshadow even the most intrepid +disposition. In such a moment, towards the ending of your +days, you said to your son, M. Alexandre Dumas, “I seem to +see myself set on a pedestal which trembles as if it were founded +on the sands.” These sands, your uncounted volumes, +are all of gold, and make a foundation more solid than the +rock. As well might the singer of Odysseus, or the authors +of the “Arabian Nights,” or the first inventors of +the stories of Boccaccio, believe that their works were +perishable (their names, indeed, have perished), as the creator +of “Les Trois Mousquetaires” alarm himself with the +thought that the world could ever forget Alexandre Dumas.</p> +<p>Than yours there has been no greater nor more kindly and +beneficent force in modern letters. To Scott, indeed, you +owed the first impulse of your genius; but, once set in motion, +what miracles could it not accomplish? Our dear Porthos was +overcome, at last, by a super-human burden; but your imaginative +strength never found a task too great for it. What an +extraordinary vigour, what health, what an overflow of force was +yours! It is good, in a day of small and laborious +ingenuities, to breathe the free air of your books, and dwell in +the company of Dumas’s men—so gallant, so frank, so +indomitable, such swordsmen, and such trenchermen. Like M. +de Rochefort in “Vingt Ans Après,” like that +prisoner of the Bastille, your genius “n’est que +d’un parti, c’est du parti du grand air.”</p> +<p>There seems to radiate from you a still persistent energy and +enjoyment; in that current of strength not only your characters +live, frolic, kindly, and sane, but even your very collaborators +were animated by the virtue which went out of you. How else +can we explain it, the dreary charge which feeble and envious +tongues have brought against you, in England and at home? +They say you employed in your novels and dramas that vicarious +aid which, in the slang of the studio, the +“sculptor’s ghost” is fabled to afford.</p> +<p>Well, let it be so; these ghosts, when uninspired by you, were +faint and impotent as “the strengthless tribes of the +dead” in Homer’s Hades, before Odysseus had poured +forth the blood that gave them a momentary valour. It was +from you and your inexhaustible vitality that these collaborating +spectres drew what life they possessed; and when they parted from +you they shuddered back into their nothingness. Where are +the plays, where the romances which Maquet and the rest wrote in +their own strength? They are forgotten with last +year’s snows; they have passed into the wide waste-paper +basket of the world. You say of D’Artagnan, when +severed from his three friends—from Porthos, Athos, and +Aramis—“he felt that he could do nothing, save on the +condition that each of these companions yielded to him, if one +may so speak, a share of that electric fluid which was his gift +from heaven.”</p> +<p>No man of letters ever had so great a measure of that gift as +you; none gave of it more freely to all who came—to the +chance associate of the hour, as to the characters, all so burly +and full-blooded, who flocked from your brain. Thus it was +that you failed when you approached the supernatural. Your +ghosts had too much flesh and blood, more than the living persons +of feebler fancies. A writer so fertile, so rapid, so +masterly in the ease with which he worked, could not escape the +reproaches of barren envy. Because you overflowed with wit, +you could not be “serious;” because you created with +a word, you were said to scamp your work; because you were never +dull, never pedantic, incapable of greed, you were to be censured +as desultory, inaccurate, and prodigal.</p> +<p>A generation suffering from mental and physical +anæmia—a generation devoted to the “chiselled +phrase,” to accumulated “documents,” to +microscopic porings over human baseness, to minute and disgustful +records of what in humanity is least human—may readily +bring these unregarded and railing accusations. Like one of +the great and good-humoured Giants of Rabelais, you may hear the +murmurs from afar, and smile with disdain. To you, who can +amuse the world—to you who offer it the fresh air of the +highway, the battlefield, and the sea—the world must always +return: escaping gladly from the boudoirs and the <i>bouges</i>, +from the surgeries and hospitals, and dead rooms, of M. Daudet +and M. Zola and of the wearisome De Goncourt.</p> +<p>With all your frankness, and with that queer morality of the +Camp which, if it swallows a camel now and again, never strains +at a gnat, how healthy and wholesome, and even pure, are your +romances! You never gloat over sin, nor dabble with an ugly +curiosity in the corruptions of sense. The passions in your +tales are honourable and brave, the motives are clearly +human. Honour, Love, Friendship make the threefold cord, +the clue your knights and dames follow through how delightful a +labyrinth of adventures! Your greatest books, I take the +liberty to maintain, are the Cycle of the Valois (“La Reine +Margot,” “La Dame de Montsoreau,” “Les +Quarante-cinq”), and the Cycle of Louis Treize and Louis +Quatorze (“Les Trois Mousquetaires,” “Vingt Ans +Après,” “Le Vicomte de Bragelonne”); +and, beside these two trilogies—a lonely monument, like the +sphinx hard by the three pyramids—“Monte +Cristo.”</p> +<p>In these romances how easy it would have been for you to burn +incense to that great goddess, Lubricity, whom our critic says +your people worship. You had Brantôme, you had +Tallemant, you had Rétif, and a dozen others, to furnish +materials for scenes of voluptuousness and of blood that would +have outdone even the present <i>naturalistes</i>. From +these alcoves of “Les Dames Galantes,” and from the +torture chambers (M. Zola would not have spared us one starting +sinew of brave La Mole on the rack) you turned, as Scott would +have turned, without a thought of their profitable literary +uses. You had other metal to work on: you gave us that +superstitious and tragical true love of La Mole’s, that +devotion—how tender and how pure!—of Bussy for the +Dame de Montsoreau. You gave us the valour of +D’Artagnan, the strength of Porthos, the melancholy +nobility of Athos: Honour, Chivalry, and Friendship. I +declare your characters are real people to me and old +friends. I cannot bear to read the end of +“Bragelonne,” and to part with them for ever. +“Suppose Porthos, Athos, and Aramis should enter with a +noiseless swagger, curling their moustaches.” How we +would welcome them, forgiving D’Artagnan even his hateful +<i>fourberie</i> in the case of Milady. The brilliance of +your dialogue has never been approached: there is wit everywhere; +repartees glitter and ring like the flash and clink of +small-swords. Then what duels are yours! and what +inimitable battle-pieces! I know four good fights of one +against a multitude, in literature. These are the Death of +Gretir the Strong, the Death of Gunnar of Lithend, the Death of +Hereward the Wake, the Death of Bussy d’Amboise. We +can compare the strokes of the heroic fighting-times with those +described in later days; and, upon my word, I do not know that +the short sword of Gretir, or the bill of Skarphedin, or the bow +of Gunnar was better wielded than the rapier of your Bussy or the +sword and shield of Kingsley’s Hereward.</p> +<p>They say your fencing is unhistorical; no doubt it is so, and +you knew it. La Mole could not have lunged on Coconnas +“after deceiving circle;” for the parry was not +invented except by your immortal Chicot, a genius in advance of +his time. Even so Hamlet and Laertes would have fought with +shields and axes, not with small swords. But what matters +this pedantry? In your works we hear the Homeric Muse +again, rejoicing in the clash of steel; and even, at times, your +very phrases are unconsciously Homeric.</p> +<p>Look at these men of murder, on the Eve of St. Bartholomew, +who flee in terror from the Queen’s chamber, and +“find the door too narrow for their flight:” the very +words were anticipated in a line of the “Odyssey” +concerning the massacre of the Wooers. And the picture of +Catherine de Médicis, prowling “like a wolf among +the bodies and the blood,” in a passage of the +Louvre—the picture is taken unwittingly from the +“Iliad.” There was in you that reserve of +primitive force, that epic grandeur and simplicity of +diction. This is the force that animates “Monte +Cristo,” the earlier chapters, the prison, and the +escape. In later volumes of that romance, methinks, you +stoop your wing. Of your dramas I have little room, and +less skill, to speak. “Antony,” they tell me, +was “the greatest literary event of its time,” was a +restoration of the stage. “While Victor Hugo needs +the cast-off clothes of history, the wardrobe and costume, the +sepulchre of Charlemagne, the ghost of Barbarossa, the coffins of +Lucretia Borgia, Alexandre Dumas requires no more than a room in +an inn, where people meet in riding cloaks, to move the soul with +the last degree of terror and of pity.”</p> +<p>The reproach of being amusing has somewhat dimmed your +fame—for a moment. The shadow of this tyranny will +soon be overpast; and when “La Curée” and +“Pot-Bouille” are more forgotten than “Le Grand +Cyrus,” men and women—and, above all, boys—will +laugh and weep over the page of Alexandre Dumas. Like Scott +himself, you take us captive in our childhood. I remember a +very idle little boy who was busy with the “Three +Musketeers” when he should have been occupied with +“Wilkins’s Latin Prose.” “Twenty +years after” (alas! and more) he is still constant to that +gallant company; and, at this very moment, is breathlessly +wondering whether Grimaud will steal M. de Beaufort out of the +Cardinal’s prison.</p> +<h2><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>XIII.<br /> +<i>To Theocritus</i>.</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, methinks, is the +whispering sound of yonder pine-tree,” so, Theocritus, with +that sweet word ἁδύ, didst thou begin and +strike the keynote of thy songs. “Sweet,” and +didst thou find aught of sweet, when thou, like thy Daphnis, +didst “go down the stream, when the whirling wave closed +over the man the Muses loved, the man not hated of the +Nymphs”? Perchance below those waters of death thou +didst find, like thine own Hylas, the lovely Nereids waiting +thee, Eunice, and Malis, and Nycheia with her April eyes. +In the House of Hades, Theocritus, doth there dwell aught that is +fair, and can the low light on the fields of asphodel make thee +forget thy Sicily? Nay, methinks thou hast not forgotten, +and perchance for poets dead there is prepared a place more +beautiful than their dreams. It was well for the later +minstrels of another day, it was well for Ronsard and Du Bellay +to desire a dim Elysium of their own, where the sunlight comes +faintly through the shadow of the earth, where the poplars are +duskier, and the waters more pale than in the meadows of +Anjou.</p> +<p>There, in that restful twilight, far remote from war and plot, +from sword and fire, and from religions that sharpened the steel +and lit the torch, there these learned singers would fain have +wandered with their learned ladies, satiated with life and in +love with an unearthly quiet. But to thee, Theocritus, no +twilight of the Hollow Land was dear, but the high suns of Sicily +and the brown cheeks of the country maidens were happiness +enough. For thee, therefore, methinks, surely is reserved +an Elysium beneath the summer of a far-off system, with stars not +ours and alien seasons. There, as Bion prayed, shall +Spring, the thrice desirable, be with thee the whole year +through, where there is neither frost, nor is the heat so heavy +on men, but all is fruitful, and all sweet things blossom, and +evenly meted are darkness and dawn. Space is wide, and +there be many worlds, and suns enow, and the Sun-god surely has +had a care of his own. Little didst thou need, in thy +native land, the isle of the three capes, little didst thou need +but sunlight on land and sea. Death can have shown thee +naught dearer than the fragrant shadow of the pines, where the +dry needles of the fir are strewn, or glades where feathered +ferns make “a couch more soft than Sleep.” The +short grass of the cliffs, too, thou didst love, where thou +wouldst lie, and watch, with the tunny watcher till the deep blue +sea was broken by the burnished sides of the tunny shoal, and +afoam with their gambols in the brine. There the Muses met +thee, and the Nymphs, and there Apollo, remembering his old +thraldom with Admetus, would lead once more a mortal’s +flocks, and listen and learn, Theocritus, while thou, like thine +own Comatas, “didst sweetly sing.”</p> +<p>There, methinks, I see thee as in thy happy days, +“reclined on deep beds of fragrant lentisk, lowly strewn, +and rejoicing in new stript leaves of the vine, while far above +thy head waved many a poplar, many an elm-tree, and close at hand +the sacred waters sang from the mouth of the cavern of the +nymphs.” And when night came, methinks thou wouldst +flee from the merry company and the dancing girls, from the +fading crowns of roses or white violets, from the cottabos, and +the minstrelsy, and the Bibline wine, from these thou wouldst +slip away into the summer night. Then the beauty of life +and of the summer would keep thee from thy couch, and wandering +away from Syracuse by the sandhills and the sea, thou wouldst +watch the low cabin, roofed with grass, where the fishing-rods of +reed were leaning against the door, while the Mediterranean +floated up her waves, and filled the waste with sound. +There didst thou see thine ancient fishermen rising ere the dawn +from their bed of dry seaweed, and heardst them stirring, drowsy, +among their fishing gear, and heardst them tell their dreams.</p> +<p>Or again thou wouldst wander with dusty feet through the ways +that the dust makes silent, while the breath of the kine, as they +were driven forth with the morning, came fresh to thee, and the +trailing dewy branch of honeysuckle struck sudden on thy +cheek. Thou wouldst see the Dawn awake in rose and saffron +across the waters, and Etna, grey and pale against the sky, and +the setting crescent would dip strangely in the glow, on her way +to the sea. Then, methinks, thou wouldst murmur, like thine +own Simaetha, the love-lorn witch, “Farewell, Selene, +bright and fair; farewell, ye other stars, that follow the wheels +of the quiet Night.” Nay, surely it was in such an +hour that thou didst behold the girl as she burned the laurel +leaves and the barley grain, and melted the waxen image, and +called on Selene to bring her lover home. Even so, even +now, in the islands of Greece, the setting Moon may listen to the +prayers of maidens. ‘Bright golden Moon, that now art +near the waters, go thou and salute my lover, he that stole my +love, and that kissed me, saying “Never will I leave +thee.” And lo, he hath left me as men leave a field +reaped and gleaned, like a church where none cometh to pray, like +a city desolate.’</p> +<p>So the girls still sing in Greece, for though the Temples have +fallen, and the wandering shepherds sleep beneath the broken +columns of the god’s house in Selinus, yet these ancient +fires burn still to the old divinities in the shrines of the +hearths of the peasants. It is none of the new creeds that +cry, in the dirge of the Sicilian shepherds of our time, +“Ah, light of mine eyes, what gift shall I send thee, what +offering to the other world? The apple fadeth, the quince +decayeth, and one by one they perish, the petals of the +rose. I will send thee my tears shed on a napkin, and what +though it burneth in the flame, if my tears reach thee at the +last.”</p> +<p>Yes, little is altered, Theocritus, on these shores beneath +the sun, where thou didst wear a tawny skin stripped from the +roughest of he-goats, and about thy breast an old cloak buckled +with a plaited belt. Thou wert happier there, in Sicily, +methinks, and among vines and shadowy lime-trees of Cos, than in +the dust, and heat, and noise of Alexandria. What love of +fame, what lust of gold tempted thee away from the red cliffs, +and grey olives, and wells of black water wreathed with +maidenhair?</p> +<blockquote><p> The music of +thy rustic flute<br /> +Kept not for long its happy country tone;<br /> + Lost it too soon, and learned a stormy note<br /> +Of men contention tost, of men who groan,<br /> + Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy +throat—<br /> + It failed, and thou wast mute!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What hadst thou to make in cities, and what could Ptolemies +and Princes give thee better than the goat-milk cheese and the +Ptelean wine? Thy Muses were meant to be the delight of +peaceful men, not of tyrants and wealthy merchants, to whom they +vainly went on a begging errand. “Who will open his +door and gladly receive our Muses within his house, who is there +that will not send them back again without a gift? And they +with naked feet and looks askance come homewards, and sorely they +upbraid me when they have gone on a vain journey, and listless +again in the bottom of their empty coffer they dwell with heads +bowed over their chilly knees, where is their drear abode, when +portionless they return.” How far happier was the +prisoned goat-herd, Comatas, in the fragrant cedar chest where +the blunt-faced bees from the meadow fed him with food of tender +flowers, because still the Muse dropped sweet nectar on his +lips!</p> +<p>Thou didst leave the neat-herds and the kine, and the oaks of +Himera, the galingale hummed over by the bees, and the pine that +dropped her cones, and Amaryllis in her cave, and Bombyca with +her feet of carven ivory. Thou soughtest the City, and +strife with other singers, and the learned write still on thy +quarrels with Apollonius and Callimachus, and Antagoras of +Rhodes. So ancient are the hatreds of poets, envy, +jealousy, and all unkindness.</p> +<p>Not to the wits of Courts couldst thou teach thy rural song, +though all these centuries, more than two thousand years, they +have laboured to vie with thee. There has come no new +pastoral poet, though Virgil copied thee, and Pope, and Phillips, +and all the buckram band of the teacup time; and all the modish +swains of France have sung against thee, as the <i>sow challenged +Athene</i>. They never knew the shepherd’s life, the +long winter nights on dried heather by the fire, the long summer +days, when over the parched grass all is quiet, and only the +insects hum, and the shrunken burn whispers a silver tune. +Swains in high-heeled shoon, and lace, shepherdesses in rouge and +diamonds, the world is weary of all concerning them, save their +images in porcelain, effigies how unlike thy golden figures, +dedicate to Aphrodite, of Bombyca and Battus! Somewhat, +Theocritus, thou hast to answer for, thou that first of men +brought the shepherd to Court, and made courtiers wild to go a +Maying with the shepherds.</p> +<h2><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>XIV.<br /> +<i>To Edgar Allan Poe</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Your English readers, +better acquainted with your poems and romances than with your +criticisms, have long wondered at the indefatigable hatred which +pursues your memory. You, who knew the men, will not marvel +that certain microbes of letters, the survivors of your own +generation, still harass your name with their malevolence, while +old women twitter out their incredible and unheeded slanders in +the literary papers of New York. But their persistent +animosity does not quite suffice to explain the dislike with +which many American critics regard the greatest poet, perhaps the +greatest literary genius, of their country. With a +commendable patriotism, they are not apt to rate native merit too +low; and you, I think, are the only example of an American +prophet almost without honour in his own country.</p> +<p>The recent publication of a cold, careful, and in many +respects admirable study of your career (“Edgar Allan +Poe,” by George Woodberry: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., +Boston) reminds English readers who have forgotten it, and +teaches those who never knew it, that you were, unfortunately, a +Reviewer. How unhappy were the necessities, how deplorable +the vein, that compelled or seduced a man of your eminence into +the dusty and stony ways of contemporary criticism! About +the writers of his own generation a leader of that generation +should hold his peace. He should neither praise nor blame +nor defend his equals; he should not strike one blow at the +buzzing ephemeræ of letters. The breath of their life +is in the columns of “Literary Gossip;” and they +should be allowed to perish with the weekly advertisements on +which they pasture. Reviewing, of course, there must needs +be; but great minds should only criticise the great who have +passed beyond the reach of eulogy or fault-finding.</p> +<p>Unhappily, taste and circumstances combined to make you a +censor; you vexed a continent, and you are still +unforgiven. What “irritation of a sensitive nature, +chafed by some indefinite sense of wrong,” drove you (in +Mr. Longfellow’s own words) to attack his pure and +beneficent Muse we may never ascertain. But Mr. Longfellow +forgave you easily; for pardon comes easily to the great. +It was the smaller men, the Daweses, Griswolds, and the like, +that knew not how to forget. “The New Yorkers never +forgave him,” says your latest biographer; and one scarcely +marvels at the inveteracy of their malice. It was not +individual vanity alone, but the whole literary class that you +assailed. “As a literary people,” you wrote, +“we are one vast perambulating humbug.” After +that declaration of war you died, and left your reputation to the +vanities yet writhing beneath your scorn. They are writhing +and writing still. He who knows them need not linger over +the attacks and defences of your personal character; he will not +waste time on calumnies, tale-bearing, private letters, and all +the noisome dust which takes so long in settling above your +tomb.</p> +<p>For us it is enough to know that you were compelled to live by +your pen, and that in an age when the author of “To +Helen” and “The Cask of Amontillado” was paid +at the rate of a dollar a column. When such poverty was the +mate of such pride as yours, a misery more deep than that of +Burns, an agony longer than Chatterton’s, were inevitable +and assured. No man was less fortunate than you in the +moment of his birth—<i>infelix opportunitate +vitæ</i>. Had you lived a generation later, honour, +wealth, applause, success in Europe and at home, would all have +been yours. Within thirty years so great a change has +passed over the profession of letters in America; and it is +impossible to estimate the rewards which would have fallen to +Edgar Poe, had chance made him the contemporary of Mark Twain and +of “Called Back.” It may be that your +criticisms helped to bring in the new era, and to lift letters +out of the reach of quite unlettered scribblers. Though not +a scholar, at least you had a respect for scholarship. You +might still marvel over such words as “objectional” +in the new biography of yourself, and might ask what is meant by +such a sentence as “his connection with it had inured to +his own benefit by the frequent puffs of himself,” and so +forth.</p> +<p>Best known in your own day as a critic, it is as a poet and a +writer of short tales that you must live. But to discuss +your few and elaborate poems is a waste of time, so completely +does your own brief definition of poetry, “the rhythmic +creation of the beautiful,” exhaust your theory, and so +perfectly is the theory illustrated by the poems. Natural +bent, and reaction against the example of Mr. Longfellow, +combined to make you too intolerant of what you call the +“didactic” element in verse. Even if morality +be not seven-eighths of our life (the exact proportion as at +present estimated), there was a place even on the Hellenic +Parnassus for gnomic bards, and theirs in the nature of the case +must always be the largest public.</p> +<p>“Music is the perfection of the soul or the idea of +poetry,” so you wrote; “the vagueness of exaltation +aroused by a sweet air (which should be indefinite and never too +strongly suggestive) is precisely what we should aim at in +poetry.” You aimed at that mark, and struck it again +and again, notably in “Helen, thy beauty is to me,” +in “The Haunted Palace,” “The Valley of +Unrest,” and “The City in the Sea.” But +by some Nemesis which might, perhaps, have been foreseen, you +are, to the world, the poet of one poem—“The +Raven:” a piece in which the music is highly artificial, +and the “exaltation” (what there is of it) by no +means particularly “vague.” So a portion of the +public know little of Shelley but the “Skylark,” and +those two incongruous birds, the lark and the raven, bear each of +them a poet’s name, <i>vivu’ per ora virum</i>. +Your theory of poetry, if accepted, would make you (after the +author of “Kubla Khan”) the foremost of the poets of +the world; at no long distance would come Mr. William Morris as +he was when he wrote “Golden Wings,” “The Blue +Closet,” and “The Sailing of the Sword;” and, +close up, Mr. Lear, the author of “The Yongi Bongi +Bo,” an the lay of the “Jumblies.”</p> +<p>On the other hand Homer would sink into the limbo to which you +consigned Molière. If we may judge a theory by its +results, when compared with the deliberate verdict of the world, +your æsthetic does not seem to hold water. The +“Odyssey” is not really inferior to +“Ulalume,” as it ought to be if your doctrine of +poetry were correct, nor “Le Festin de Pierre” to +“Undine.” Yet you deserve the praise of having +been constant, in your poetic practice, to your poetic +principles—principles commonly deserted by poets who, like +Wordsworth, have published their æsthetic system. +Your pieces are few; and Dr. Johnson would have called you, like +Fielding, “a barren rascal.” But how can a +writer’s verses be numerous if with him, as with you, +“poetry is not a pursuit but a passion . . . which cannot +at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations or the +more paltry commendations of mankind!” Of you it may +be said, more truly than Shelley said it of himself, that +“to ask you for anything human, is like asking at a +gin-shop for a leg of mutton.”</p> +<p>Humanity must always be, to the majority of men, the true +stuff of poetry; and only a minority will thank you for that rare +music which (like the strains of the fiddler in the story) is +touched on a single string, and on an instrument fashioned from +the spoils of the grave. You chose, or you were +destined</p> +<blockquote><p>To vary from the kindly race of men;</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and the consequences, which wasted your life, pursue your +reputation.</p> +<p>For your stories has been reserved a boundless popularity, and +that highest success—the success of a perfectly sympathetic +translation. By this time, of course, you have made the +acquaintance of your translator, M. Charles Baudelaire, who so +strenuously shared your views about Mr. Emerson and the +Transcendentalists, and who so energetically resisted all those +ideas of “progress” which “came from Hell or +Boston.” On this point, however, the world continues +to differ from you and M. Baudelaire, and perhaps there is only +the choice between our optimism and universal suicide or +universal opium-eating. But to discuss your ultimate ideas +is perhaps a profitless digression from the topic of your prose +romances.</p> +<p>An English critic (probably a Northerner at heart) has +described them as “Hawthorne and delirium +tremens.” I am not aware that extreme orderliness, +masterly elaboration, and unchecked progress towards a +predetermined effect are characteristics of the visions of +delirium. If they be, then there is a deal of truth in the +criticism, and a good deal of delirium tremens in your +style. But your ingenuity, your completeness, your +occasional luxuriance of fancy and wealth of jewel-like words, +are not, perhaps, gifts which Mr. Hawthorne had at his +command. He was a great writer—the greatest writer in +prose fiction whom America has produced. But you and he +have not much in common, except a certain mortuary turn of mind +and a taste for gloomy allegories about the workings of +conscience.</p> +<p>I forbear to anticipate your verdict about the latest essays +of American fiction. These by no means follow in the lines +which you laid down about brevity and the steady working to one +single effect. Probably you would not be very tolerant +(tolerance was not your leading virtue) of Mr. Roe, now your +countrymen’s favourite novelist. He is long, he is +didactic, he is eminently uninspired. In the works of one +who is, what you were called yourself, a Bostonian, you would +admire, at least, the acute observation, the subtlety, and the +unfailing distinction. But, destitute of humour as you +unhappily but undeniably were, you would miss, I fear, the charm +of “Daisy Miller.” You would admit the unity of +effect secured in “Washington Square,” though that +effect is as remote as possible from the terror of “The +House of Usher” or the vindictive triumph of “The +Cask of Amontillado.”</p> +<p>Farewell, farewell, thou sombre and solitary spirit: a genius +tethered to the hack-work of the press, a gentleman among +<i>canaille</i>, a poet among poetasters, dowered with a +scholar’s taste without a scholar’s training, +embittered by his sensitive scorn, and all unsupported by his +consolations.</p> +<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>XV.<br /> +<i>To Sir Walter Scott</i>, <i>Bart.</i></h2> +<p style="text-align: right">Rodono, St. Mary’s Loch:<br /> +Sept. 8, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—In your biography it is +recorded that you not only won the favour of all men and women; +but that a domestic fowl conceived an affection for you, and that +a pig, by his will, had never been severed from your +company. If some Circe had repeated in my case her +favourite miracle of turning mortals into swine, and had given me +a choice, into that fortunate pig, blessed among his race, would +I have been converted! You, almost alone among men of +letters, still, like a living friend, win and charm us out of the +past; and if one might call up a poet, as the scholiast tried to +call Homer, from the shades, who would not, out of all the rest, +demand some hours of your society? Who that ever meddled +with letters, what child of the irritable race, possessed even a +tithe of your simple manliness, of the heart that never knew a +touch of jealousy, that envied no man his laurels, that took +honour and wealth as they came, but never would have deplored +them had you missed both and remained but the Border sportsman +and the Border antiquary?</p> +<p>Were the word “genial” not so much profaned, were +it not misused in easy good-nature, to extenuate lettered and +sensual indolence, that worn old term might be applied, above all +men, to “the Shirra.” But perhaps we scarcely +need a word (it would be seldom in use) for a character so rare, +or rather so lonely, in its nobility and charm as that of Walter +Scott. Here, in the heart of your own country, among your +own grey round-shouldered hills (each so like the other that the +shadow of one falling on its neighbour exactly outlines that +neighbour’s shape), it is of you and of your works that a +native of the Forest is most frequently brought in mind. +All the spirits of the river and the hill, all the dying refrains +of ballad and the fading echoes of story, all the memory of the +wild past, each legend of burn and loch, seem to have combined to +inform your spirit, and to secure themselves an immortal life in +your song. It is through you that we remember them; and in +recalling them, as in treading each hillside in this land, we +again remember you and bless you.</p> +<p>It is not, “Sixty Years Since” the echo of Tweed +among his pebbles fell for the last time on your ear; not sixty +years since, and how much is altered! But two generations +have passed; the lad who used to ride from Edinburgh to +Abbotsford, carrying new books for you, and old, is still +vending, in George Street, old books and new. Of politics I +have not the heart to speak. Little joy would you have had +in most that has befallen since the Reform Bill was passed, to +the chivalrous cry of “burke Sir Walter.” We +are still very Radical in the Forest, and you were taken away +from many evils to come. How would the cheek of Walter +Scott, or of Leyden, have blushed at the names of Majuba, The +Soudan, Maiwand, and many others that recall political cowardice +or military incapacity! On the other hand, who but you +could have sung the dirge of Gordon, or wedded with immortal +verse the names of Hamilton (who fell with Cavagnari), of the two +Stewarts, of many another clansman, brave among the +bravest! Only he who told how</p> +<blockquote><p>The stubborn spearmen still made good<br /> +Their dark impenetrable wood</p> +</blockquote> +<p>could have fitly rhymed a score of feats of arms in which, as +at M’Neill’s Zareba and at Abu Klea,</p> +<blockquote><p>Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,<br /> + As fearlessly and well.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Ah, Sir, the hearts of the rulers may wax faint, and the +voting classes may forget that they are Britons; but when it +comes to blows our fighting men might cry, with Leyden,</p> +<blockquote><p>My name is little Jock Elliot,<br /> +And wha daur meddle wi’ me!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Much is changed, in the countryside as well as in the country; +but much remains. The little towns of your time are +populous and excessively black with the smoke of +factories—not, I fear, at present very flourishing. +In Galashiels you still see the little change-house and the +cluster of cottages round the Laird’s lodge, like the +clachan of Tully Veolan. But these plain remnants of the +old Scotch towns are almost buried in a multitude of “smoky +dwarf houses”—a living poet, Mr. Matthew Arnold, has +found the fitting phrase for these dwellings, once for all. +All over the Forest the waters are dirty and poisoned: I think +they are filthiest below Hawick; but this may be mere local +prejudice in a Selkirk man. To keep them clean costs money; +and, though improvements are often promised, I cannot see much +change—for the better. Abbotsford, luckily, is above +Galashiels, and only receives the dirt and dyes of Selkirk, +Peebles, Walkerburn, and Innerleithen. On the other hand, +your ill-omened later dwelling, “the unhappy palace of your +race,” is overlooked by villas that prick a cockney ear +among their larches, hotels of the future. Ah, Sir, +Scotland is a strange place. Whisky is exiled from some of +our caravanserais, and they have banished Sir John +Barleycorn. It seems as if the views of the excellent +critic (who wrote your life lately, and said you had left no +descendants, <i>le pauvre homme</i>!) were beginning to +prevail. This pious biographer was greatly shocked by that +capital story about the keg of whisky that arrived at the +Liddesdale farmer’s during family prayers. Your +Toryism also was an offence to him.</p> +<p>Among these vicissitudes of things and the overthrow of +customs, let us be thankful that, beyond the reach of the +manufacturers, the Border country remains as kind and homely as +ever. I looked at Ashiestiel some days ago: the house +seemed just as it may have been when you left it for Abbotsford, +only there was a lawn-tennis net on the lawn, the hill on the +opposite bank of the Tweed was covered to the crest with turnips, +and the burn did not sing below the little bridge, for in this +arid summer the burn was dry. But there was still a grilse +that rose to a big March brown in the shrunken stream below +Elibank. This may not interest you, who styled yourself</p> +<blockquote><p>No fisher,<br /> +But a well-wisher<br /> +To the game!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still, as when you were thinking over Marmion, a man might +have “grand gallops among the hills”—those +grave wastes of heather and bent that sever all the watercourses +and roll their sheep-covered pastures from Dollar Law to White +Combe, and from White Combe to the Three Brethren Cairn and the +Windburg and Skelf-hill Pen. Yes, Teviotdale is pleasant +still, and there is not a drop of dye in the water, <i>purior +electro</i>, of Yarrow. St. Mary’s Loch lies beneath +me, smitten with wind and rain—the St. Mary’s of +North and of the Shepherd. Only the trout, that see a +myriad of artificial flies, are shyer than of yore. The +Shepherd could no longer fill a cart up Meggat with trout so much +of a size that the country people took them for herrings.</p> +<p>The grave of Piers Cockburn is still not desecrated: hard by +it lies, within a little wood; and beneath that slab of old +sandstone, and the graven letters, and the sword and shield, +sleep “Piers Cockburn and Marjory his wife.” +Not a hundred yards off was the castle-door where they hanged +him; this is the tomb of the ballad, and the lady that buried him +rests now with her wild lord.</p> +<blockquote><p>Oh, wat ye no my heart was sair,<br /> +When I happit the mouls on his yellow hair;<br /> +Oh, wat ye no my heart was wae,<br /> +When I turned about and went my way! <a name="citation160"></a><a +href="#footnote160" class="citation">[160]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>Here too hearts have broken, and there is a sacredness in the +shadow and beneath these clustering berries of the +rowan-trees. That sacredness, that reverent memory of our +old land, it is always and inextricably blended with our +memories, with our thoughts, with our love of you. +Scotchmen, methinks, who owe so much to you, owe you most for the +example you gave of the beauty of a life of honour, showing them +what, by heaven’s blessing, a Scotchman still might be.</p> +<p>Words, empty and unavailing—for what words of ours can +speak our thoughts or interpret our affections! From you +first, as we followed the deer with King James, or rode with +William of Deloraine on his midnight errand, did we learn what +Poetry means and all the happiness that is in the gift of +song. This and more than may be told you gave us, that are +not forgetful, not ungrateful, though our praise be unequal to +our gratitude. <i>Fungor inani munere</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>XVI.<br /> +<i>To Eusebius of Cæsarea</i>.<br /> +(<span class="GutSmall">CONCERNING THE GODS OF THE +HEATHEN</span>.)</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Touching</span> the Gods of the Heathen, +most reverend Father, thou art not ignorant that even now, as in +the time of thy probation on earth, there is great +dissension. That these feigned Deities and idols, the work +of men’s hands, are no longer worshipped thou knowest; +neither do men eat meat offered to idols. Even as spake +that last Oracle which murmured forth, the latest and the only +true voice from Delphi, even so “the fair-wrought court +divine hath fallen; no more hath Phoebus his home, no more his +laurel-bough, nor the singing well of water; nay, the +sweet-voiced water is silent.” The fane is ruinous, +and the images of men’s idolatry are dust.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, most worshipful, men do still dispute about the +beginnings of those sinful Gods: such as Zeus, Athene, and +Dionysus: and marvel how first they won their dominion over the +souls of the foolish peoples. Now, concerning these things +there is not one belief, but many; howbeit, there are two main +kinds of opinion. One sect of philosophers +believes—as thyself, with heavenly learning, didst not +vainly persuade—that the Gods were the inventions of wild +and bestial folk, who, long before cities were builded or life +was honourably ordained, fashioned forth evil spirits in their +own savage likeness; ay, or in the likeness of the very beasts +that perish. To this judgment, as it is set forth in thy +Book of the Preparation for the Gospel, I, humble as I am, do +give my consent. But on the other side are many and learned +men, chiefly of the tribes of the Alemanni, who have almost +conquered the whole inhabited world. These, being unwilling +to suppose that the Hellenes were in bondage to superstitions +handed down from times of utter darkness and a bestial life, do +chiefly hold with the heathen philosophers, even with the writers +whom thou, most venerable, didst confound with thy wisdom and +chasten with the scourge of small cords of thy wit.</p> +<p>Thus, like the heathen, our doctors and teachers maintain that +the gods of the nations were, in the beginning, such pure natural +creatures as the blue sky, the sun, the air, the bright dawn, and +the fire; but, as time went on, men, forgetting the meaning of +their own speech and no longer understanding the tongue of their +own fathers, were misled and beguiled into fashioning all those +lamentable tales: as that Zeus, for love of mortal women, took +the shape of a bull, a ram, a serpent, an ant, an eagle, and +sinned in such wise as it is a shame even to speak of.</p> +<p>Behold, then, most worshipful, how these doctors and learned +men argue, even like the philosophers of the heathen whom thou +didst confound. For they declare the gods to have been +natural elements, sun and sky and storm, even as did thy +opponents; and, like them, as thou saidst, “they are nowise +at one with each other in their explanations.” For of +old some boasted that Hera was the Air; and some that she +signified the love of woman and man; and some that she was the +waters above the Earth; and others that she was the Earth beneath +the waters; and yet others that she was the Night, for that Night +is the shadow of Earth: as if, forsooth, the men who first +worshipped Hera had understanding of these things! And when +Hera and Zeus quarrel unseemly (as Homer declareth), this meant +(said the learned in thy days) no more than the strife and +confusion of the elements, and was not in the beginning an idle +slanderous tale.</p> +<p>To all which, most worshipful, thou didst answer wisely: +saying that Hera could not be both night, and earth, and water, +and air, and the love of sexes, and the confusion of the +elements; but that all these opinions were vain dreams, and the +guesses of the learned. And why—thou +saidst—even if the Gods were pure natural creatures, are +such foul things told of them in the Mysteries as it is not +fitting for me to declare. “These wanderings, and +drinkings, and loves, and seductions, that would be shameful in +men, why,” thou saidst, “were they attributed to the +natural elements; and wherefore did the Gods constantly show +themselves, like the sorcerers called werewolves, in the shape of +the perishable beasts?” But, mainly, thou didst argue +that, till the philosophers of the heathen were agreed among +themselves, not all contradicting each the other, they had no +semblance of a sure foundation for their doctrine.</p> +<p>To all this and more, most worshipful Father, I know not what +the heathen answered thee. But, in our time, the learned +men who stand to it that the heathen Gods were in the beginning +the pure elements, and that the nations, forgetting their first +love and the significance of their own speech, became confused +and were betrayed into foul stories about the pure +Gods—these learned men, I say, agree no whit among +themselves. Nay, they differ one from another, not less +than did Plutarch and Porphyry and Theagenes, and the rest whom +thou didst laugh to scorn. Bear with me, Father, while I +tell thee how the new Plutarchs and Porphyrys do contend among +themselves; and yet these differences of theirs they call +“Science”!</p> +<p>Consider the goddess Athene, who sprang armed from the head of +Zeus, even as—among the fables of the poor heathen folk of +seas thou never knewest—goddesses are fabled to leap out +from the armpits or feet of their fathers. Thou must know +that what Plato, in the “Cratylus,” made Socrates say +in jest, the learned among us practise in sad earnest. For, +when they wish to explain the nature of any God, they first +examine his name, and torment the letters thereof, arranging and +altering them according to their will, and flying off to the +speech of the Indians and Medes and Chaldeans, and other +Barbarians, if Greek will not serve their turn. How saith +Socrates? “I bethink me of a very new and ingenious +idea that occurs to me; and, if I do not mind, I shall be wiser +than I should be by to-morrow’s dawn. My notion is +that we may put in and pull out letters at pleasure and alter the +accents.”</p> +<p>Even so do the learned—not at pleasure, maybe, but +according to certain fixed laws (so they declare); yet none the +more do they agree among themselves. And I deny not that +they discover many things true and good to be known; but, as +touching the names of the Gods, their learning, as it standeth, +is confusion. Look, then, at the goddess Athene: taking one +example out of hundreds. We have dwelling in our coasts +Muellerus, the most erudite of the doctors of the Alemanni, and +the most golden-mouthed. Concerning Athene, he saith that +her name is none other than, in the ancient tongue of the +Brachmanæ, <i>Ahanâ</i>, which, being interpreted, +means the Dawn. “And that the morning light,” +saith he, “offers the best starting-point for the later +growth of Athene has been proved, I believe, beyond the reach of +doubt or even cavil.” <a name="citation169"></a><a +href="#footnote169" class="citation">[169]</a></p> +<p>Yet this same doctor candidly lets us know that another of his +nation, the witty Benfeius, hath devised another sense and origin +of Athene, taken from the speech of the old Medes. But +Muellerus declares to us that whosoever shall examine the +contention of Benfeius “will be bound, in common honesty, +to confess that it is untenable.” This, Father, is +“one for Benfeius,” as the saying goes. And as +Muellerus holds that these matters “admit of almost +mathematical precision,” it would seem that Benfeius is but +a <i>Dummkopf</i>, as the Alemanni say, in their own language, +when they would be pleasant among themselves.</p> +<p>Now, wouldst thou credit it? despite the mathematical +plainness of the facts, other Alemanni agree neither with +Muellerus, nor yet with Benfeius, and will neither hear that +Athene was the Dawn, nor yet that she is “the feminine of +the Zend <i>Thrâetâna +athwyâna</i>.” Lo, you! how Prellerus goes +about to show that her name is drawn not from <i>Ahanâ</i> +and the old Brachmanæ, nor <i>athwyâna</i> and the +old Medes, but from “the root <i>αἰθ</i>, +whence <i>αἴθηρ</i>, the air, or +<i>ἀθ</i>, whence +<i>ἄνθος</i>, a +flower.” Yea, and Prellerus will have it that no man +knows the verity of this matter. None the less he is very +bold, and will none of the Dawn; but holds to it that Athene was, +from the first, “the clear pure height of the Air, which is +exceeding pure in Attica.”</p> +<p>Now, Father, as if all this were not enough, comes one +Roscherus in, with a mighty great volume on the Gods, and +Furtwaenglerus, among others, for his ally. And these +doctors will neither with Rueckertus and Hermannus, take Athene +for “wisdom in person;” nor with Welckerus and +Prellerus, for “the goddess of air;” nor even, with +Muellerus and mathematical certainty, for “the +Morning-Red:” but they say that Athene is the “black +thunder-cloud, and the lightning that leapeth +therefrom”! I make no doubt that other Alemanni are +of other minds: <i>quot Alemanni tot sententiæ</i>.</p> +<p>Yea, as thou saidst of the learned heathen, +<i>Οὐδὲ γὰρ +ἀλλήλοις +σύμφωνα +φυσιολογοῦσιν</i>. +Yet these disputes of theirs they call +“Science”! But if any man says to the learned: +“Best of men, you are erudite, and laborious and witty; +but, till you are more of the same mind, your opinions cannot be +styled knowledge. Nay, they are at present of no avail +whereon to found any doctrine concerning the +Gods”—that man is railed at for his +“mean” and “weak” arguments.</p> +<p>Was it thus, Father, that the heathen railed against +thee? But I must still believe, with thee, that these evil +tales of the Gods were invented “when man’s life was +yet brutish and wandering” (as is the life of many tribes +that even now tell like tales), and were maintained in honour by +the later Greeks “because none dared alter the ancient +beliefs of his ancestors.” Farewell, Father; and all +good be with thee, wishes thy well-wisher and thy disciple.</p> +<h2><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>XVII.<br /> +<i>To Percy Bysshe Shelley</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—In your lifetime on +earth you were not more than commonly curious as to what was said +by “the herd of mankind,” if I may quote your own +phrase. It was that of one who loved his fellow-men, but +did not in his less enthusiastic moments overestimate their +virtues and their discretion. Removed so far away from our +hubbub, and that world where, as you say, we “pursue our +serious folly as of old,” you are, one may guess, but +moderately concerned about the fate of your writings and your +reputation. As to the first, you have somewhere said, in +one of your letters, that the final judgment on your merits as a +poet is in the hands of posterity, and that you fear the verdict +will be “Guilty,” and the sentence +“Death.” Such apprehensions cannot have been +fixed or frequent in the mind of one whose genius burned always +with a clearer and steadier flame to the last. The jury of +which you spoke has met: a mixed jury and a merciful. The +verdict is “Well done,” and the sentence Immortality +of Fame. There have been, there are, dissenters; yet +probably they will be less and less heard as the years go on.</p> +<p>One judge, or juryman, has made up his mind that prose was +your true province, and that your letters will out-live your +lays. I know not whether it was the same or an equally +well-inspired critic, who spoke of your most perfect lyrics (so +Beau Brummell spoke of his ill-tied cravats) as “a gallery +of your failures.” But the general voice does not +echo these utterances of a too subtle intellect. At a +famous University (not your own) once existed a band of men known +as “The Trinity Sniffers.” Perhaps the spirit +of the sniffer may still inspire some of the jurors who from time +to time make themselves heard in your case. The +“Quarterly Review,” I fear, is still +unreconciled. It regards your attempts as tainted by the +spirit of “The Liberal Movement in English +Literature;” and it is impossible, alas! to maintain with +any success that you were a Throne and Altar Tory. At +Oxford you are forgiven; and the old rooms where you let the +oysters burn (was not your founder, King Alfred, once guilty of +similar negligence?) are now shown to pious pilgrims.</p> +<p>But Conservatives, ’tis rumoured, are still averse to +your opinions, and are believed to prefer to yours the works of +the Reverend Mr. Keble, and, indeed, of the clergy in +general. But, in spite of all this, your poems, like the +affections of the true lovers in Theocritus, are yet “in +the mouths of all, and chiefly on the lips of the +young.” It is in your lyrics that you live, and I do +not mean that every one could pass an examination in the plot of +“Prometheus Unbound.” Talking of this piece, by +the way, a Cambridge critic finds that it reveals in you a +hankering after life in a cave—doubtless an unconsciously +inherited memory from cave-man. Speaking of cave-man +reminds me that you once spoke of deserting song for prose, and +of producing a history of the moral, intellectual, and political +elements in human society, which, we now agree, began, as Asia +would fain have ended, in a cave.</p> +<p>Fortunately you gave us “Adonais” and +“Hellas” instead of this treatise, and we have now +successfully written the natural history of Man for +ourselves. Science tells us that before becoming a +cave-dweller he was a Brute; Experience daily proclaims that he +constantly reverts to his original condition. +<i>L’homme est un méchant animal</i>, in spite of +your boyish efforts to add pretty girls “to the list of the +good, the disinterested, and the free.”</p> +<p>Ah, not in the wastes of Speculation, nor the sterile din of +Politics, were “the haunts meet for thee.” +Watching the yellow bees in the ivy bloom, and the reflected pine +forest in the water-pools, watching the sunset as it faded, and +the dawn as it fired, and weaving all fair and fleeting things +into a tissue where light and music were at one, that was the +task of Shelley! “To ask you for anything +human,” you said, “was like asking for a leg of +mutton at a gin-shop.” Nay, rather, like asking +Apollo and Hebe, in the Olympian abodes, to give us beef for +ambrosia, and port for nectar. Each poet gives what he has, +and what he can offer; you spread before us fairy bread, and +enchanted wine, and shall we turn away, with a sneer, because, +out of all the multitudes of singers, one is spiritual and +strange, one has seen Artemis unveiled? One, like Anchises, +has been beloved of the Goddess, and his eyes, when he looks on +the common world of common men, are, like the eyes of Anchises, +blind with excess of light. Let Shelley sing of what he +saw, what none saw but Shelley!</p> +<p>Notwithstanding the popularity of your poems (the most +romantic of things didactic), our world is no better than the +world you knew. This will disappoint you, who had “a +passion for reforming it.” Kings and priests are very +much where you left them. True, we have a poet who assails +them, at large, frequently and fearlessly; yet Mr. Swinburne has +never, like “kind Hunt,” been in prison, nor do we +fear for him a charge of treason. Moreover, chemical +science has discovered new and ingenious ways of destroying +principalities and powers. You would be interested in the +methods, but your peaceful Revolutionism, which disdained +physical force, would regret their application.</p> +<p>Our foreign affairs are not in a state which even you would +consider satisfactory; for we have just had to contend with a +Revolt of Islam, and we still find in Russia exactly the +qualities which you recognised and described. We have a +great statesman whose methods and eloquence somewhat resemble +those you attribute to Laon and Prince Athanase. Alas! he +is a youth of more than seventy summers; and not in his time will +Prometheus retire to a cavern and pass a peaceful millennium in +twining buds and beams.</p> +<p>In domestic affairs most of the Reforms you desired to see +have been carried. Ireland has received Emancipation, and +almost everything else she can ask for. I regret to say +that she is still unhappy; her wounds unstanched, her wrongs +unforgiven. At home we have enfranchised the paupers, and +expect the most happy results. Paupers (as Mr. Gladstone +says) are “our own flesh and blood,” and, as we +compel them to be vaccinated, so we should permit them to +vote. Is it a dream that Mr. Jesse Collings (how you would +have loved that man!) has a Bill for extending the priceless boon +of the vote to inmates of Pauper Lunatic Asylums? This may +prove that last element in the Elixir of political happiness +which we have long sought in vain. Atheists, you will +regret to hear, are still unpopular; but the new Parliament has +done something for Mr. Bradlaugh. You should have known our +Charles while you were in the “Queen Mab” +stage. I fear you wandered, later, from his robust +condition of intellectual development.</p> +<p>As to your private life, many biographers contrive to make +public as much of it as possible. Your name, even in life, +was, alas! a kind of <i>ducdame</i> to bring people of no very +great sense into your circle. This curious fascination has +attracted round your memory a feeble folk of commentators, +biographers, anecdotists, and others of the tribe. They +swarm round you like carrion-flies round a sensitive plant, like +night-birds bewildered by the sun. Men of sense and taste +have written on you, indeed; but your weaker admirers are now +disputing as to whether it was your heart, or a less dignified +and most troublesome organ, which escaped the flames of the +funeral pyre. These biographers fight terribly among +themselves, and vainly prolong the memory of “old unhappy +far-off things, and sorrows long ago.” Let us leave +them and their squabbles over what is unessential, their raking +up of old letters and old stories.</p> +<p>The town has lately yawned a weary laugh over an enemy of +yours, who has produced two heavy volumes, styled by him +“The Real Shelley.” The real Shelley, it +appears, was Shelley as conceived of by a worthy gentleman so +prejudiced and so skilled in taking up things by the wrong handle +that I wonder he has not made a name in the exact science of +Comparative Mythology. He criticises you in the spirit of +that Christian Apologist, the Englishman who called you “a +damned Atheist” in the post-office at Pisa. He finds +that you had “a little turned-up nose,” a feature no +less important in his system than was the nose of Cleopatra +(according to Pascal) in the history of the world. To be in +harmony with your nose, you were a “phenomenal” liar, +an ill-bred, ill-born, profligate, partly insane, an +evil-tempered monster, a self-righteous person, full of +self-approbation—in fact you were the Beast of this pious +Apocalypse. Your friend Dr. Lind was an embittered and +scurrilous apothecary, “a bad old man.” But +enough of this inopportune brawler.</p> +<p>For Humanity, of which you hoped such great things, Science +predicts extinction in a night of Frost. The sun will grow +cold, slowly—as slowly as doom came on Jupiter in your +“Prometheus,” but as surely. If this nightmare +be fulfilled, perhaps the Last Man, in some fetid hut on the +ice-bound Equator, will read, by a fading lamp charged with the +dregs of the oil in his cruse, the poetry of Shelley. So +reading, he, the latest of his race, will not wholly be deprived +of those sights which alone (says the nameless Greek) make life +worth enduring. In your verse he will have sight of sky, +and sea, and cloud, the gold of dawn and the gloom of earthquake +and eclipse. He will be face to face, in fancy, with the +great powers that are dead, sun, and ocean, and the illimitable +azure of the heavens. In Shelley’s poetry, while Man +endures, all those will survive; for your “voice is as the +voice of winds and tides,” and perhaps more deathless than +all of these, and only perishable with the perishing of the human +spirit.</p> +<h2><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>XVIII.<br /> +<i>To Monsieur de Molière</i>, <i>Valet de Chambre du +Roi</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Monsieur</span>,—With what awe does +a writer venture into the presence of the great +Molière! As a courtier in your time would scratch +humbly (with his comb!) at the door of the Grand Monarch, so I +presume to draw near your dwelling among the Immortals. +You, like the king who, among all his titles, has now none so +proud as that of the friend of Molière—you found +your dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to +the dignity of an empire: what Louis XIV. did for France you +achieved for French comedy; and the baton of Scapin still wields +its sway though the sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim. +For the King the Pyrenees, or so he fancied, ceased to exist; by +a more magnificent conquest you overcame the Channel. If +England vanquished your country’s arms, it was through you +that France <i>ferum victorem cepit</i>, and restored the dynasty +of Comedy to the land whence she had been driven. Ever +since Dryden borrowed “L’Etourdi,” our tardy +apish nation has lived (in matters theatrical) on the spoils of +the wits of France.</p> +<p>In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have +altered. While you lived, taste kept the French drama pure; +and it was the congenial business of English playwrights to foist +their rustic grossness and their large Fescennine jests into the +urban page of Molière. Now they are diversely +occupied; and it is their affair to lend modesty where they +borrow wit, and to spare a blush to the cheek of the Lord +Chamberlain. But still, as has ever been our wont since +Etherege saw, and envied, and imitated your successes—still +we pilfer the plays of France, and take our <i>bien</i>, as you +said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We are +the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that a +comedy pleases the town which has not first been “cut +out” from the countrymen of Molière. Why this +should be, and what “tenebriferous star” (as +Paracelsus, your companion in the “Dialogues des +Morts,” would have believed) thus darkens the sun of +English humour, we know not; but certainly our dependence on +France is the sincerest tribute to you. Without you, +neither Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor “a wilderness of +monkeys” like Scarron, could ever have given Comedy to +France and restored her to Europe.</p> +<p>While we owe to you, Monsieur, the beautiful advent of Comedy, +fair and beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, it is +still to you that we must turn when of comedies we desire the +best. If you studied with daily and nightly care the works +of Plautus and Terence, if you “let no musty <i>bouquin</i> +escape you” (so your enemies declared), it was to some +purpose that you laboured. Shakespeare excepted, you +eclipsed all who came before you; and from those that follow, +however fresh, we turn: we turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, +from Sheridan and Goldsmith, from Musset and Pailleron and +Labiche, to that crowded world of your creations. +“Creations” one may well say, for you anticipated +Nature herself: you gave us, before she did, in Alceste a +Rousseau who was a gentleman not a lacquey; in a <i>mot</i> of +Don Juan’s, the secret of the new Religion and the +watchword of Comte, <i>l’amour de +l’humanité</i>.</p> +<p>Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a Frenchman +with humour; and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise +philosophy of a secular civilisation? With a heart the most +tender, delicate, loving, and generous, a heart often in agony +and torment, you had to make life endurable (we cannot doubt it) +without any whisper of promise, or hope, or warning from +Religion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all, the +mind of Pascal, proclaimed that the only help was in voluntary +blindness, that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at +evens, you, Monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see +what you found invisible.</p> +<p>In Religion you beheld no promise of help. When the +Jesuits and Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartufe +the portrait of their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises +in your play conceived that you were girding at his neighbour), +you all the while were mocking every credulous excess of +Faith. In the sermons preached to Agnès we surely +hear your private laughter; in the arguments for credulity which +are presented to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal +self-defence of superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you +sought for the permanent element of life—precisely where +Pascal recognised all that was most fleeting and +unsubstantial—in <i>divertissement</i>; in the pleasure of +looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence, an +observer of the follies of mankind. Like the Gods of the +Epicurean, you seem to regard our life as a play that is played, +as a comedy; yet how often the tragic note comes in! What +pity, and in the laughter what an accent of tears, as of rain in +the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human as you; +none has had a heart, like you, to feel for his butts, and to +leave them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their +tormentors. Sganarelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, +and the rest—our sympathy, somehow, is with them, after +all; and M. de Pourceaugnac is a gentleman, despite his +misadventures.</p> +<p>Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays may +batter and defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not all the +victory, or you did not mean that they should win it. They +go off with laughter, and their victim with a grimace; but in him +we, that are past our youth, behold an actor in an unending +tragedy, the defeat of a generation. Your sympathy is not +wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can throw a +bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has been taught +that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned in shame, +in jealousy, in endurance of the wanton pride of men (how could +the poor player and the husband of Célimène be +untaught in that experience?), you never sided quite heartily, as +other comedians have done, with young prosperity and rank and +power.</p> +<p>I am not the first who has dared to approach you in the +Shades; for just after your own death the author of “Les +Dialogues des Morts” gave you Paracelsus as a companion, +and the author of “Le Jugement de Pluton” made the +“mighty warder” decide that “Molière +should not talk philosophy.” These writers, like most +of us, feel that, after all, the comedies of the +<i>Contemplateur</i>, of the translator of Lucretius, are a +philosophy of life in themselves, and that in them we read the +lessons of human experience writ small and clear.</p> +<p>What comedian but Molière has combined with such +depths—with the indignation of Alceste, the self-deception +of Tartufe, the blasphemy of Don Juan—such wildness of +irresponsible mirth, such humour, such wit! Even now, when +more than two hundred years have sped by, when so much water has +flowed under the bridges and has borne away so many trifles of +contemporary mirth (<i>cetera fluminis ritu feruntur</i>), even +now we never laugh so well as when Mascarille and Vadius and M. +Jourdain tread the boards in the Maison de Molière. +Since those mobile dark brows of yours ceased to make men laugh, +since your voice denounced the “demoniac” manner of +contemporary tragedians, I take leave to think that no player has +been more worthy to wear the canons of Mascarille or the gown of +Vadius than M. Coquelin of the Comédie +Française. In him you have a successor to your +Mascarille so perfect, that the ghosts of playgoers of your date +might cry, could they see him, that Molière had come +again. But, with all respect to the efforts of the fair, I +doubt if Mdlle. Barthet, or Mdme. Croizette herself, would +reconcile the town to the loss of the fair De Brie, and +Madeleine, and the first, the true Célimène, +Armande. Yet had you ever so merry a <i>soubrette</i> as +Mdme. Samary, so exquisite a Nicole?</p> +<p>Denounced, persecuted, and buried hugger-mugger two hundred +years ago, you are now not over-praised, but more worshipped, +with more servility and ostentation, studied with more prying +curiosity than you may approve. Are not the +Molièristes a body who carry adoration to +fanaticism? Any scrap of your handwriting (so few are +these), any anecdote even remotely touching on your life, any +fact that may prove your house was numbered 15 not 22, is eagerly +seized and discussed by your too minute historians. +Concerning your private life, these men often speak more like +malicious enemies than friends; repeating the fabulous scandals +of Le Boulanger, and trying vainly to support them by grubbing in +dusty parish registers. It is most necessary to defend you +from your friends—from such friends as the veteran and +inveterate M. Arsène Houssaye, or the industrious but +puzzle-headed M. Loiseleur. Truly they seek the living +among the dead, and the immortal Molière among the +sweepings of attorneys’ offices. As I regard them +(for I have tarried in their tents) and as I behold their +trivialities—the exercises of men who neglect +Molière’s works to gossip about +Molière’s great-grand-mother’s second-best +bed—I sometimes wish that Molière were here to write +on his devotees a new comedy, “Les +Molièristes.” How fortunate were they, +Monsieur, who lived and worked with you, who saw you day by day, +who were attached, as Lagrange tells us, by the kindest loyalty +to the best and most honourable of men, the most open-handed in +friendship, in charity the most delicate, of the heartiest +sympathy! Ah, that for one day I could behold you, writing +in the study, rehearsing on the stage, musing in the +lace-seller’s shop, strolling through the Palais, turning +over the new books at Billaine’s, dusting your ruffles +among the old volumes on the sunny stalls. Would that, +through the ages, we could hear you after supper, merry with +Boileau, and with Racine,—not yet a traitor,—laughing +over Chapelain, combining to gird at him in an epigram, or +mocking at Cotin, or talking your favourite philosophy, mindful +of Descartes. Surely of all the wits none was ever so good +a man, none ever made life so rich with humour and +friendship.</p> +<h2><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>XIX.<br /> +<i>To Robert Burns</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Among men of Genius, and +especially among Poets, there are some to whom we turn with a +peculiar and unfeigned affection; there are others whom we admire +rather than love. By some we are won with our will, by +others conquered against our desire. It has been your +peculiar fortune to capture the hearts of a whole people—a +people not usually prone to praise, but devoted with a personal +and patriotic loyalty to you and to your reputation. In you +every Scot who <i>is</i> a Scot sees, admires, and compliments +Himself, his ideal self—independent, fond of whisky, fonder +of the lassies; you are the true representative of him and of his +nation. Next year will be the hundredth since the press of +Kilmarnock brought to light its solitary masterpiece, your Poems; +and next year, therefore, methinks, the revenue will receive a +welcome accession from the abundance of whisky drunk in your +honour. It is a cruel thing for any of your countrymen to +feel that, where all the rest love, he can only admire; where all +the rest are idolators, he may not bend the knee; but stands +apart and beats upon his breast, observing, not adoring—a +critic. Yet to some of us—petty souls, perhaps, and +envious—that loud indiscriminating praise of “Robbie +Burns” (for so they style you in their Change-house +familiarity) has long been ungrateful; and, among the treasures +of your songs, we venture to select and even to reject. So +it must be! We cannot all love Haggis, nor “painch, +tripe, and thairm,” and all those rural dainties which you +celebrate as “warm-reekin, rich!” “Rather +too rich,” as the Young Lady said on an occasion recorded +by Sam Weller.</p> +<blockquote><p>Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware<br /> + That jaups in luggies;<br /> +But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,<br /> + Gie her a Haggis!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>You <i>have</i> given her a Haggis, with a vengeance, and her +“gratefu’ prayer” is yours for ever. But +if even an eternity of partridge may pall on the epicure, so of +Haggis too, as of all earthly delights, cometh satiety at +last. And yet what a glorious Haggis it is—the more +emphatically rustic and even Fescennine part of your verse! +We have had many a rural bard since Theocritus “watched the +visionary flocks,” but you are the only one of them all who +has spoken the sincere Doric. Yours is the talk of the byre +and the plough-tail; yours is that large utterance of the early +hinds. Even Theocritus minces matters, save where Lacon and +Comatas quite out-do the swains of Ayrshire. “But +thee, Theocritus, wha matches?” you ask, and yourself +out-match him in this wide rude region, trodden only by the rural +Muse. “<i>Thy</i> rural loves are nature’s +sel’;” and the wooer of Jean Armour speaks more like +a true shepherd than the elegant Daphnis of the +“Oaristys.”</p> +<p>Indeed it is with this that moral critics of your life +reproach you, forgetting, perhaps, that in your amours you were +but as other Scotch ploughmen and shepherds of the past and +present. Ettrick may still, with Afghanistan, offer matter +for idylls, as Mr. Carlyle (your antithesis, and the complement +of the Scotch character) supposed; but the morals of Ettrick are +those of rural Sicily in old days, or of Mossgiel in your +days. Over these matters the Kirk, with all her power, and +the Free Kirk too, have had absolutely no influence +whatever. To leave so delicate a topic, you were but as +other swains, or, as “that Birkie ca’d a lord,” +Lord Byron; only you combined (in certain of your letters) a +libertine theory with your practice; you poured out in song your +audacious raptures, your half-hearted repentance, your shame and +your scorn. You spoke the truth about rural lives and +loves. We may like it or dislike it but we cannot deny the +verity.</p> +<p>Was it not as unhappy a thing, Sir, for you, as it was +fortunate for Letters and for Scotland, that you were born at the +meeting of two ages and of two worlds—precisely in the +moment when bookish literature was beginning to reach the people, +and when Society was first learning to admit the low-born to her +Minor Mysteries? Before you how many singers not less truly +poets than yourself—though less versatile not less +passionate, though less sensuous not less simple—had been +born and had died in poor men’s cottages! There +abides not even the shadow of a name of the old Scotch +song-smiths, of the old ballad-makers. The authors of +“Clerk Saunders,” of “The Wife of Usher’s +Well,” of “Fair Annie,” and “Sir Patrick +Spens,” and “The Bonny Hind,” are as unknown to +us as Homer, whom in their directness and force they +resemble. They never, perhaps, gave their poems to writing; +certainly they never gave them to the press. On the lips +and in the hearts of the people they have their lives; and the +singers, after a life obscure and untroubled by society or by +fame, are forgotten. “The Iniquity of Oblivion +blindly scattereth his Poppy.”</p> +<p>Had you been born some years earlier you would have been even +as these unnamed Immortals, leaving great verses to a little +clan—verses retained only by Memory. You would have +been but the minstrel of your native valley: the wider world +would not have known you, nor you the world. Great thoughts +of independence and revolt would never have burned in you; +indignation would not have vexed you. Society would not +have given and denied her caresses. You would have been +happy. Your songs would have lingered in all “the +circle of the summer hills;” and your scorn, your satire, +your narrative verse, would have been unwritten or unknown. +To the world what a loss! and what a gain to you! We should +have possessed but a few of your lyrics, as</p> +<blockquote><p>When o’er the hill the eastern star<br /> + Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;<br /> +And owsen frae the furrowed field,<br /> + Return sae dowf and wearie O!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>How noble that is, how natural, how unconsciously Greek! +You found, oddly, in good Mrs. Barbauld, the merits of the Tenth +Muse:</p> +<blockquote><p>In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives<br /> + Even Sappho’s flame!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But how unconsciously you remind us both of Sappho and of +Homer in these strains about the Evening Star and the hour when +the Day +μετενίσσετο + +βουλυτόνδε? +Had you lived and died the pastoral poet of some silent glen, +such lyrics could not but have survived; free, too, of all that +in your songs reminds us of the Poet’s Corner in the +“Kirkcudbright Advertiser.” We should not have +read how</p> +<blockquote><p>Phœbus, gilding the brow o’ +morning,<br /> + Banishes ilk darksome shade!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still we might keep a love-poem unexcelled by Catullus,</p> +<blockquote><p>Had we never loved sae kindly,<br /> +Had we never loved sae blindly,<br /> +Never met—or never parted,<br /> +We had ne’er been broken-hearted.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But the letters to Clarinda would have been unwritten, and the +thrush would have been untaught in “the style of the Bird +of Paradise.”</p> +<p>A quiet life of song, <i>fallentis semita vitæ</i>, was +not to be yours. Fate otherwise decreed it. The touch +of a lettered society, the strife with the Kirk, discontent with +the State, poverty and pride, neglect and success, were needed to +make your Genius what it was, and to endow the world with +“Tam o’ Shanter,” the “Jolly +Beggars,” and “Holy Willie’s +Prayer.” Who can praise them too highly—who +admire in them too much the humour, the scorn, the wisdom, the +unsurpassed energy and courage? So powerful, so commanding, +is the movement of that Beggars’ Chorus, that, methinks, it +unconsciously echoed in the brain of our greatest living poet +when he conceived the “Vision of Sin.” You +shall judge for yourself. Recall:</p> +<blockquote><p>Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!<br /> + Here’s to all the wandering train!<br /> +Here’s our ragged bairns and callets!<br /> + One and all cry out, Amen!</p> +<p>A fig for those by law protected!<br /> + Liberty’s a glorious feast!<br /> +Courts for cowards were erected!<br /> + Churches built to please the priest!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then read this:</p> +<blockquote><p>Drink to lofty hopes that cool—<br /> + Visions of a perfect state:<br /> +Drink we, last, the public fool,<br /> + Frantic love and frantic hate.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,<br /> + While we keep a little breath!<br /> +Drink to heavy Ignorance,<br /> + Hob and nob with brother Death!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Is not the movement the same, though the modern speaks a +wilder recklessness?</p> +<p>So in the best company we leave you, who were the life and +soul of so much company, good and bad. No poet, since the +Psalmist of Israel, ever gave the world more assurance of a man; +none lived a life more strenuous, engaged in an eternal conflict +of the passions, and by them overcome—“mighty and +mightily fallen.” When we think of you, Byron seems, +as Plato would have said, remote by one degree from actual truth, +and Musset by a degree more remote than Byron.</p> +<h2><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>XX.<br /> +<i>To Lord Byron</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">My Lord</span>,</p> +<p class="poetry"> (Do you remember how Leigh +Hunt<br /> +Enraged you once by writing <i>My dear Byron</i>?)<br /> + Books have their fates,—as mortals have who +punt,<br /> +And <i>yours</i> have entered on an age of iron.<br /> + Critics there be who think your satire blunt,<br /> +Your pathos, fudge; such perils must environ<br /> +Poets who in their time were quite the rage,<br /> +Though now there’s not a soul to turn their page.<br /> +Yes, there is much dispute about your worth,<br /> +And much is said which you might like to know<br /> +By modern poets here upon the earth,<br /> +Where poets live, and love each other so;<br /> +And, in Elysium, it may move your mirth<br /> +To hear of bards that pitch your praises low,<br /> +Though there be some that for your credit stickle,<br /> + As—Glorious Mat,—and not inglorious +Nichol.</p> +<p class="poetry">(This kind of writing is my pet aversion,<br /> +I hate the slang, I hate the personalities,<br /> +I loathe the aimless, reckless, loose dispersion,<br /> + Of every rhyme that in the singer’s wallet +is,<br /> +I hate it as you hated the <i>Excursion</i>,<br /> +But, while no man a hero to his valet is,<br /> +The hero’s still the model; I indite<br /> +The kind of rhymes that Byron oft would write.)</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s a Swiss critic whom I cannot +rhyme to,<br /> + One Scherer, dry as sawdust, grim and prim.<br /> +Of him there’s much to say, if I had time to<br /> +Concern myself in any wise with <i>him</i>.<br /> +He seems to hate the heights he cannot climb to,<br /> + He thinks your poetry a coxcomb’s whim,<br /> +A good deal of his sawdust he has spilt on<br /> +Shakespeare, and Molière, and you, and Milton.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, much his temper is like Vivien’s +mood,<br /> + Which found not Galahad pure, nor Lancelot brave;<br +/> +Cold as a hailstorm on an April wood,<br /> +He buries poets in an icy grave,<br /> +His Essays—he of the Genevan hood!<br /> + Nothing so fine, but better doth he crave.<br /> +So stupid and so solemn in his spite<br /> +He dares to print that Molière could not write!</p> +<p class="poetry">Enough of these excursions; I was saying<br /> + That half our English Bards are turned Reviewers,<br +/> +And Arnold was discussing and assaying<br /> + The weight and value of that work of yours,<br /> +Examining and testing it and weighing,<br /> + And proved, the gems are pure, the gold endures.<br +/> +While Swinburne cries with an exceeding joy,<br /> +The stones are paste, and half the gold, alloy.</p> +<p class="poetry">In Byron, Arnold finds the greatest force,<br +/> + Poetic, in this later age of ours;<br /> +His song, a torrent from a mountain source,<br /> + Clear as the crystal, singing with the showers,<br +/> +Sweeps to the sea in unrestricted course<br /> + Through banks o’erhung with rocks and sweet +with flowers;<br /> +None of your brooks that modestly meander,<br /> +But swift as Awe along the Pass of Brander.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when our century has clomb its crest,<br /> + And backward gazes o’er the plains of Time,<br +/> +And counts its harvest, yours is still the best,<br /> + The richest garner in the field of rhyme<br /> +(The metaphoric mixture, ’tis comfest,<br /> + Is all my own, and is not quite sublime).<br /> +But fame’s not yours alone; you must divide all<br /> +The plums and pudding with the Bard of Rydal!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wordsworth</span> and <span +class="smcap">Byron</span>, these the lordly names<br /> + And these the gods to whom most incense burns.<br /> +“Absurd!” cries Swinburne, and in anger flames,<br /> + And in an Æschylean fury spurns<br /> +With impious foot your altar, and exclaims<br /> +And wreathes his laurels on the golden urns<br /> +Where Coleridge’s and Shelley’s ashes lie,<br /> +Deaf to the din and heedless of the cry.</p> +<p class="poetry">For Byron (Swinburne shouts) has never woven<br +/> + One honest thread of life within his song;<br /> +As Offenbach is to divine Beethoven<br /> + So Byron is to Shelley (<i>This</i> is strong!),<br +/> +And on Parnassus’ peak, divinely cloven,<br /> + He may not stand, or stands by cruel wrong;<br /> +For Byron’s rank (the examiner has reckoned)<br /> +Is in the third class or a feeble second.</p> +<p class="poetry">“A Bernesque poet” at the very +most,<br /> + And “never earnest save in politics,”<br +/> +The Pegasus that he was wont to boast<br /> + A blundering, floundering hackney, full of +tricks,<br /> +A beast that must be driven to the post<br /> + By whips and spurs and oaths and kicks and +sticks,<br /> +A gasping, ranting, broken-winded brute,<br /> +That any judge of Pegasi would shoot;</p> +<p class="poetry">In sooth, a half-bred Pegasus, and far gone<br +/> + In spavin, curb, and half a hundred woes.<br /> +And Byron’s style is “jolter-headed jargon;”<br +/> + His verse is “only bearable in +prose.”<br /> +So living poets write of those that <i>are</i> gone,<br /> + And o’er the Eagle thus the Bantam crows;<br +/> +And Swinburne ends where Verisopht began,<br /> +By owning you “a very clever man.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Or rather does not end: he still must utter<br +/> + A quantity of the unkindest things.<br /> +Ah! were you here, I marvel, would you flutter<br /> + O’er such a foe the tempest of your wings?<br +/> +’Tis “rant and cant and glare and splash and +splutter”<br /> + That rend the modest air when Byron sings.<br /> +There Swinburne stops: a critic rather fiery.<br /> +<i>Animis cælestibus tantæne iræ</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">But whether he or Arnold in the right is,<br /> + Long is the argument, the quarrel long;<br /> +<i>Non nobis est</i> to settle <i>tantas lites</i>;<br /> + No poet I, to judge of right or wrong:<br /> +But of all things I always think a fight is<br /> + The <i>most</i> unpleasant in the lists of song;<br +/> +When Marsyas of old was flayed, Apollo<br /> +Set an example which we need not follow.</p> +<p class="poetry">The fashion changes! Maidens do not +wear,<br /> + As once they wore, in necklaces and lockets<br /> +A curl ambrosial of Lord Byron’s hair;<br /> + “Don Juan” is not always in our +pockets—<br /> +Nay, a New Writer’s readers do not care<br /> + Much for your verse, but are inclined to mock its<br +/> +Manners and morals. Ay, and most young ladies<br /> +To yours prefer the “Epic” called “of +Hades”!</p> +<p class="poetry">I do not blame them; I’m inclined to +think<br /> + That with the reigning taste ’tis vain to +quarrel,<br /> +And Burns might teach his votaries to drink,<br /> + And Byron never meant to make them moral.<br /> +You yet have lovers true, who will not shrink<br /> + From lauding you and giving you the laurel;<br /> +The Germans too, those men of blood and iron,<br /> +Of all our poets chiefly swear by Byron.</p> +<p class="poetry">Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods!<br +/> + Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit,<br +/> +Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds,<br /> + Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit;<br /> +Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies’ rods,<br /> + Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit;<br +/> +Beholding whom, men think how fairer far<br /> +Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! <a +name="citation215"></a><a href="#footnote215" +class="citation">[215]</a></p> +<h2><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>XXI.<br /> +<i>To Omar Khayyâm</i>.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wise</span> Omar, do the +Southern Breezes fling<br /> +Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring,<br /> + The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose,<br /> +The wild white Roses you were wont to sing?</p> +<p class="poetry">Far in the South I know a Land divine, <a +name="citation216"></a><a href="#footnote216" +class="citation">[216]</a><br /> +And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine,<br /> + And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows<br /> +Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">You were a Saint of unbelieving Days,<br /> +Liking your Life and happy in Men’s Praise;<br /> + Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough,<br /> +Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or +Hell,<br /> +Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell,<br /> + Content to know not all thou knowest now,<br /> +What’s Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well?</p> +<p class="poetry">The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill,<br +/> +Shall He torment them if they chance to spill?<br /> + Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast<br /> +Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will!</p> +<p class="poetry">So still were we, before the Months began<br /> +That rounded us and shaped us into Man.<br /> + So still we <i>shall</i> be, surely, at the last,<br +/> +Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, strange it seems that this thy common +Thought—<br /> +How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought—<br /> + Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East,<br /> +In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought,</p> +<p class="poetry">Which gave our England for a captive Land<br /> +To pious Chiefs of a believing Band,<br /> + A gift to the Believer from the Priest,<br /> +Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! <a +name="citation218"></a><a href="#footnote218" +class="citation">[218]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave<br +/> +Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save<br /> + His England, even of Harold Godwin’s son;<br +/> +The high Tide murmurs by the Hero’s Grave! <a +name="citation219"></a><a href="#footnote219" +class="citation">[219]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">And <i>thou</i> wert wreathing Roses—who +can tell?—<br /> +Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well,<br /> + Or satst at Wine in Nashâpûr, when +dun<br /> +The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell!</p> +<p class="poetry">The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam!<br +/> +Along the white Walls of his guarded Home<br /> + No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o’er the Wave<br +/> +The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam!</p> +<p class="poetry">And dear to him, as Roses were to thee,<br /> +Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea;<br /> + The <i>Swan’s Path</i> of his Fathers is his +Grave:<br /> +His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be.</p> +<p class="poetry">His was the Age of Faith, when all the West<br +/> +Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest;<br /> + And thou wert living then, and didst not heed<br /> +The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ages of Progress! These eight hundred +Years<br /> +Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or Fears,<br /> + And now!—she listens in the Wilderness<br /> +To <i>thee</i>, and half believeth what she hears!</p> +<p class="poetry">Hadst <i>thou</i> <span class="smcap">the +Secret</span>? Ah, and who may tell?<br /> +“An Hour we have,” thou saidst; “Ah, waste it +well!”<br /> + An Hour we have, and yet Eternity<br /> +Looms o’er us, and the Thought of Heaven or Hell!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, we can never be as wise as thou,<br /> +O idle Singer ’neath the blossomed Bough.<br /> + Nay, and we cannot be content to die.<br /> +<i>We</i> cannot shirk the Questions “Where?” and +“How?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content<br +/> +Shall we of England go the way <i>he</i> went—<br /> + The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose—<br /> +Nay, otherwise than <i>his</i> our Day is spent!</p> +<p class="poetry">Serene he dwelt in fragrant +Nashâpûr,<br /> +But we must wander while the Stars endure.<br /> + <i>He</i> knew <span class="smcap">the +Secret</span>: we have none that knows,<br /> +No Man so sure as Omar once was sure!</p> +<h2><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>XXII.<br /> +<i>To Q. Horatius Flaccus</i>.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> what manner of Paradise are we +to conceive that you, Horace, are dwelling, or what region of +immortality can give you such pleasures as this life +afforded? The country and the town, nature and men, who +knew them so well as you, or who ever so wisely made the best of +those two worlds? Truly here you had good things, nor do +you ever, in all your poems, look for more delight in the life +beyond; you never expect consolation for present sorrow, and when +you once have shaken hands with a friend the parting seems to you +eternal.</p> +<blockquote><p>Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus<br /> +Tam cari capitis?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So you sing, for the dear head you mourn has sunk, for ever, +beneath the wave. Virgil might wander forth bearing the +golden branch “the Sibyl doth to singing men allow,” +and might visit, as one not wholly without hope, the dim +dwellings of the dead and the unborn. To him was it +permitted to see and sing “mothers and men, and the bodies +outworn of mighty heroes, boys and unwedded maids, and young men +borne to the funeral fire before their parent’s +eyes.” The endless caravan swept past +him—“many as fluttering leaves that drop and fall in +autumn woods when the first frost begins; many as birds that +flock landward from the great sea when now the chill year drives +them o’er the deep and leads them to sunnier +lands.” Such things was it given to the sacred poet +to behold, and “the happy seats and sweet pleasances of +fortunate souls, where the larger light clothes all the plains +and dips them in a rosier gleam, plains with their own new sun +and stars before unknown.” Ah, not <i>frustra +pius</i> was Virgil, as you say, Horace, in your melancholy +song. In him, we fancy, there was a happier mood than your +melancholy patience. “Not, though thou wert sweeter +of song than Thracian Orpheus, with that lyre whose lay led the +dancing trees, not so would the blood return to the empty shade +of him whom once with dread wand, the inexorable God hath folded +with his shadowy flocks; but patience lighteneth what heaven +forbids us to undo.”</p> +<blockquote><p>Durum, sed levius fit patietia!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It was all your philosophy in that last sad resort to which we +are pushed so often—</p> +<blockquote><p>“With close-lipped Patience for our only +friend,<br /> +Sad Patience, too near neighbour of Despair.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The Epicurean is at one with the Stoic at last, and Horace +with Marcus Aurelius. “To go away from among men, if +there are Gods, is not a thing to be afraid of; but if indeed +they do not exist, or if they have no concern about human +affairs, what is it to me to live in a universe devoid of gods or +devoid of providence?”</p> +<p>An excellent philosophy, but easier to those for whom no Hope +had dawned or seemed to set. Yes! it is harder than common, +Horace, for us to think of <i>you</i>, still glad somewhere, +among rivers like Liris and plains and vine-clad hills, that</p> +<blockquote><p>Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is hard, for you looked for no such thing.</p> +<blockquote><p> <i>Omnes una +manet nox</i><br /> +<i>Et calcanda semel via leti</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>You could not tell Mæcenas that you would meet him +again; you could only promise to tread the dark path with +him.</p> + +<blockquote><p> <i>Ibimus</i>, +<i>ibimus</i>,<br /> +<i>Utcunque præcedes</i>, <i>supremum</i><br /> + <i>Carpere iter comites +parati</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Enough, Horace, of these mortuary musings. You loved the +lesson of the roses, and now and again would speak somewhat like +a death’s head over your temperate cups of Sabine +<i>ordinaire</i>. Your melancholy moral was but meant to +heighten the joy of your pleasant life, when wearied Italy, after +all her wars and civic bloodshed, had won a peaceful haven. +The harbour might be treacherous; the prince might turn to the +tyrant; far away on the wide Roman marches might be heard, as it +were, the endless, ceaseless monotone of beating horses’ +hoofs and marching feet of men. They were coming, they were +nearing, like footsteps heard on wool; there was a sound of +multitudes and millions of barbarians, all the North, <i>officina +gentium</i>, mustering and marshalling her peoples. But +their coming was not to be to-day, nor to-morrow, nor to-day was +the budding Empire to blossom into the blood-red flower of +Nero. In the lull between the two tempests of Republic and +Empire your odes sound “like linnets in the pauses of the +wind.”</p> +<p>What joy there is in these songs! what delight of life, what +an exquisite Hellenic grace of art, what a manly nature to +endure, what tenderness and constancy of friendship, what a sense +of all that is fair in the glittering stream, the music of the +waterfall, the hum of bees, the silvery grey of the olive woods +on the hillside! How human are all your verses, Horace! +what a pleasure is yours in the straining poplars, swaying in the +wind! what gladness you gain from the white crest of Soracte, +beheld through the fluttering snowflakes while the logs are being +piled higher on the hearth. You sing of women and +wine—not all wholehearted in your praise of them, perhaps, +for passion frightens you, and ’tis pleasure more than love +that you commend to the young. Lydia and Glycera, and the +others, are but passing guests of a heart at ease in itself, and +happy enough when their facile reign is ended. You seem to +me like a man who welcomes middle age, and is more glad than +Sophocles was to “flee from these hard masters” the +passions. In the fallow leisure of life you glance round +contented, and find all very good save the need to leave all +behind. Even that you take with an Italian good-humour, as +the folk of your sunny country bear poverty and hunger.</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Durum</i>, <i>sed levius fit patientia</i>!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>To them, to you, the loveliness of your land is, and was, a +thing to live for. None of the Latin poets your fellows, or +none but Virgil, seem to me to have known so well as you, Horace, +how happy and fortunate a thing it was to be born in Italy. +You do not say so, like your Virgil, in one splendid passage, +numbering the glories of the land as a lover might count the +perfections of his mistress. But the sentiment is ever in +your heart and often on your lips.</p> +<blockquote><p> Me nec tam patiens +Lacedæmon,<br /> +Nec tam Larissæ percussit campus opimæ,<br /> + Quam domus Albuneæ resonantis<br /> +Et præceps Anio, ac Tiburni lucus, et uda<br /> + Mobilibus pomaria rivis. <a +name="citation229"></a><a href="#footnote229" +class="citation">[229]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>So a poet should speak, and to every singer his own land +should be dearest. Beautiful is Italy with the grave and +delicate outlines of her sacred hills, her dark groves, her +little cities perched like eyries on the crags, her rivers +gliding under ancient walls; beautiful is Italy, her seas, and +her suns: but dearer to me the long grey wave that bites the rock +below the minster in the north; dearer are the barren moor and +black peat-water swirling in tauny foam, and the scent of bog +myrtle and the bloom of heather, and, watching over the lochs, +the green round-shouldered hills.</p> +<p>In affection for your native land, Horace, certainly the pride +in great Romans dead and gone made part, and you were, in all +senses, a lover of your country, your country’s heroes, +your country’s gods. None but a patriot could have +sung that ode on Regulus, who died, as our own hero died on an +evil day, for the honour of Rome, as Gordon for the honour of +England.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fertur pudicæ conjugis osculum,<br /> +Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor,<br /> + Ab se removisse, et virilem<br /> + Torvus humi posuisse voltum:</p> +<p class="poetry">Donec labantes consilio patres<br /> +Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato,<br /> + Interque mærentes amicos<br /> + Egregius properaret exul.</p> +<p class="poetry">Atqui sciebat, quæ sibi barbarus<br /> +Tortor pararet: non aliter tamen<br /> + Dimovit obstantes propinquos,<br /> + Et populum reditus morantem,</p> +<p class="poetry">Quam si clientum longa negotia<br /> +Dijudicata lite relinqueret,<br /> + Tendens Venafranos in agros<br /> + Aut Lacedæmonium Tarentum. +<a name="citation231"></a><a href="#footnote231" +class="citation">[231]</a></p> +<p>We talk of the Greeks as your teachers. Your teachers +they were, but that poem could only have been written by a +Roman! The strength, the tenderness, the noble and +monumental resolution and resignation—these are the gifts +of the lords of human things, the masters of the world.</p> +<p>Your country’s heroes are dear to you, Horace, but you +did not sing them better than your country’s Gods, the +pious protecting spirits of the hearth, the farm, the field; +kindly ghosts, it may be, of Latin fathers dead or Gods framed in +the image of these. What you actually believed we know not, +<i>you</i> knew not. Who knows what he believes? +<i>Parcus Deorum cultor</i> you bowed not often, it may be, in +the temples of the state religion and before the statues of the +great Olympians; but the pure and pious worship of rustic +tradition, the faith handed down by the homely elders, with +<i>that</i> you never broke. Clean hands and a pure heart, +these, with a sacred cake and shining grains of salt, you could +offer to the Lares. It was a benignant religion, uniting +old times and new, men living and men long dead and gone, in a +kind of service and sacrifice solemn yet familiar.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <i>Te +nihil attinet</i><br /> +<i>Tentare multa cæde bidentium</i><br /> + <i>Parvos coronantem marino</i><br /> + <i>Rore deos fragilique +myrto</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Immunis aram si tetigit manus</i>,<br /> +<i>Non sumptuosa blandior hostia</i><br /> + <i>Mellivit aversos Penates</i><br /> + <i>Farre pio et saliente mica</i>, +<a name="citation233"></a><a href="#footnote233" +class="citation">[233]</a></p> +<p>Farewell, dear Horace; farewell, thou wise and kindly heathen; +of mortals the most human, the friend of my friends and of so +many generations of men.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><i>Ave atque +Vale</i>!</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote13"></a><a href="#citation13" +class="footnote">[13]</a> I am informed that the <i>Natural +History of Young Ladies</i> is attributed, by some writers, to +another philosopher, the author of <i>The Art of Pluck</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48a"></a><a href="#citation48a" +class="footnote">[48a]</a> Rape of the Lock.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48b"></a><a href="#citation48b" +class="footnote">[48b]</a> In Mr. Hogarth’s +Caricatura.</p> +<p><a name="footnote49"></a><a href="#citation49" +class="footnote">[49]</a> Elwin’s Pope, ii. 15.</p> +<p><a name="footnote50"></a><a href="#citation50" +class="footnote">[50]</a> “Poor Pope was always a +hand-to-mouth liar.”—<i>Pope</i>, by Leslie Stephen, +139.</p> +<p><a name="footnote64"></a><a href="#citation64" +class="footnote">[64]</a> The Greek +ῥόμβος, mentioned by Lucian +and Theocritus, was the magical weapon of the +Australians—the <i>turndun</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote160"></a><a href="#citation160" +class="footnote">[160]</a> Lord Napier and Ettrick points +out to me that, unluckily, the tradition is erroneous. +Piers was not executed at all. William Cockburn suffered in +Edinburgh. But the <i>Border Minstrelsy</i> overrides +history.</p> +<p><i>Criminal Trials in Scotland</i>, by Robert Pitcairn, +Esq. Vol. i. part i. p. 144, <span +class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> 1530. 17 Jac. V.</p> +<p>May 16. William Cokburne of Henderland, convicted (in +presence of the King) of high treason committed by him in +bringing Alexander Forestare and his son, Englishmen, to the +plundering of Archibald Somervile; and for treasonably bringing +certain Englishmen to the lands of Glenquhome; and for common +theft, common reset of theft, out-putting and in-putting +thereof. Sentence. For which causes and crimes he has +forfeited his life, lands, and goods, movable and immovable; +which shall be escheated to the King. Beheaded.</p> +<p><a name="footnote169"></a><a href="#citation169" +class="footnote">[169]</a> “The Lesson of +Jupiter.”—Nineteenth Century, October 1885.</p> +<p><a name="footnote215"></a><a href="#citation215" +class="footnote">[215]</a> Mr. Swinburne’s and Mr. +Arnold’s diverse views of Byron will be found in the +<i>Selections</i> by Mr. Arnold and in the <i>Nineteenth +Century</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote216"></a><a href="#citation216" +class="footnote">[216]</a> The hills above San Remo, where +rose-bushes are planted by the shrines. Omar desired that +his grave might be where the wind would scatter rose-leaves over +it.</p> +<p><a name="footnote218"></a><a href="#citation218" +class="footnote">[218]</a> Omar was contemporary with the +battle of Hastings.</p> +<p><a name="footnote219"></a><a href="#citation219" +class="footnote">[219]</a> Per mandata Ducis, Rex hic, Heralde, +quiescis,</p> +<p>Ut custos maneas littoris et pelagi.</p> +<p><a name="footnote229"></a><a href="#citation229" +class="footnote">[229]</a> “Me neither resolute +Sparta nor the rich Larissæan plain so enraptures as the +fane of echoing Albunea, the headlong Anio, the grove of Tibur, +the orchards watered by the wandering rills.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote231"></a><a href="#citation231" +class="footnote">[231]</a> “They say he put aside +from him the pure lips of his wife and his little children, like +a man unfree, and with his brave face bowed earthward sternly he +waited till with such counsel as never mortal gave he might +strengthen the hearts of the Fathers, and through his mourning +friends go forth, a hero, into exile. Yet well he knew what +things were being prepared for him at the hands of the +tormentors, who, none the less, put aside the kinsmen that barred +his path and the people that would fain have delayed his return, +passing through their midst as he might have done if, his +retainers’ weary business ended and the suits adjudged, he +were faring to his Venafran lands or to Dorian +Tarentum.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote233"></a><a href="#citation233" +class="footnote">[233]</a> “Thou, Phidyle, hast no +need to besiege the gods with slaughter so great of sheep, thou +who crownest thy tiny deities with myrtle rare and +rosemary. If but the hand be clean that touches the altar, +then richest sacrifice will not more appease the angered Penates +than the duteous cake and salt that crackles in the +blaze.”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1491-h.htm or 1491-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/9/1491 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared from the 1886 Longmans, Green, and Co. +edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS + + + + +Contents: + +Preface +To W. M. Thackeray +To Charles Dickens +To Pierre de Ronsard +To Herodotus +Epistle to Mr. Alexander Pope +To Lucian of Samosata +To Maitre Francoys Rabelais +To Jane Austen +To Master Isaak Walton +To M. Chapelain +To Sir John Maundeville, Kt. +To Alexandre Dumas +To Theocritus +To Edgar Allan Poe +To Sir Walter Scott, Bart. +To Eusebius of Caesarea +To Percy Bysshe Shelley +To Monsieur de Moliere +To Robert Burns +To Lord Byron +To Omar Khayyam +To Q. Horatius Flaccus + + + +PREFACE + + + +Sixteen of these Letters, which were written at the suggestion of +the Editor of the "St. James's Gazette," appeared in that journal, +from which they are now reprinted, by the Editor's kind permission. +They have been somewhat emended, and a few additions have been made. +The Letters to Horace, Byron, Isaak Walton, Chapelain, Ronsard, and +Theocritus have not been published before. + +The gem on the title-page, now engraved for the first time, is a red +cornelian in the British Museum, probably Graeco-Roman, and treated +in an archaistic style. It represents Hermes Psychagogos, with a +Soul, and has some likeness to the Baptism of Our Lord, as usually +shown in art. Perhaps it may be post-Christian. The gem was +selected by Mr. A. S. Murray. + +It is, perhaps, superfluous to add that some of the Letters are +written rather to suit the Correspondent than to express the +writer's own taste or opinions. The Epistle to Lord Byron, +especially, is "writ in a manner which is my aversion." + + + +LETTER--To W. M. Thackeray + + + +Sir,--There are many things that stand in the way of the critic when +he has a mind to praise the living. He may dread the charge of +writing rather to vex a rival than to exalt the subject of his +applause. He shuns the appearance of seeking the favour of the +famous, and would not willingly be regarded as one of the many +parasites who now advertise each movement and action of contemporary +genius. "Such and such men of letters are passing their summer +holidays in the Val d'Aosta," or the Mountains of the Moon, or the +Suliman Range, as it may happen. So reports our literary "Court +Circular," and all our Precieuses read the tidings with enthusiasm. +Lastly, if the critic be quite new to the world of letters, he may +superfluously fear to vex a poet or a novelist by the abundance of +his eulogy. No such doubts perplex us when, with all our hearts, we +would commend the departed; for they have passed almost beyond the +reach even of envy; and to those pale cheeks of theirs no +commendation can bring the red. + +You, above all others, were and remain without a rival in your many- +sided excellence, and praise of you strikes at none of those who +have survived your day. The increase of time only mellows your +renown, and each year that passes and brings you no successor does +but sharpen the keenness of our sense of loss. In what other +novelist, since Scott was worn down by the burden of a forlorn +endeavour, and died for honour's sake, has the world found so many +of the fairest gifts combined? If we may not call you a poet (for +the first of English writers of light verse did not seek that +crown), who that was less than a poet ever saw life with a glance so +keen as yours, so steady, and so sane? Your pathos was never cheap, +your laughter never forced; your sigh was never the pulpit trick of +the preacher. Your funny people--your Costigans and Fokers--were +not mere characters of trick and catch-word, were not empty comic +masks. Behind each the human heart was beating; and ever and again +we were allowed to see the features of the man. + +Thus fiction in your hands was not simply a profession, like +another, but a constant reflection of the whole surface of life: a +repeated echo of its laughter and its complaint. Others have +written, and not written badly, with the stolid professional +regularity of the clerk at his desk; you, like the Scholar Gipsy, +might have said that "it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill." +There are, it will not surprise you, some honourable women and a few +men who call you a cynic; who speak of "the withered world of +Thackerayan satire;" who think your eyes were ever turned to the +sordid aspects of life--to the mother-in-law who threatens to "take +away her silver bread-basket;" to the intriguer, the sneak, the +termagant; to the Beckys, and Barnes Newcomes, and Mrs. Mackenzies +of this world. The quarrel of these sentimentalists is really with +life, not with you; they might as wisely blame Monsieur Buffon +because there are snakes in his Natural History. Had you not +impaled certain noxious human insects, you would have better pleased +Mr. Ruskin; had you confined yourself to such performances, you +would have been more dear to the Neo-Balzacian school in fiction. + +You are accused of never having drawn a good woman who was not a +doll, but the ladies that bring this charge seldom remind us either +of Lady Castlewood or of Theo or Hetty Lambert. The best women can +pardon you Becky Sharp and Blanche Amory; they find it harder to +forgive you Emmy Sedley and Helen Pendennis. Yet what man does not +know in his heart that the best women--God bless them--lean, in +their characters, either to the sweet passiveness of Emmy or to the +sensitive and jealous affections of Helen? 'Tis Heaven, not you, +that made them so; and they are easily pardoned, both for being a +very little lower than the angels and for their gentle ambition to +be painted, as by Guido or Guercino, with wings and harps and +haloes. So ladies have occasionally seen their own faces in the +glass of fancy, and, thus inspired, have drawn Romola and Consuelo. +Yet when these fair idealists, Mdme. Sand and George Eliot, designed +Rosamund Vincy and Horace, was there not a spice of malice in the +portraits which we miss in your least favourable studies? + +That the creator of Colonel Newcome and of Henry Esmond was a +snarling cynic; that he who designed Rachel Esmond could not draw a +good woman: these are the chief charges (all indifferent now to +you, who were once so sensitive) that your admirers have to contend +against. A French critic, M. Taine, also protests that you do +preach too much. Did any author but yourself so frequently break +the thread (seldom a strong thread) of his plot to converse with his +reader and moralise his tale, we also might be offended. But who +that loves Montaigne and Pascal, who that likes the wise trifling of +the one and can bear with the melancholy of the other, but prefers +your preaching to another's playing! + +Your thoughts come in, like the intervention of the Greek Chorus, as +an ornament and source of fresh delight. Like the songs of the +Chorus, they bid us pause a moment over the wider laws and actions +of human fate and human life, and we turn from your persons to +yourself, and again from yourself to your persons, as from the odes +of Sophocles or Aristophanes to the action of their characters on +the stage. Nor, to my taste, does the mere music and melancholy +dignity of your style in these passages of meditation fall far below +the highest efforts of poetry. I remember that scene where Clive, +at Barnes Newcome's Lecture on the Poetry of the Affections, sees +Ethel who is lost to him. "And the past and its dear histories, and +youth and its hopes and passions, and tones and looks for ever +echoing in the heart and present in the memory--these, no doubt, +poor Clive saw and heard as he looked across the great gulf of time, +and parting and grief, and beheld the woman he had loved for many +years." + +FOR EVER ECHOING IN THE HEART AND PRESENT IN THE MEMORY: who has +not heard these tones, who does not hear them as he turns over your +books that, for so many years, have been his companions and +comforters? We have been young and old, we have been sad and merry +with you, we have listened to the mid-night chimes with Pen and +Warrington, have stood with you beside the death-bed, have mourned +at that yet more awful funeral of lost love, and with you have +prayed in the inmost chapel sacred to our old and immortal +affections, e leal souvenir! And whenever you speak for yourself, +and speak in earnest, how magical, how rare, how lonely in our +literature is the beauty of your sentences! "I can't express the +charm of them" (so you write of George Sand; so we may write of +you): "they seem to me like the sound of country bells, provoking I +don't know what vein of music and meditation, and falling sweetly +and sadly on the ear." Surely that style, so fresh, so rich, so +full of surprises--that style which stamps as classical your +fragments of slang, and perpetually astonishes and delights--would +alone give immortality to an author, even had he little to say. But +you, with your whole wide world of fops and fools, of good women and +brave men, of honest absurdities and cheery adventurers: you who +created the Steynes and Newcomes, the Beckys and Blanches, Captain +Costigan and F. B., and the Chevalier Strong--all that host of +friends imperishable--you must survive with Shakespeare and +Cervantes in the memory and affection of men. + + + +LETTER--To Charles Dickens + + + +Sir,--It has been said that every man is born a Platonist or an +Aristotelian, though the enormous majority of us, to be sure, live +and die without being conscious of any invidious philosophic +partiality whatever. With more truth (though that does not imply +very much) every Englishman who reads may be said to be a partisan +of yourself or of Mr. Thackeray. Why should there be any +partisanship in the matter; and why, having two such good things as +your novels and those of your contemporary, should we not be +silently happy in the possession? Well, men are made so, and must +needs fight and argue over their tastes in enjoyment. For myself, I +may say that in this matter I am what the Americans do NOT call a +"Mugwump," what English politicians dub a "superior person"--that +is, I take no side, and attempt to enjoy the best of both. + +It must be owned that this attitude is sometimes made a little +difficult by the vigour of your special devotees. They have ceased, +indeed, thank Heaven! to imitate you; and even in "descriptive +articles" the touch of Mr. Gigadibs, of him whom "we almost took for +the true Dickens," has disappeared. The young lions of the Press no +longer mimic your less admirable mannerisms--do not strain so much +after fantastic comparisons, do not (in your manner and Mr. +Carlyle's) give people nick-names derived from their teeth, or their +complexion; and, generally, we are spared second-hand copies of all +that in your style was least to be commended. But, though improved +by lapse of time in this respect, your devotees still put on little +conscious airs of virtue, robust manliness, and so forth, which +would have irritated you very much, and there survive some press men +who seem to have read you a little (especially your later works), +and never to have read anything else. Now familiarity with the +pages of "Our Mutual Friend" and "Dombey and Son" does not precisely +constitute a liberal education, and the assumption that it does is +apt (quite unreasonably) to prejudice people against the greatest +comic genius of modern times. + +On the other hand, Time is at last beginning to sift the true +admirers of Dickens from the false. Yours, Sir, in the best sense +of the word, is a popular success, a popular reputation. For +example, I know that, in a remote and even Pictish part of this +kingdom, a rural household, humble and under the shadow of a sorrow +inevitably approaching, has found in "David Copperfield" oblivion of +winter, of sorrow, and of sickness. On the other hand, people are +now picking up heart to say that "they cannot read Dickens," and +that they particularly detest "Pickwick." I believe it was young +ladies who first had the courage of their convictions in this +respect. "Tout sied aux belles," and the fair, in the confidence of +youth, often venture on remarkable confessions. In your "Natural +History of Young Ladies" I do not remember that you describe the +Humorous Young Lady. {1} She is a very rare bird indeed, and humour +generally is at a deplorably low level in England. + +Hence come all sorts of mischief, arisen since you left us; and it +may be said that inordinate philanthropy, genteel sympathy with +Irish murder and arson, Societies for Badgering the Poor, Esoteric +Buddhism, and a score of other plagues, including what was once +called AEstheticism, are all, primarily, due to want of humour. +People discuss, with the gravest faces, matters which properly +should only be stated as the wildest paradoxes. It naturally +follows that, in a period almost destitute of humour, many +respectable persons "cannot read Dickens," and are not ashamed to +glory in their shame. We ought not to be angry with others for +their misfortunes; and yet when one meets the cretins who boast that +they cannot read Dickens, one certainly does feel much as Mr. Samuel +Weller felt when he encountered Mr. Job Trotter. + +How very singular has been the history of the decline of humour! Is +there any profound psychological truth to be gathered from +consideration of the fact that humour has gone out with cruelty? A +hundred years ago, eighty years ago--nay, fifty years ago--we were a +cruel but also a humorous people. We had bull-baitings, and badger- +drawings, and hustings, and prize-fights, and cock-fights; we went +to see men hanged; the pillory and the stocks were no empty "terrors +unto evil-doers," for there was commonly a malefactor occupying each +of these institutions. With all this we had a broad-blown comic +sense. We had Hogarth, and Bunbury, and George Cruikshank, and +Gilray; we had Leech and Surtees, and the creator of Tittlebat +Titmouse; we had the Shepherd of the "Noctes," and, above all, we +had YOU. + +From the old giants of English fun--burly persons delighting in +broad caricature, in decided colours, in cockney jokes, in swashing +blows at the more prominent and obvious human follies--from these +you derived the splendid high spirits and unhesitating mirth of your +earlier works. Mr. Squeers, and Sam Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and all +the Pickwickians, and Mr. Dowler, and John Browdie--these and their +immortal companions were reared, so to speak, on the beef and beer +of that naughty, fox-hunting, badger-baiting old England, which we +have improved out of existence. And these characters, assuredly, +are your best; by them, though stupid people cannot read about them, +you will live while there is a laugh left among us. Perhaps that +does not assure you a very prolonged existence, but only the future +can show. + +The dismal seriousness of the time cannot, let us hope, last for +ever and a day. Honest old Laughter, the true LUTIN of your +inspiration, must have life left in him yet, and cannot die; though +it is true that the taste for your pathos, and your melodrama, and +plots constructed after your favourite fashion ("Great Expectations" +and the "Tale of Two Cities" are exceptions) may go by and never be +regretted. Were people simpler, or only less clear-sighted, as far +as your pathos is concerned, a generation ago? Jeffrey, the hard- +headed shallow critic, who declared that Wordsworth "would never +do," cried, "wept like anything," over your Little Nell. One still +laughs as heartily as ever with Dick Swiveller; but who can cry over +Little Nell? + +Ah, Sir, how could you--who knew so intimately, who remembered so +strangely well the fancies, the dreams, the sufferings of childhood- +-how could you "wallow naked in the pathetic," and massacre +holocausts of the Innocents? To draw tears by gloating over a +child's death-bed, was it worthy of you? Was it the kind of work +over which our hearts should melt? I confess that Little Nell might +die a dozen times, and be welcomed by whole legions of Angels, and I +(like the bereaved fowl mentioned by Pet Marjory) would remain +unmoved. + + +She was more than usual calm, +She did not give a single dam, + + +wrote the astonishing child who diverted the leisure of Scott. Over +your Little Nell and your Little Dombey I remain more than usual +calm; and probably so do thousands of your most sincere admirers. +But about matter of this kind, and the unseating of the fountains of +tears, who can argue? Where is taste? where is truth? What tears +are "manly, Sir, manly," as Fred Bayham has it; and of what +lamentations ought we rather to be ashamed? Sunt lacrymae rerum; +one has been moved in the cell where Socrates tasted the hemlock; or +by the river-banks where Syracusan arrows slew the parched Athenians +among the mire and blood; or, in fiction, when Colonel Newcome says +Adsum, or over the diary of Clare Doria Forey, or where Aramis +laments, with strange tears, the death of Porthos. But over Dombey +(the Son), or Little Nell, one declines to snivel. + +When an author deliberately sits down and says, "Now, let us have a +good cry," he poisons the wells of sensibility and chokes, at least +in many breasts, the fountain of tears. Out of "Dombey and Son" +there is little we care to remember except the deathless Mr. Toots; +just as we forget the melodramatics of "Martin Chuzzlewit." I have +read in that book a score of times; I never see it but I revel in +it--in Pecksniff, and Mrs. Gamp, and the Americans. But what the +plot is all about, what Jonas did, what Montagu Tigg had to make in +the matter, what all the pictures with plenty of shading illustrate, +I have never been able to comprehend. In the same way, one of your +most thorough-going admirers has allowed (in the licence of private +conversation) that "Ralph Nickleby and Monk are too steep;" and +probably a cultivated taste will always find them a little +precipitous. + +"Too steep:"--the slang expresses that defect of an ardent genius, +carried above itself, and out of the air we breathe, both in its +grotesque and in its gloomy imaginations. To force the note, to +press fantasy too hard, to deepen the gloom with black over the +indigo, that was the failing which proved you mortal. To take an +instance in little: when Pip went to Mr. Pumblechook's, the boy +thought the seedsman "a very happy man to have so many little +drawers in his shop." The reflection is thoroughly boyish; but then +you add, "I wondered whether the flower-seeds and bulbs ever wanted +of a fine day to break out of those jails and bloom." That is not +boyish at all; that is the hard-driven, jaded literary fancy at +work. + +"So we arraign her; but she," the Genius of Charles Dickens, how +brilliant, how kindly, how beneficent she is! dwelling by a fountain +of laughter imperishable; though there is something of an alien salt +in the neighbouring fountain of tears. How poor the world of fancy +would be, how "dispeopled of her dreams," if, in some ruin of the +social system, the books of Dickens were lost; and if The Dodger, +and Charley Bates, and Mr. Crinkle, and Miss Squeers and Sam Weller, +and Mrs. Gamp, and Dick Swiveller were to perish, or to vanish with +Menander's men and women! We cannot think of our world without +them; and, children of dreams as they are, they seem more essential +than great statesmen, artists, soldiers, who have actually worn +flesh and blood, ribbons and orders, gowns and uniforms. May we not +almost welcome "Free Education"? for every Englishman who can read, +unless he be an Ass, is a reader the more for you. + +P.S.--Alas, how strangely are we tempered, and how strong is the +national bias! I have been saying things of you that I would not +hear an enemy say. When I read, in the criticism of an American +novelist, about your "hysterical emotionality" (for he writes in +American), and your "waste of verbiage," I am almost tempted to deny +that our Dickens has a single fault, to deem you impeccable! + + + +LETTER--To Pierre de Ronsard (Prince of Poets) + + + +Master And Prince of Poets,--As we know what choice thou madest of a +sepulchre (a choice how ill fulfilled by the jealousy of Fate), so +we know well the manner of thy chosen immortality. In the Plains +Elysian, among the heroes and the ladies of old song, there was thy +Love with thee to enjoy her paradise in an eternal spring. + + +Le du plaisant Avril la saison immortelle +Sans eschange le suit, +La terre sans labour, de sa grasse mamelle, +Toute chose y produit; +D'enbas la troupe sainte autrefois amoureuse, +Nous honorant sur tous, +Viendra nous saluer, s'estimant bien-heureuse +De s'accointer de nous. + + +There thou dwellest, with the learned lovers of old days, with +Belleau, and Du Bellay, and Baif, and the flower of the maidens of +Anjou. Surely no rumour reaches thee, in that happy place of +reconciled affections, no rumour of the rudeness of Time, the +despite of men, and the change which stole from thy locks, so early +grey, the crown of laurels and of thine own roses. How different +from thy choice of a sepulchre have been the fortunes of thy tomb! + + +I will that none should break +The marble for my sake, +Wishful to make more fair +My sepulchre! + + +So didst thou sing, or so thy sweet numbers run in my rude English. +Wearied of Courts and of priories, thou didst desire a grave beside +thine own Loire, not remote from + + +The caves, the founts that fall +From the high mountain wall, +That fall and flash and fleet, +With silver feet. + +Only a laurel tree +Shall guard the grave of me; +Only Apollo's bough +Shall shade me now! + + +Far other has been thy sepulchre: not in the free air, among the +field flowers, but in thy priory of Saint Cosme, with marble for a +monument, and no green grass to cover thee. Restless wert thou in +thy life; thy dust was not to be restful in thy death. The +Huguenots, ces nouveaux Chretiens qui la France ont pillee, +destroyed thy tomb, and the warning of the later monument, + + +ABI, NEFASTE, QUAM CALCUS HUMU< SACRA EST, + + +has not scared away malicious men. The storm that passed over +France a hundred years ago, more terrible than the religious wars +that thou didst weep for, has swept the column from the tomb. The +marble was broken by violent hands, and the shattered sepulchre of +the Prince of Poets gained a dusty hospitality from the museum of a +country town. Better had been the laurel of thy desire, the +creeping vine, and the ivy tree. + +Scarce more fortunate, for long, than thy monument was thy memory. +Thou hast not encountered, Master, in the Paradise of Poets, +Messieurs Malherbe, De Balzac, and Boileau-- Boileau who spoke of +thee as Ce poete orgueilleux trebuche de si haut! + +These gallant gentlemen, I make no doubt, are happy after their own +fashion, backbiting each other and thee in the Paradise of Critics. +In their time they wrought thee much evil, grumbling that thou +wrotest in Greek and Latin (of which tongues certain of them had but +little skill), and blaming thy many lyric melodies and the free flow +of thy lines. What said M. de Balzac to M. Chapelain? "M. de +Malherbe, M. de Grasse, and yourself must be very little poets, if +Ronsard be a great one." Time has brought in his revenges, and +Messieurs Chapelain and De Grasse are as well forgotten as thou art +well remembered. Men could not always be deaf to thy sweet old +songs, nor blind to the beauty of thy roses and thy loves. When +they took the wax out of their ears that M. Boileau had given them +lest they should hear the singing of thy Sirens, then they were deaf +no longer, then they heard the old deaf poet singing and made answer +to his lays. Hast thou not heard these sounds? have they not +reached thee, the voices and the lyres of Theophile Gautier and +Alfred de Musset? Methinks thou hast marked them, and been glad +that the old notes were ringing again and the old French lyric +measures tripping to thine ancient harmonies, echoing and replying +to the Muses of Horace and Catullus. Returning to Nature, poets +returned to thee. Thy monument has perished, but not thy music, and +the Prince of Poets has returned to his own again in a glorious +Restoration. + +Through the dust and smoke of ages, and through the centuries of +wars we strain our eyes and try to gain a glimpse of thee, Master, +in thy good days, when the Muses walked with thee. We seem to mark +thee wandering silent through some little village, or dreaming in +the woods, or loitering among thy lonely places, or in gardens where +the roses blossom among wilder flowers, or on river banks where the +whispering poplars and sighing reeds make answer to the murmur of +the waters. Such a picture hast thou drawn of thyself in the summer +afternoons. + + +Je m'en vais pourmener tantost parmy la plaine, +Tantost en un village, et tantost en un bois, +Et tantost par les lieux solitaires et cois. +J'aime fort les jardins qui sentent le sauvage, +J'aime le flot de l'eau qui gazouille au rivage. + + +Still, methinks, there was a book in the hand of the grave and +learned poet; still thou wouldst carry thy Horace, thy Catullus, thy +Theocritus, through the gem-like weather of the Renouveau, when the +woods were enamelled with flowers, and the young Spring was lodged, +like a wandering prince, in his great palaces hung with green: + + +Orgueilleux de ses fleurs, enfle de sa jeunesse, +Loge comme un grand Prince en ses vertes maisons! + + +Thou sawest, in these woods by Loire side, the fair shapes of old +religion, Fauns, Nymphs, and Satyrs, and heard'st in the +nightingale's music the plaint of Philomel. The ancient poets came +back in the train of thyself and of the Spring, and learning was +scarce less dear to thee than love; and thy ladies seemed fairer for +the names they borrowed from the beauties of forgotten days, Helen +and Cassandra. How sweetly didst thou sing to them thine old +morality, and how gravely didst thou teach the lesson of the Roses! +Well didst thou know it, well didst thou love the Rose, since thy +nurse, carrying thee, an infant, to the holy font, let fall on thee +the sacred water brimmed with floating blossoms of the Rose! + + +Mignonne, allons voir si la Rose, +Qui ce matin avoit desclose +Sa robe de pourpre au soleil, +A point perdu ceste vespree +Les plis de sa robe pourpree, +Et son teint au votre pareil. + + +And again, + + +La belle Rose du Printemps, +Aubert, admoneste les hommes +Passer joyeusement le temps, +Et pendant que jeunes nous sommes, +Esbattre la fleur de nos ans. + + +In the same mood, looking far down the future, thou sangest of thy +lady's age, the most sad, the most beautiful of thy sad and +beautiful lays; for if thy bees gathered much honey 'twas somewhat +bitter to taste, like that of the Sardinian yews. How clearly we +see the great hall, the grey lady spinning and humming among her +drowsy maids, and how they waken at the word, and she sees her +spring in their eyes, and they forecast their winter in her face, +when she murmurs "'Twas Ronsard sang of me." + +Winter, and summer, and spring, how swiftly they pass, and how early +time brought thee his sorrows, and grief cast her dust upon thy +head. + + +Adieu ma Lyre, adieu fillettes, +Jadis mes douces amourettes, +Adieu, je sens venir ma fin, +Nul passetemps de ma jeunesse +Ne m'accompagne en la vieillesse, +Que le feu, le lict et le vin. + + +Wine, and a soft bed, and a bright fire: to this trinity of poor +pleasures we come soon, if, indeed, wine be left to us. Poetry +herself deserts us; is it not said that Bacchus never forgives a +renegade? and most of us turn recreants to Bacchus. Even the bright +fire, I fear, was not always there to warm thine old blood, Master, +or, if fire there were, the wood was not bought with thy book- +seller's money. When autumn was drawing in during thine early old +age, in 1584, didst thou not write that thou hadst never received a +sou at the hands of all the publishers who vended thy books? And as +thou wert about putting forth thy folio edition of 1584, thou didst +pray Buon, the bookseller, to give thee sixty crowns to buy wood +withal, and make thee a bright fire in winter weather, and comfort +thine old age with thy friend Gallandius. And if Buon will not pay, +then to try the other booksellers, "that wish to take everything and +give nothing." + +Was it knowledge of this passage, Master, or ignorance of everything +else, that made certain of the common steadfast dunces of our days +speak of thee as if thou hadst been a starveling, neglected +poetaster, jealous forsooth of Maitre Francoys Rabelais? See how +ignorantly M. Fleury writes, who teaches French literature withal to +them of Muscovy, and hath indited a Life of Rabelais. "Rabelais +etait revetu d'un emploi honorable; Ronsard etait traite en +subalterne," quoth this wondrous professor. What! Pierre de +Ronsard, a gentleman of a noble house, holding the revenue of many +abbeys, the friend of Mary Stuart, of the Duc d'Orleans, of Charles +IX., HE is traite en subalterne, and is jealous of a frocked or +unfrocked manant like Maitre Francoys! And then this amazing Fleury +falls foul of thine epitaph on Maitre Francoys and cries, "Ronsard a +voulu faire des vers mechants; il n'a fait que de mechants vers." +More truly saith M. Sainte-Beuve, "If the good Rabelais had returned +to Meudon on the day when this epitaph was made over the wine, he +would, methinks, have laughed heartily." But what shall be said of +a Professor like the egregious M. Fleury, who holds that Ronsard was +despised at Court? Was there a party at tennis when the king would +not fain have had thee on his side, declaring that he ever won when +Ronsard was his partner? Did he not give thee benefices, and many +priories, and call thee his father in Apollo, and even, so they say, +bid thee sit down beside him on his throne? Away, ye scandalous +folk, who tell us that there was strife between the Prince of Poets +and the King of Mirth. Naught have ye by way of proof of your +slander but the talk of Jean Bernier, a scurrilous, starveling +apothecary, who put forth his fables in 1697, a century and a half +after Maitre Francoys died. Bayle quoted this fellow in a note, and +ye all steal the tattle one from another in your dull manner, and +know not whence it comes, nor even that Bayle would none of it and +mocked its author. With so little knowledge is history written, and +thus doth each chattering brook of a "Life" swell with its tribute +"that great Mississippi of falsehood," Biography. + + + +LETTER--To Herodotus + + + +To Herodotus of Halicarnassus, greeting.--Concerning the matters set +forth in your histories, and the tales you tell about both Greeks +and Barbarians, whether they be true, or whether they be false, men +dispute not little but a great deal. Wherefore I, being concerned +to know the verity, did set forth to make search in every manner, +and came in my quest even unto the ends of the earth. For there is +an island of the Cimmerians beyond the Straits of Heracles, some +three days' voyage to a ship that hath a fair following wind in her +sails; and there it is said that men know many things from of old: +thither, then, I came in my inquiry. Now, the island is not small, +but large, greater than the whole of Hellas; and they call it +Britain. In that island the east wind blows for ten parts of the +year, and the people know not how to cover themselves from the cold. +But for the other two months of the year the sun shines fiercely, so +that some of them die thereof, and others die of the frozen mixed +drinks; for they have ice even in the summer, and this ice they put +to their liquor. Through the whole of this island, from the west +even to the east, there flows a river called Thames: a great river +and a laborious, but not to be likened to the River of Egypt. + +The mouth of this river, where I stepped out from my ship, is +exceedingly foul and of an evil savour by reason of the city on the +banks. Now this city is several hundred parasangs in circumference. +Yet a man that needed not to breathe the air might go round it in +one hour, in chariots that run under the earth; and these chariots +are drawn by creatures that breathe smoke and sulphur, such as +Orpheus mentions in his "Argonautica," if it be by Orpheus. The +people of the town, when I inquired of them concerning Herodotus of +Halicarnassus, looked on me with amazement, and went straightway +about their business--namely, to seek out whatsoever new thing is +coming to pass all over the whole inhabited world, and as for things +old, they take no keep of them. + +Nevertheless, by diligence I learned that he who in this land knew +most concerning Herodotus was a priest, and dwelt in the priests' +city on the river which is called the City of the Ford of the Ox. +But whether Io, when she wore a cow's shape, had passed by that way +in her wanderings, and thence comes the name of that city, I could +not (though I asked all men I met) learn aught with certainty. But +to me, considering this, it seemed that Io must have come thither. +And now farewell to Io. + +To the City of the Priests there are two roads: one by land; and +one by water, following the river. To a well-girdled man, the land +journey is but one day's travel; by the river it is longer but more +pleasant. Now that river flows, as I said, from the west to the +east. And there is in it a fish called chub, which they catch; but +they do not eat it, for a certain sacred reason. Also there is a +fish called trout, and this is the manner of his catching. They +build for this purpose great dams of wood, which they call weirs. +Having built the weir they sit upon it with rods in their hands, and +a line on the rod, and at the end of the line a little fish. There +then they "sit and spin in the sun," as one of their poets says, not +for a short time but for many days, having rods in their hands and +eating and drinking. In this wise they angle for the fish called +trout; but whether they ever catch him or not, not having seen it, I +cannot say; for it is not pleasant to me to speak things concerning +which I know not the truth. + +Now, after sailing and rowing against the stream for certain days, I +came to the City of the Ford of the Ox. Here the river changes his +name, and is called Isis, after the name of the goddess of the +Egyptians. But whether the Britons brought the name from Egypt or +whether the Egyptians took it from the Britons, not knowing I prefer +not to say. But to me it seems that the Britons are a colony of the +Egyptians, or the Egyptians a colony of the Britons. Moreover, when +I was in Egypt I saw certain soldiers in white helmets, who were +certainly British. But what they did there (as Egypt neither +belongs to Britain nor Britain to Egypt) I know not, neither could +they tell me. But one of them replied to me in that line of Homer +(if the Odyssey be Homer's), "We have come to a sorry Cyprus, and a +sad Egypt." Others told me that they once marched against the +Ethiopians, and having defeated them several times, then came back +again, leaving their property to the Ethiopians. But as to the +truth of this I leave it to every man to form his own opinion. + +Having come into the City of the Priests, I went forth into the +street, and found a priest of the baser sort, who for a piece of +silver led me hither and thither among the temples, discoursing of +many things. + +Now it seemed to me a strange thing that the city was empty, and no +man dwelling therein, save a few priests only, and their wives, and +their children, who are drawn to and fro in little carriages dragged +by women. But the priest told me that during half the year the city +was desolate, for that there came somewhat called "The Long," or +"The Vac," and drave out the young priests. And he said that these +did no other thing but row boats, and throw balls from one to the +other, and this they were made to do, he said, that the young +priests might learn to be humble, for they are the proudest of men. +But whether he spoke truth or not I know not, only I set down what +he told me. But to anyone considering it, this appears rather to +jump with his story--namely, that the young priests have houses on +the river, painted of divers colours, all of them empty. + +Then the priest, at my desire, brought me to one of the temples, +that I might seek out all things concerning Herodotus the +Halicarnassian, from one who knew. Now this temple is not the +fairest in the city, but less fair and goodly than the old temples, +yet goodlier and more fair than the new temples; and over the roof +there is the image of an eagle made of stone--no small marvel, but a +great one, how men came to fashion him; and that temple is called +the House of Queens. Here they sacrifice a boar once every year; +and concerning this they tell a certain sacred story which I know +but will not utter. + +Then I was brought to the priest who had a name for knowing most +about Egypt, and the Egyptians, and the Assyrians, and the +Cappadocians, and all the kingdoms of the Great King. He came out +to me, being attired in a black robe, and wearing on his head a +square cap. But why the priests have square caps I know, and he who +has been initiated into the mysteries which they call "Matric" +knows, but I prefer not to tell. Concerning the square cap, then, +let this be sufficient. Now, the priest received me courteously, +and when I asked him, concerning Herodotus, whether he were a true +man or not, he smiled and answered "Abu Goosh," which, in the tongue +of the Arabians, means "The Father of Liars." Then he went on to +speak concerning Herodotus, and he said in his discourse that +Herodotus not only told the thing which was not, but that he did so +wilfully, as one knowing the truth but concealing it. For example, +quoth he, "Solon never went to see Croesus, as Herodotus avers; nor +did those about Xerxes ever dream dreams; but Herodotus, out of his +abundant wickedness, invented these things." + +"Now behold," he went on, "how the curse of the Gods falls upon +Herodotus. For he pretends that he saw Cadmeian inscriptions at +Thebes. Now I do not believe there were any Cadmeian inscriptions +there: therefore Herodotus is most manifestly lying. Moreover, +this Herodotus never speaks of Sophocles the Athenian, and why not? +Because he, being a child at school, did not learn Sophocles by +heart: for the tragedies of Sophocles could not have been learned +at school before they were written, nor can any man quote a poet +whom he never learned at school. Moreover, as all those about +Herodotus knew Sophocles well, he could not appear to them to be +learned by showing that he knew what they knew also." Then I +thought the priest was making game and sport, saying first that +Herodotus could know no poet whom he had not learned at school, and +then saying that all the men of his time well knew this poet, "about +whom everyone was talking." But the priest seemed not to know that +Herodotus and Sophocles were friends, which is proved by this, that +Sophocles wrote an ode in praise of Herodotus. + +Then he went on, and though I were to write with a hundred hands +(like Briareus, of whom Homer makes mention) I could not tell you +all the things that the priest said against Herodotus, speaking +truly, or not truly, or sometimes correctly and sometimes not, as +often befalls mortal men. For Herodotus, he said, was chiefly +concerned to steal the lore of those who came before him, such as +Hecataeus, and then to escape notice as having stolen it. Also he +said that, being himself cunning and deceitful, Herodotus was easily +beguiled by the cunning of others, and believed in things manifestly +false, such as the story of the Phoenix-bird. + +Then I spoke, and said that Herodotus himself declared that he could +not believe that story; but the priest regarded me not. And he said +that Herodotus had never caught a crocodile with cold pig, nor did +he ever visit Assyria, nor Babylon, nor Elephantine; but, saying +that he had been in these lands, said that which was not true. He +also declared that Herodotus, when he travelled, knew none of the +Fat Ones of the Egyptians, but only those of the baser sort. And he +called Herodotus a thief and a beguiler, and "the same with intent +to deceive," as one of their own poets writes. And, to be short, +Herodotus, I could not tell you in one day all the charges which are +now brought against you; but concerning the truth of these things, +YOU know, not least, but most, as to yourself being guilty or +innocent. Wherefore, if you have anything to show or set forth +whereby you may be relieved from the burden of these accusations, +now is the time. Be no longer silent; but, whether through the +Oracle of the Dead, or the Oracle of Branchidae, or that in Delphi, +or Dodona, or of Amphiaraus at Oropus, speak to your friends and +lovers (whereof I am one from of old) and let men know the very +truth. + +Now, concerning the priests in the City of the Ford of the Ox, it is +to be said that of all men whom we know they receive strangers most +gladly, feasting them all day. Moreover, they have many drinks, +cunningly mixed, and of these the best is that they call Archdeacon, +naming it from one of the priests' offices. Truly, as Homer says +(if the Odyssey be Homer's), "when that draught is poured into the +bowl then it is no pleasure to refrain." + +Drinking of this wine, or nectar, Herodotus, I pledge you, and pour +forth some deal on the ground, to Herodotus of Halicarnassus, in the +House of Hades. + +And I wish you farewell, and good be with you. Whether the priest +spoke truly, or not truly, even so may such good things betide you +as befall dead men. + + + +LETTER--Epistle to Mr. Alexander Pope + + + +From mortal Gratitude, decide, my Pope, +Have Wits Immortal more to fear or hope? +Wits toil and travail round the Plant of Fame, +Their Works its Garden, and its Growth their Aim, +Then Commentators, in unwieldy Dance, +Break down the Barriers of the trim Pleasance, +Pursue the Poet, like Actaeon's Hounds, +Beyond the fences of his Garden Grounds, +Rend from the singing Robes each borrowed Gem, +Rend from the laurel'd Brows the Diadem, +And, if one Rag of Character they spare, +Comes the Biographer, and strips it bare! + +Such, Pope, has been thy Fortune, such thy Doom. +Swift the Ghouls gathered at the Poet's Tomb, +With Dust of Notes to clog each lordly Line, +Warburton, Warton, Croker, Bowles, combine! +Collecting Cackle, Johnson condescends +To INTERVIEW the Drudges of your Friends. +Thus though your Courthope holds your merits high, +And still proclaims your Poems POETRY, +Biographers, un-Boswell-like, have sneered, +And Dunces edit him whom Dunces feared! + +They say, "what say they?" Not in vain You ask; +To tell you what they say, behold my Task! +"Methinks already I your Tears survey" +As I repeat "the horrid Things they say." {2} + +Comes El-n first: I fancy you'll agree +Not frenzied Dennis smote so fell as he; +For El-n's Introduction, crabbed and dry, +Like Churchill's Cudgel's {3} marked with LIE, and LIE! + +"Too dull to know what his own System meant, +Pope yet was skilled new Treasons to invent; +A Snake that puffed himself and stung his Friends, +Few Lied so frequent, for such little Ends; + +His mind, like Flesh inflamed, {4} was raw and sore, +And still, the more he writhed, he stung the more! +Oft in a Quarrel, never in the Right, +His Spirit sank when he was called to fight. +Pope, in the Darkness mining like a Mole, +Forged on Himself, as from Himself he stole, +And what for Caryll once he feigned to feel, +Transferred, in Letters never sent, to Steele! +Still he denied the Letters he had writ, +And still mistook Indecency for Wit. +His very Grammar, so De Quincey cries, +"Detains the Reader, and at times defies!'" + +Fierce El-n thus: no Line escapes his Rage, +And furious Foot-notes growl 'neath every Page: +See St-ph-n next take up the woful Tale, +Prolong the Preaching, and protract the Wail! +"Some forage Falsehoods from the North and South, +But Pope, poor D-l, lied from Hand to Mouth; {5} +Affected, hypocritical, and vain, +A Book in Breeches, and a Fop in Grain; +A Fox that found not the high Clusters sour, +The Fanfaron of Vice beyond his power, +Pope yet possessed"--(the Praise will make you start) - +"Mean, morbid, vain, he yet possessed a Heart! +And still we marvel at the Man, and still +Admire his Finish, and applaud his Skill: +Though, as that fabled Barque, a phantom Form, +Eternal strains, nor rounds the Cape of Storm, +Even so Pope strove, nor ever crossed the Line +That from the Noble separates the Fine!" + +The Learned thus, and who can quite reply, +Reverse the Judgment, and Retort the Lie? +You reap, in armed Hates that haunt your Name, +Reap what you sowed, the Dragon's Teeth of Fame: +You could not write, and from unenvious Time +Expect the Wreath that crowns the lofty Rhyme, +You still must fight, retreat, attack, defend, +And oft, to snatch a Laurel, lose a Friend! + +The Pity of it! And the changing Taste +Of changing Time leaves half your Work a Waste! +My Childhood fled your Couplet's clarion tone, +And sought for Homer in the Prose of Bohn. +Still through the Dust of that dim Prose appears +The Flight of Arrows and the Sheen of Spears; +Still we may trace what Hearts heroic feel, +And hear the Bronze that hurtles on the Steel! +But, ah, your Iliad seems a half-pretence, +Where Wits, not Heroes, prove their Skill in Fence, +And great Achilles' Eloquence doth show +As if no Centaur trained him, but Boileau! + +Again, your Verse is orderly,--and more, - +"The Waves behind impel the Waves before;" +Monotonously musical they glide, +Till Couplet unto Couplet hath replied. +But turn to Homer! How his Verses sweep! +Surge answers Surge and Deep doth call on Deep; +This Line in Foam and Thunder issues forth, +Spurred by the West or smitten by the North, +Sombre in all its sullen Deeps, and all +Clear at the Crest, and foaming to the Fall, +The next with silver Murmur dies away, +Like Tides that falter to Calypso's Bay! + +Thus Time, with sordid Alchemy and dread, +Turns half the Glory of your Gold to Lead; +Thus Time,--at Ronsard's wreath that vainly bit, - +Has marred the Poet to preserve the Wit, +Who almost left on Addison a stain, +Whose Knife cut cleanest with a poisoned pain, - +Yet Thou (strange Fate that clings to all of Thine!) +When most a Wit dost most a Poet shine. +In Poetry thy Dunciad expires, +When Wit has shot "her momentary Fires." +'Tis Tragedy that watches by the Bed +"Where tawdry Yellow strove with dirty Red," +And Men, remembering all, can scarce deny +To lay the Laurel where thine Ashes lie! + + + +LETTER--To Lucian of Samosata + + + +In what bower, oh Lucian, of your rediscovered Islands Fortunate are +you now reclining; the delight of the fair, the learned, the witty, +and the brave? In that clear and tranquil climate, whose air +breathes of "violet and lily, myrtle, and the flower of the vine," + + +Where the daisies are rose-scented, +And the Rose herself has got +Perfume which on earth is not, + + +among the music of all birds, and the wind-blown notes of flutes +hanging on the trees, methinks that your laughter sounds most +silvery sweet, and that Helen and fair Charmides are still of your +company. Master of mirth, and Soul the best contented of all that +have seen the world's ways clearly, most clear-sighted of all that +have made tranquillity their bride, what other laughers dwell with +you, where the crystal and fragrant waters wander round the shining +palaces and the temples of amethyst? + +Heine surely is with you; if, indeed, it was not one Syrian soul +that dwelt among alien men, Germans and Romans, in the bodily +tabernacles of Heine and of Lucian. But he was fallen on evil times +and evil tongues; while Lucian, as witty as he, as bitter in +mockery, as happily dowered with the magic of words, lived long and +happily and honoured, imprisoned in no "mattress-grave." Without +Rabelais, without Voltaire, without Heine, you would find, methinks, +even the joys of your Happy Islands lacking in zest; and, unless +Plato came by your way, none of the ancients could meet you in the +lists of sportive dialogue. + +There, among the vines that bear twelve times in the year, more +excellent than all the vineyards of Touraine, while the song-birds +bring you flowers from vales enchanted, and the shapes of the +Blessed come and go, beautiful in wind-woven raiment of sunset hues; +there, in a land that knows not age, nor winter, midnight, nor +autumn, nor noon, where the silver twilight of summer-dawn is +perennial, where youth does not wax spectre-pale and die; there, my +Lucian, you are crowned the Prince of the Paradise of Mirth. + +Who would bring you, if he had the power, from the banquet where +Homer sings: Homer, who, in mockery of commentators, past and to +come, German and Greek, informed you that he was by birth a +Babylonian? Yet, if you, who first wrote Dialogues of the Dead, +could hear the prayer of an epistle wafted to "lands indiscoverable +in the unheard-of West," you might visit once more a world so worthy +of such a mocker, so like the world you knew so well of old. + +Ah, Lucian, we have need of you, of your sense and of your mockery! +Here, where faith is sick and superstition is waking afresh; where +gods come rarely, and spectres appear at five shillings an +interview; where science is popular, and philosophy cries aloud in +the market-place, and clamour does duty for government, and Thais +and Lais are names of power--here, Lucian, is room and scope for +you. Can I not imagine a new "Auction of Philosophers," and what +wealth might be made by him who bought these popular sages and +lecturers at his estimate, and vended them at their own? + +HERMES: Whom shall we put first up to auction? + +ZEUS: That German in spectacles; he seems a highly respectable man. + +HERMES: Ho, Pessimist, come down and let the public view you. + +ZEUS: Go on, put him up and have done with him. + +HERMES: Who bids for the Life Miserable, for extreme, complete, +perfect, unredeemable perdition? What offers for the universal +extinction of the species, and the collapse of the Conscious? + +A PURCHASER: He does not look at all a bad lot. May one put him +through his paces? + +HERMES: Certainly; try your luck. + +PURCHASER: What is your name? + +PESSIMIST: Hartmann. + +PURCHASER: What can you teach me? + +PESSIMIST: That Life is not worth Living. + +PURCHASER: Wonderful Most edifying! How much for this lot? + +HERMES: Two hundred pounds. + +PURCHASER: I will write you a cheque for the money. Come home, +Pessimist, and begin your lessons without more ado. + +HERMES: Attention! Here is a magnificent article--the Positive +Life, the Scientific Life, the Enthusiastic Life. Who bids for a +possible place in the Calendar of the Future? + +PURCHASER: What does he call himself? he has a very French air. + +HERMES: Put your own questions. + +PURCHASER: What's your pedigree, my Philosopher, and previous +performances? + +POSITIVIST: I am by Rousseau out of Catholicism, with a strain of +the Evolution blood. + +PURCHASER: What do you believe in? + +POSITIVIST: In Man, with a large M. + +PURCHASER: Not in individual Man? + +POSITIVIST: By no means; not even always in Mr. Gladstone. All +men, all Churches, all parties, all philosophies, and even the other +sect of our own Church, are perpetually in the wrong. Buy me, and +listen to me, and you will always be in the right. + +PURCHASER: And, after this life, what have you to offer me? + +POSITIVIST: A distinguished position in the Choir Invisible; but +not, of course, conscious immortality. + +PURCHASER: Take him away, and put up another lot. + +Then the Hegelian, with his Notion, and the Darwinian, with his +notions, and the Lotzian, with his Broad Church mixture of Religion +and Evolution, and the Spencerian, with that Absolute which is a +sort of a something, might all be offered with their divers wares; +and cheaply enough, Lucian, you would value them in this auction of +Sects. "There is but one way to Corinth," as of old; but which that +way may be, oh master of Hermotimus, we know no more than he did of +old; and still we find, of all philosophies, that the Stoic route is +most to be recommended. But we have our Cyrenaics too, though they +are no longer "clothed in purple, and crowned with flowers, and fond +of drink and of female flute-players." Ah, here too, you might +laugh, and fail to see where the Pleasure lies, when the Cyrenaics +are no "judges of cakes" (nor of ale, for that matter), and are +strangers in the Courts of Princes. "To despise all things, to make +use of all things, in all things to follow pleasure only:" that is +not the manner of the new, if it were the secret of the older +Hedonism. + +Then, turning from the philosophers to the seekers after a sign, +what change, Lucian, would you find in them and their ways? None; +they are quite unaltered. Still our Peregrinus, and our Peregrina +too, come to us from the East, or, if from the West, they take India +on their way--India, that secular home of drivelling creeds, and of +religion in its sacerdotage. Still they prattle of Brahmins and +Buddhism; though, unlike Peregrinus, they do not publicly burn +themselves on pyres, at Epsom Downs, after the Derby. We are not so +fortunate in the demise of our Theosophists; and our police, less +wise than the Hellenodicae, would probably not permit the Immolation +of the Quack. Like your Alexander, they deal in marvels and +miracles, oracles and warnings. All such bogy stories as those of +your "Philopseudes," and the ghost of the lady who took to table- +rapping because one of her best slippers had not been burned with +her body, are gravely investigated by the Psychical Society. + +Even your ignorant Bibliophile is still with us--the man without a +tinge of letters, who buys up old manuscripts "because they are +stained and gnawed, and who goes, for proof of valued antiquity, to +the testimony of the book-worms." And the rich Bibliophile now, as +in your satire, clothes his volumes in purple morocco and gay +dorures, while their contents are sealed to him. + +As to the topics of satire and gay curiosity which occupy the lady +known as "Gyp," and M. Halevy in his "Les Petites Cardinal," if you +had not exhausted the matter in your "Dialogues of Hetairai," you +would be amused to find the same old traits surviving without a +touch of change. One reads, in Halevy's French, of Madame Cardinal, +and, in your Greek, of the mother of Philinna, and marvels that +eighteen hundred years have not in one single trifle altered the +mould. Still the old shabby light-loves, the old greed, the old +luxury and squalor. Still the unconquerable superstition that now +seeks to tell fortunes by the cards, and, in your time, resorted to +the sorceress with her magical "bull-roarer" or turndun. {6} + +Yes, Lucian, we are the same vain creatures of doubt and dread, of +unbelief and credulity, of avarice and pretence, that you knew, and +at whom you smiled. Nay, our very "social question" is not altered. +Do you not write, in "The Runaways," "The artisans will abandon +their workshops, and leave their trades, when they see that, with +all the labour that bows their bodies from dawn to dark, they make a +petty and starveling pittance, while men that toil not nor spin are +floating in Pactolus"? + +They begin to see this again as of yore; but whether the end of +their vision will be a laughing matter, you, fortunate Lucian, do +not need to care. Hail to you, and farewell! + + + +LETTER--To Maitre Francoys Rabelais. Of the coming of the +Coqcigrues. + + + +Master,--In the Boreal and Septentrional lands, turned aside from +the noonday and the sun, there dwelt of old (as thou knowest, and as +Olaus voucheth) a race of men, brave, strong, nimble, and +adventurous, who had no other care but to fight and drink. There, +by reason of the cold (as Virgil witnesseth), men break wine with +axes. To their minds, when once they were dead and gotten to +Valhalla, or the place of their Gods, there would be no other +pleasure but to swig, tipple, drink, and boose till the coming of +that last darkness and Twilight, wherein they, with their deities, +should do battle against the enemies of all mankind; which day they +rather desired than dreaded. + +So chanced it also with Pantagruel and Brother John and their +company, after they had once partaken of the secret of the Dive +Bouteille. Thereafter they searched no longer; but, abiding at +their ease, were merry, frolic, jolly, gay, glad, and wise; only +that they always and ever did expect the awful Coming of the +Coqcigrues. Now concerning the day of that coming, and the nature +of them that should come, they knew nothing; and for his part +Panurge was all the more adread, as Aristotle testifieth that men +(and Panurge above others) most fear that which they know least. +Now it chanced one day, as they sat at meat, with viands rare, +dainty, and precious as ever Apicius dreamed of, that there +fluttered on the air a faint sound as of sermons, speeches, +orations, addresses, discourses, lectures, and the like; whereat +Panurge, pricking up his ears, cried, "Methinks this wind bloweth +from Midlothian," and so fell a trembling. + +Next, to their aural orifices, and the avenues audient of the brain, +was borne a very melancholy sound as of harmoniums, hymns, organ- +pianos, psalteries, and the like, all playing different airs, in a +kind most hateful to the Muses. Then said Panurge, as well as he +might for the chattering of his teeth: "May I never drink if here +come not the Coqcigrues!" and this saying and prophecy of his was +true and inspired. But thereon the others began to mock, flout, and +gird at Panurge for his cowardice. "Here am I!" cried Brother John, +"well-armed and ready to stand a siege; being entrenched, fortified, +hemmed-in and surrounded with great pasties, huge pieces of salted +beef, salads, fricassees, hams, tongues, pies, and a wilderness of +pleasant little tarts, jellies, pastries, trifles, and fruits of all +kinds, and I shall not thirst while I have good wells, founts, +springs, and sources of Bordeaux wine, Burgundy, wine of the +Champagne country, sack and Canary. A fig for thy Coqcigrues!" + +But even as he spoke there ran up suddenly a whole legion, or rather +army, of physicians, each armed with laryngoscopes, stethoscopes, +horoscopes, microscopes, weighing machines, and such other tools, +engines, and arms as they had who, after thy time, persecuted +Monsieur de Pourceaugnac! And they all, rushing on Brother John, +cried out to him, "Abstain! Abstain!" And one said, "I have well +diagnosed thee, and thou art in a fair way to have the gout." "I +never did better in my days," said Brother John. "Away with thy +meats and drinks!" they cried. And one said, "He must to Royat;" +and another, "Hence with him to Aix;" and a third, "Banish him to +Wiesbaden;" and a fourth, "Hale him to Gastein;" and yet another, +"To Barbouille with him in chains!" + +And while others felt his pulse and looked at his tongue, they all +wrote prescriptions for him like men mad. "For thy eating," cried +he that seemed to be their leader, "No soup!" "No soup!" quoth +Brother John; and those cheeks of his, whereat you might have warmed +your two hands in the winter solstice, grew white as lilies. "Nay! +and no salmon, nor any beef nor mutton! A little chicken by times, +pericolo tuo! Nor any game, such as grouse, partridge, pheasant, +capercailzie, wild duck; nor any cheese, nor fruit, nor pastry, nor +coffee, nor eau de vie; and avoid all sweets. No veal, pork, nor +made dishes of any kind." "Then what may I eat?" quoth the good +Brother, whose valour had oozed out of the soles of his sandals. "A +little cold bacon at breakfast--no eggs," quoth the leader of the +strange folk, "and a slice of toast without butter." "And for thy +drink"--("What?" gasped Brother John)--"one dessert-spoonful of +whisky, with a pint of the water of Apollinaris at luncheon and +dinner. No more!" At this Brother John fainted, falling like a +great buttress of a hill, such as Taygetus or Erymanthus. + +While they were busy with him, others of the frantic folk had built +great platforms of wood, whereon they all stood and spoke at once, +both men and women. And of these some wore red crosses on their +garments, which meaneth "Salvation;" and others wore white crosses, +with a little black button of crape, to signify "Purity;" and others +bits of blue to mean "Abstinence." While some of these pursued +Panurge others did beset Pantagruel; asking him very long questions, +whereunto he gave but short answers. Thus they asked:- + +Have ye Local Option here?--Pan.: What? + +May one man drink if his neighbour be not athirst?--Pan.: Yea! + +Have ye Free Education?--Pan.: What? + +Must they that have, pay to school them that have not?--Pan.: Nay! + +Have ye free land?--Pan.: What? + +Have ye taken the land from the farmer, and given it to the tailor +out of work and the candlemaker masterless?--Pan.: Nay! + +Have your women folk votes?--Pan.: Bosh! + +Have ye got religion?--Pan.: How? + +Do you go about the streets at night, brawling, blowing a trumpet +before you, and making long prayers?--Pan.: Nay! + +Have you manhood suffrage?--Pan.: Eh? + +Is Jack as good as his master?--Pan.: Nay! + +Have you joined the Arbitration Society?--Pan.: Quoy? + +Will you let another kick you, and will you ask his neighbour if you +deserve the same?--Pan.: Nay! + +Do you eat what you list?--Pan.: Ay! + +Do you drink when you are athirst?--Pan.: Ay! + +Are you governed by the free expression of the popular will?--Pan.: +How? + +Are you servants of priests, pulpits, and penny papers?--Pan.: NO! + +Now, when they heard these answers of Pantagruel they all fell, some +a weeping, some a praying, some a swearing, some an arbitrating, +some a lecturing, some a caucussing, some a preaching, some a faith- +healing, some a miracle-working, some a hypnotising, some a writing +to the daily press; and while they were thus busy, like folk +distraught, "reforming the island," Pantagruel burst out a laughing; +whereat they were greatly dismayed; for laughter killeth the whole +race of Coqcigrues, and they may not endure it. + +Then Pantagruel and his company stole aboard a barque that Panurge +had ready in the harbour. And having provisioned her well with +store of meat and good drink, they set sail for the kingdom of +Entelechy, where, having landed, they were kindly entreated; and +there abide to this day; drinking of the sweet and eating of the +fat, under the protection of that intellectual sphere which hath in +all places its centre and nowhere its circumference. + +Such was their destiny; there was their end appointed, and thither +the Coqcigrues can never come. For all the air of that land is full +of laughter, which killeth Coqcigrues; and there aboundeth the herb +Pantagruelion. But for thee, Master Francoys, thou art not well +liked in this island of ours, where the Coqcigrues are abundant, +very fierce, cruel, and tyrannical. Yet thou hast thy friends, that +meet and drink to thee, and wish thee well wheresoever thou hast +found thy grand peut-etre. + + + +LETTER--To Jane Austen + + + +Madam,--If to the enjoyments of your present state be lacking a view +of the minor infirmities or foibles of men, I cannot but think (were +the thought permitted) that your pleasures are yet incomplete. +Moreover, it is certain that a woman of parts who has once meddled +with literature will never wholly lose her love for the discussion +of that delicious topic, nor cease to relish what (in the cant of +our new age) is styled "literary shop." For these reasons I attempt +to convey to you some inkling of the present state of that agreeable +art which you, madam, raised to its highest pitch of perfection. + +As to your own works (immortal, as I believe), I have but little +that is wholly cheering to tell one who, among women of letters, was +almost alone in her freedom from a lettered vanity. You are not a +very popular author: your volumes are not found in gaudy covers on +every bookstall; or, if found, are not perused with avidity by the +Emmas and Catherines of our generation. 'Tis not long since a blow +was dealt (in the estimation of the unreasoning) at your character +as an author by the publication of your familiar letters. The +editor of these epistles, unfortunately, did not always take your +witticisms, and he added others which were too unmistakably his own. +While the injudicious were disappointed by the absence of your +exquisite style and humour, the wiser sort were the more convinced +of your wisdom. In your letters (knowing your correspondents) you +gave but the small personal talk of the hour, for them sufficient; +for your books you reserved matter and expression which are +imperishable. Your admirers, if not very numerous, include all +persons of taste, who, in your favour, are apt somewhat to abate the +rule, or shake off the habit, which commonly confines them to but +temperate laudation. + +'Tis the fault of all art to seem antiquated and faded in the eyes +of the succeeding generation. The manners of your age were not the +manners of to-day, and young gentlemen and ladies who think Scott +"slow," think Miss Austen "prim" and "dreary." Yet, even could you +return among us, I scarcely believe that, speaking the language of +the hour, as you might, and versed in its habits, you would win the +general admiration. For how tame, madam, are your characters, +especially your favourite heroines! how limited the life which you +knew and described! how narrow the range of your incidents! how +correct your grammar! + +As heroines, for example, you chose ladies like Emma, and Elizabeth, +and Catherine: women remarkable neither for the brilliance nor for +the degradation of their birth; women wrapped up in their own and +the parish's concerns, ignorant of evil, as it seems, and +unacquainted with vain yearnings and interesting doubts. Who can +engage his fancy with their match-makings and the conduct of their +affections, when so many daring and dazzling heroines approach and +solicit his regard? + +Here are princesses dressed in white velvet stamped with golden +fleurs-de-lys --ladies with hearts of ice and lips of fire, who +count their roubles by the million, their lovers by the score, and +even their husbands, very often, in figures of some arithmetical +importance. With these are the immaculate daughters of itinerant +Italian musicians--maids whose souls are unsoiled amidst the +contaminations of our streets, and whose acquaintance with the art +of Phidias and Praxiteles, of Daedalus and Scopas, is the more +admirable, because entirely derived from loving study of the +inexpensive collections vended by the plaster-of-Paris man round the +corner. When such heroines are wooed by the nephews of Dukes, where +are your Emmas and Elizabeths? Your volumes neither excite nor +satisfy the curiosities provoked by that modern and scientific +fiction, which is greatly admired, I learn, in the United States, as +well as in France and at home. + +You erred, it cannot be denied, with your eyes open. Knowing Lydia +and Kitty so intimately as you did, why did you make of them almost +insignificant characters? With Lydia for a heroine you might have +gone far; and, had you devoted three volumes, and the chief of your +time, to the passions of Kitty, you might have held your own, even +now, in the circulating library. How Lyddy, perched on a corner of +the roof, first beheld her Wickham; how, on her challenge, he +climbed up by a ladder to her side; how they kissed, caressed, swung +on gates together, met at odd seasons, in strange places, and +finally eloped: all this might have been put in the mouth of a +jealous elder sister, say Elizabeth, and you would not have been +less popular than several favourites of our time. Had you cast the +whole narrative into the present tense, and lingered lovingly over +the thickness of Mary's legs and the softness of Kitty's cheeks, and +the blonde fluffiness of Wickham's whiskers, you would have left a +romance still dear to young ladies. + +Or, again, you might entrance fair students still, had you +concentrated your attention on Mrs. Rushworth, who eloped with Henry +Crawford. These should have been the chief figures of "Mansfield +Park." But you timidly decline to tackle Passion. "Let other +pens," you write, "dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious +subjects as soon as I can." Ah, THERE is the secret of your +failure! Need I add that the vulgarity and narrowness of the social +circles you describe impair your popularity? I scarce remember more +than one lady of title, and but very few lords (and these +unessential) in all your tales. Now, when we all wish to be in +society, we demand plenty of titles in our novels, at any rate, and +we get lords (and very queer lords) even from Republican authors, +born in a country which in your time was not renowned for its +literature. I have heard a critic remark, with a decided air of +fashion, on the brevity of the notice which your characters give +each other when they offer invitations to dinner. "An invitation to +dinner next day was despatched," and this demonstrates that your +acquaintance "went out" very little, and had but few engagements. +How vulgar, too, is one of your heroines, who bids Mr. Darcy "keep +his breath to cool his porridge." I blush for Elizabeth! It were +superfluous to add that your characters are debased by being +invariably mere members of the Church of England as by law +established. The Dissenting enthusiast, the open soul that glides +from Esoteric Buddhism to the Salvation Army, and from the Higher +Pantheism to the Higher Paganism, we look for in vain among your +studies of character. Nay, the very words I employ are of unknown +sound to you; so how can you help us in the stress of the soul's +travailings? + +You may say that the soul's travailings are no affair of yours; +proving thereby that you have indeed but a lowly conception of the +duty of the novelist. I only remember one reference, in all your +works, to that controversy which occupies the chief of our +attention--the great controversy on Creation or Evolution. Your +Jane Bennet cries: "I have no idea of there being so much Design in +the world as some persons imagine." Nor do you touch on our mighty +social question, the Land Laws, save when Mrs. Bennet appears as a +Land Reformer, and rails bitterly against the cruelty "of settling +an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man +whom nobody cared anything about." There, madam, in that cruelly +unjust performance, what a text you had for a tendenz-romanz. Nay, +you can allow Kitty to report that a Private had been flogged, +without introducing a chapter on Flogging in the Army. But you +formally declined to stretch your matter out, here and there, "with +solemn specious nonsense about something unconnected with the +story." No "padding" for Miss Austen! in fact, madam, as you were +born before Analysis came in, or Passion, or Realism, or Naturalism, +or Irreverence, or Religious Open-mindedness, you really cannot hope +to rival your literary sisters in the minds of a perplexed +generation. Your heroines are not passionate, we do not see their +red wet cheeks, and tresses dishevelled in the manner of our frank +young Maenads. What says your best successor, a lady who adds fresh +lustre to a name that in fiction equals yours? She says of Miss +Austen: "Her heroines have a stamp of their own. THEY HAVE A +CERTAIN GENTLE SELF-RESPECT AND HUMOUR AND HARDNESS OF HEART . . . +Love with them does not mean a passion as much as an interest, deep +and silent." I think one prefers them so, and that Englishwomen +should be more like Anne Elliot than Maggie Tulliver. "All the +privilege I claim for my own sex is that of loving longest when +existence or when hope is gone," said Anne; perhaps she insisted on +a monopoly that neither sex has all to itself. Ah, madam, what a +relief it is to come back to your witty volumes, and forget the +follies of to-day in those of Mr. Collins and of Mrs. Bennet! How +fine, nay, how noble is your art in its delicate reserve, never +insisting, never forcing the note, never pushing the sketch into the +caricature! You worked, without thinking of it, in the spirit of +Greece, on a labour happily limited, and exquisitely organised. +"Dear books," we say, with Miss Thackeray--"dear books, bright, +sparkling with wit and animation, in which the homely heroines +charm, the dull hours fly, and the very bores are enchanting." + + + +LETTER--To Master Isaak Walton + + + +Father Isaac,--When I would be quiet and go angling it is my custom +to carry in my wallet thy pretty book, "The Compleat Angler." Here, +methinks, if I find not trout I shall find content, and good +company, and sweet songs, fair milkmaids, and country mirth. For +you are to know that trout be now scarce and whereas he was ever a +fearful fish, he hath of late become so wary that none but the +cunningest anglers may be even with him. + +It is not as it was in your time, Father, when a man might leave his +shop in Fleet Street, of a holiday, and, when he had stretched his +legs up Tottenham Hill, come lightly to meadows chequered with +waterlilies and lady-smocks, and so fall to his sport. Nay, now +have the houses so much increased, like a spreading sore (through +the breaking of that excellent law of the Conscientious King and +blessed Martyr, whereby building beyond the walls was forbidden), +that the meadows are all swallowed up in streets. And as to the +River Lea, wherein you took many a good trout, I read in the news +sheets that "its bed is many inches thick in horrible filth, and the +air for more than half a mile on each side of it is polluted with a +horrible, sickening stench," so that we stand in dread of a new +Plague, called the Cholera. And so it is all about London for many +miles, and if a man, at heavy charges, betake himself to the fields, +lo you, folk are grown so greedy that none will suffer a stranger to +fish in his water. + +So poor anglers are in sore straits. Unless a man be rich and can +pay great rents, he may not fish in England, and hence spring the +discontents of the times, for the angler is full of content, if he +do but take trout, but if he be driven from the waterside, he falls, +perchance, into evil company, and cries out to divide the property +of the gentle folk. As many now do, even among Parliament-men, whom +you loved not, Father Isaak, neither do I love them more than Reason +and Scripture bid each of us be kindly to his neighbour. But, +behold, the causes of the ill content are not yet all expressed, for +even where a man hath licence to fish, he will hardly take trout in +our age, unless he be all the more cunning. For the fish, harried +this way and that by so many of your disciples, is exceeding shy and +artful, nor will he bite at a fly unless it falleth lightly, just +above his mouth, and floateth dry over him, for all the world like +the natural ephemeris. And we may no longer angle with worm for +him, nor with penk or minnow, nor with the natural fly, as was your +manner, but only with the artificial, for the more difficulty the +more diversion. For my part I may cry, like Viator in your book, +"Master, I can neither catch with the first nor second Angle: I +have no fortune." + +So we fare in England, but somewhat better north of the Tweed, where +trout are less wary, but for the most part small, except in the +extreme rough north, among horrid hills and lakes. Thither, Master, +as methinks you may remember, went Richard Franck, that called +himself Philanthropus, and was, as it were, the Columbus of anglers, +discovering for them a new Hyperborean world. But Franck, +doubtless, is now an angler in the Lake of Darkness, with Nero and +other tyrants, for he followed after Cromwell, the man of blood, in +the old riding days. How wickedly doth Franck boast of that leader +of the giddy multitude, "when they raged, and became restless to +find out misery for themselves and others, and the rabble would herd +themselves together," as you said, "and endeavour to govern and act +in spite of authority." So you wrote; and what said Franck, that +recreant angler? Doth he not praise "Ireton, Vane, Nevill, and +Martin, and the most renowned, valorous, and victorious conqueror, +Oliver Cromwell"? Natheless, with all his sins on his head, this +Franck discovered Scotland for anglers, and my heart turns to him +when he praises "the glittering and resolute streams of Tweed." + +In those wilds of Assynt and Loch Rannoch, Father, we, thy +followers, may yet take trout, and forget the evils of the times. +But, to be done with Franck, how harshly he speaks of thee and thy +book. "For you may dedicate your opinion to what scribbling +putationer you please; the Compleat Angler if you will, who tells +you of a tedious fly story, extravagantly collected from antiquated +authors, such as Gesner and Dubravius." Again he speaks of "Isaac +Walton, whose authority to me seems alike authentick, as is the +general opinion of the vulgar prophet," &c. + +Certain I am that Franck, if a better angler than thou, was a worse +man, who, writing his "Dialogues Piscatorial" or "Northern Memoirs" +five years after the world welcomed thy "Compleat Angler," was +jealous of thy favour with the people, and, may be, hated thee for +thy loyalty and sound faith. But, Master, like a peaceful man +avoiding contention, thou didst never answer this blustering Franck, +but wentest quietly about thy quiet Lea, and left him his roaring +Brora and windy Assynt. How could this noisy man know thee--and +know thee he did, having argued with thee in Stafford--and not love +Isaak Walton? A pedant angler, I call him, a plaguy angler, so let +him huff away, and turn we to thee and to thy sweet charm in fishing +for men. + +How often, studying in thy book, have I hummed to myself that of +Horace - + + +Laudis amore tumes? Sunt certa piacula quae te +Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello. + + +So healing a book for the frenzy of fame is thy discourse on +meadows, and pure streams, and the country life. How peaceful, men +say, and blessed must have been the life of this old man, how lapped +in content, and hedged about by his own humility from the world! +They forget, who speak thus, that thy years, which were many, were +also evil, or would have seemed evil to divers that had tasted of +thy fortunes. Thou wert poor, but that, to thee, was no sorrow, for +greed of money was thy detestation. Thou wert of lowly rank, in an +age when gentle blood was alone held in regard; yet thy virtues made +thee hosts of friends, and chiefly among religious men, bishops, and +doctors of the Church. Thy private life was not unacquainted with +sorrow; thy first wife and all her fair children were taken from +thee like flowers in spring, though, in thine age, new love and new +offspring comforted thee like "the primrose of the later year." Thy +private griefs might have made thee bitter, or melancholy, so might +the sorrows of the State and of the Church, which were deprived of +their heads by cruel men, despoiled of their wealth, the pious +driven, like thee, from their homes; fear everywhere, everywhere +robbery and confusion: all this ruin might have angered another +temper. But thou, Father, didst bear all with so much sweetness as +perhaps neither natural temperament, nor a firm faith, nor the love +of angling could alone have displayed. For we see many anglers (as +witness Richard Franck aforesaid) who are angry men, and myself, +when I get my hooks entangled at every cast in a tree, have come +nigh to swear prophane. + +Also we see religious men that are sour and fanatical, no rare thing +in the party that professes godliness. But neither private sorrow +nor public grief could abate thy natural kindliness, nor shake a +religion which was not untried, but had, indeed, passed through the +furnace like fine gold. For if we find not Faith at all times easy, +because of the oppositions of Science, and the searching curiosity +of men's minds, neither was Faith a matter of course in thy day. +For the learned and pious were greatly tossed about, like worthy Mr. +Chillingworth, by doubts wavering between the Church of Rome and the +Reformed Church of England. The humbler folk, also, were invited, +now here, now there, by the clamours of fanatical Nonconformists, +who gave themselves out to be somebody, while Atheism itself was not +without many to witness to it. Therefore, such a religion as thine +was not, so to say, a mere innocence of evil in the things of our +Belief, but a reasonable and grounded faith, strong in despite of +oppositions. Happy was the man in whom temper, and religion, and +the love of the sweet country and an angler's pastime so +conveniently combined; happy the long life which held in its hand +that threefold clue through the labyrinth of human fortunes! Around +thee Church and State might fall in ruins, and might be rebuilded, +and thy tears would not be bitter, nor thy triumph cruel. + +Thus, by God's blessing, it befell thee + + +Nec turpem senectam +Degere, nec cithara carentem. + + +I would, Father, that I could get at the verity about thy poems. +Those recommendatory verses with which thou didst grace the Lives of +Dr. Donne and others of thy friends, redound more to the praise of +thy kind heart than thy fancy. But what or whose was the pastoral +poem of "Thealma and Clearchus," which thou didst set about printing +in 1678, and gavest to the world in 1683? Thou gavest John +Chalkhill for the author's name, and a John Chalkhill of thy kindred +died at Winchester, being eighty years of his age, in 1679. Now +thou speakest of John Chalkhill as "a friend of Edmund Spenser's," +and how could this be? + +Are they right who hold that John Chalkhill was but a name of a +friend, borrowed by thee out of modesty, and used as a cloak to +cover poetry of thine own inditing? When Mr. Flatman writes of +Chalkhill, 'tis in words well fitted to thine own merit: + + +Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows +Except himself, who charitably shows +The ready road to virtue and to praise, +The road to many long and happy days. + + +However it be, in that road, by quiet streams and through green +pastures, thou didst walk all thine almost century of years, and we, +who stray into thy path out of the highway of life, we seem to hold +thy hand, and listen to thy cheerful voice. If our sport be worse, +may our content be equal, and our praise, therefore, none the less. +Father, if Master Stoddard, the great fisher of Tweedside, be with +thee, greet him for me, and thank him for those songs of his, and +perchance he will troll thee a catch of our dear River. + + +Tweed! winding and wild! where the heart is unbound, +They know not, they dream not, who linger around, +How the saddened will smile, and the wasted rewin +From thee--the bliss withered within. + + +Or perhaps thou wilt better love, + + +The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, +And Manor wi' its mountain rills, +An' Etterick, whose waters twine +Wi' Yarrow frae the forest hills; +An' Gala, too, and Teviot bright, +An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed, +Their kindred valleys a' unite +Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed! + + +So, Master, may you sing against each other, you two good old +anglers, like Peter and Corydon, that sang in your golden age. + + + +LETTER--To M. Chapelain + + + +Monsieur,--You were a popular poet, and an honourable, over- +educated, upright gentleman. Of the latter character you can never +be deprived, and I doubt not it stands you in better stead where you +are, than the laurels which flourished so gaily, and faded so soon. + + +Laurel is green for a season, and Love is fair for a day, +But Love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May. + + +I know not if Mr. Swinburne is correct in his botany, but YOUR +laurel certainly outlived not May, nor can we hope that you dwell +where Orpheus and where Homer are. Some other crown, some other +Paradise, we cannot doubt it, awaited un si bon homme. But the +moral excellence that even Boileau admitted, la foi, l'honneur, la +probite, do not in Parnassus avail the popular poet, and some +luckless Glatigny or Theophile, Regnier or Gilbert, attains a kind +of immortality denied to the man of many contemporary editions, and +of a great commercial success. + +If ever, for the confusion of Horace, any Poet was Made, you, Sir, +should have been that fortunately manufactured article. You were, +in matters of the Muses, the child of many prayers. Never, since +Adam's day, have any parents but yours prayed for a poet-child. +Then Destiny, that mocks the desires of men in general, and fathers +in particular, heard the appeal, and presented M. Chapelain and +Jeanne Corbiere his wife with the future author of "La Pucelle." Oh +futile hopes of men, O pectora caeca! All was done that education +could do for a genius which, among other qualities, "especially +lacked fire and imagination," and an ear for verse--sad defects +these in a child of the Muses. Your training in all the mechanics +and metaphysics of criticism might have made you exclaim, like +Rasselas, "Enough! Thou hast convinced me that no human being can +ever be a Poet." Unhappily, you succeeded in convincing Cardinal +Richelieu that to be a Poet was well within your powers, you +received a pension of one thousand crowns, and were made Captain of +the Cardinal's Minstrels, as M. de Treville was Captain of the +King's Musketeers. + +Ah, pleasant age to live in, when good intentions in poetry were +more richly endowed than ever is Research, even Research in +Prehistoric English, among us niggard moderns! How I wish I knew a +Cardinal, or even, as you did, a Prime Minister, who would praise +and pension ME; but envy be still! Your existence was made happy +indeed; you constructed odes, corrected sonnets, presided at the +Hotel Rambouillet, while the learned ladies were still young and +fair, and you enjoyed a prodigious celebrity on the score of your +yet unpublished Epic. "Who, indeed," says a sympathetic author, M. +Theophile Gautier, "who could expect less than a miracle from a man +so deeply learned in the laws of art--a perfect Turk in the science +of poetry, a person so well pensioned, and so favoured by the +great?" Bishops and politicians combined in perfect good faith to +advertise your merits. Hard must have been the heart that could +resist the testimonials of your skill as a poet offered by the Duc +de Montausier, and the learned Huet, Bishop of Avranches, and +Monseigneur Godeau, Bishop of Vence, and M. Colbert, who had such a +genius for finance. + +If bishops and politicians and Prime Ministers skilled in finance, +and some critics (Menage and Sarrazin and Vaugelas), if ladies of +birth and taste, if all the world in fact, combined to tell you that +you were a great poet, how can we blame you for taking yourself +seriously, and appraising yourself at the public estimate? + +It was not in human nature to resist the evidence of the bishops +especially, and when every minor poet believes in himself on the +testimony of his own conceit, you may be acquitted of vanity if you +listened to the plaudits of your friends. Nay, you ventured to +pronounce judgment on contemporaries--whom Posterity has preferred +to your perfections. "Moliere," said you, "understands the genius +of comedy, and presents it in a natural style. The plot of his best +pieces is borrowed, but not without judgment; his morale is fair, +and he has only to avoid scurrility." + +Excellent, unconscious, popular Chapelain! + +Of yourself you observed, in a Report on contemporary literature, +that your "courage and sincerity never allowed you to tolerate work +not absolutely good." And yet you regarded "La Pucelle" with some +complacency. + +On the "Pucelle" you were occupied during a generation of mortal +men. I marvel not at the length of your labours, as you received a +yearly pension till the Epic was finished, but your Muse was no +Alcmena, and no Hercules was the result of that prolonged night of +creation. First you gravely wrote out all the composition in prose: +the task occupied you for five whole years. Ah, why did you not +leave it in that commonplace but appropriate medium? What says the +Precieuse about you in Boileau's satire? + + +In Chapelain, for all his foes have said, +She finds but one defect, he can't be read; +Yet thinks the world might taste his Maiden's woes, +If only he would turn his verse to prose! + + +The verse had been prose, and prose, perhaps, it should have +remained. Yet for this precious "Pucelle," in the age when +"Paradise Lost" was sold for five pounds, you are believed to have +received about four thousand. Horace was wrong, mediocre poets may +exist (now and then), and he was a wise man who first spoke of aurea +mediocritas. At length the great work was achieved, a work thrice +blessed in its theme, that divine Maiden to whom France owes all, +and whom you and Voltaire have recompensed so strangely. In folio, +in italics, with a score of portraits and engravings, and culs de +lampe, the great work was given to the world, and had a success. +Six editions in eighteen months are figures which fill the poetic +heart with envy and admiration. And then, alas! the bubble burst. +A great lady, Madame de Longueville, hearing the "Pucelle" read +aloud, murmured that it was "perfect indeed, but perfectly +wearisome." Then the satires began, and the satirists never left +you till your poetic reputation was a rag, till the mildest Abbe at +Menage's had his cheap sneer for Chapelain. + +I make no doubt, Sir, that envy and jealousy had much to do with the +onslaught on your "Pucelle." These qualities, alas! are not strange +to literary minds; does not even Hesiod tell us that "potter hates +potter, and poet hates poet"? But contemporary spites do not harm +true genius. Who suffered more than Moliere from cabals? Yet +neither the court nor the town ever deserted him, and he is still +the joy of the world. I admit that his adversaries were weaker than +yours. What were Boursault and Le Boulanger, and Thomas Corneille +and De Vise, what were they all compared to your enemy, Boileau? +Brossette tells a story which really makes a man pity you. You +remember M. de Puimorin, who, to be in the fashion, laughed at your +once popular Epic. "It is all very well," said you, "for a man to +laugh who cannot even read." Whereon M. de Puimorin replied: +"Qu'il n'avoit que trop su lire, depuis que Chapelain s'etoit avise +de faire imprimer." A new horror had been added to the +accomplishment of reading since Chapelain had published. This +repartee was applauded, and M. de Puimorin tried to turn it into an +epigram. He did complete the last couplet, + + +Helas! pour mes peches, je n'ai su que trop lire +Depuis que tu fais imprimer. + + +But by no labour would M. de Puimorin achieve the first two lines of +his epigram. Then you remember what great allies came to his +assistance. I almost blush to think that M. Despreaux, M. Racine, +and M. de Moliere, the three most renowned wits of the time, +conspired to complete the poor jest, and assail you. Well, bubble +as your poetry was, you may be proud that it needed all these +sharpest of pens to prick the bubble. Other poets, as popular as +you, have been annihilated by an article. Macaulay put forth his +hand, and "Satan Montgomery" was no more. It did not need a +Macaulay, the laughter of a mob of little critics was enough to blow +him into space; but you probably have met Montgomery, and of +contemporary failures or successes I do not speak. + +I wonder, sometimes, whether the consensus of criticism ever made +you doubt for a moment whether, after all, you were not a false +child of Apollo? Was your complacency tortured, as the complacency +of true poets has occasionally been, by doubts? Did you expect +posterity to reverse the verdict of the satirists, and to do you +justice? You answered your earliest assailant, Liniere, and, by a +few changes of words, turned his epigrams into flattery. But I +fancy, on the whole, you remained calm, unmoved, wrapped up in +admiration of yourself. According to M. de Marivaux, who reviewed, +as I am doing, the spirits of the mighty dead, you "conceived, on +the strength of your reputation, a great and serious veneration for +yourself and your genius." Probably you were protected by the +invulnerable armour of an honest vanity, probably you declared that +mere jealousy dictated the lines of Boileau, and that Chapelain's +real fault was his popularity, and his pecuniary success, + + +Qu'il soit le mieux rente de tous les beaux-esprits. + + +This, you would avow, was your offence, and perhaps you were not +altogether mistaken. Yet posterity declines to read a line of +yours, and, as we think of you, we are again set face to face with +that eternal problem, how far is popularity a test of poetry? Burns +was a poet: and popular. Byron was a popular poet, and the world +agrees in the verdict of their own generations. But Montgomery, +though he sold so well, was no poet, nor, Sir, I fear, was your +verse made of the stuff of immortality. Criticism cannot hurt what +is truly great; the Cardinal and the Academy left Chimene as fair as +ever, and as adorable. It is only pinchbeck that perishes under the +acids of satire: gold defies them. Yet I sometimes ask myself, +does the existence of popularity like yours justify the malignity of +satire, which blesses neither him who gives, nor him who takes? Are +poisoned arrows fair against a bad poet? I doubt it, Sir, holding +that, even unpricked, a poetic bubble must soon burst by its own +nature. Yet satire will assuredly be written so long as bad poets +are successful, and bad poets will assuredly reflect that their +assailants are merely envious, and (while their vogue lasts) that +the purchasing public is the only judge. After all, the bad poet +who is popular and "sells" is not a whit worse than the bad poets +who are unpopular, and who deride his songs. + +Monsieur, + +Votre tres-humble serviteur, &c. + + + +LETTER--To Sir John Maundeville, Kt. (OF THE WAYS INTO YNDE.) + + + +Sir John,--Wit you well that men holden you but light, and some +clepen you a Liar. And they say that you never were born in +Englond, in the town of Seynt Albones, nor have seen and gone +through manye diverse Londes. And there goeth an old knight at +arms, and one that connes Latyn, and hath been beyond the sea, and +hath seen Prester John's country. And he hath been in an Yle that +men clepen Burmah, and there bin women bearded. Now men call him +Colonel Henry Yule, and he hath writ of thee in his great booke, Sir +John, and he holds thee but lightly. For he saith that ye did pill +your tales out of Odoric his book, and that ye never saw snails with +shells as big as houses, nor never met no Devyls, but part of that +ye say, ye took it out of William of Boldensele his book, yet ye +took not his wisdom, withal, but put in thine own foolishness. +Nevertheless, Sir John, for the frailty of Mankynde, ye are held a +good fellow, and a merry; so now, come, let me tell you of the new +ways into Ynde. + +In that Lond they have a Queen that governeth all the Lond, and all +they ben obeyssant to her. And she is the Queen of Englond; for +Englishmen have taken all the Lond of Ynde. For they were right +good werryoures of old, and wyse, noble, and worthy. But of late +hath risen a new sort of Englishman very puny and fearful, and these +men clepen Radicals. And they go ever in fear, and they scream on +high for dread in the streets and the houses, and they fain would +flee away from all that their fathers gat them with the sword. And +this sort men call Scuttleres, but the mean folk and certain of the +baser sort hear them gladly, and they say ever that Englishmen +should flee out of Ynde. + +Fro Englond men gon to Ynde by many dyverse Contreyes. For +Englishmen ben very stirring and nymble. For they ben in the +seventh climate, that is of the Moon. And the Moon (ye have said it +yourself, Sir John, natheless, is it true) is of lightly moving, for +to go diverse ways, and see strange things, and other diversities of +the Worlde. Wherefore Englishmen be lightly moving, and far +wandering. And they gon to Ynde by the great Sea Ocean. First come +they to Gibraltar, that was the point of Spain, and builded upon a +rock; and there ben apes, and it is so strong that no man may take +it. Natheless did Englishmen take it fro the Spanyard, and all to +hold the way to Ynde. For ye may sail all about Africa, and past +the Cape men clepen of Good Hope, but that way unto Ynde is long and +the sea is weary. Wherefore men rather go by the Midland sea, and +Englishmen have taken many Yles in that sea. + +For first they have taken an Yle that is clept Malta; and therein +built they great castles, to hold it against them of Fraunce, and +Italy, and of Spain. And from this Ile of Malta Men gon to Cipre. +And Cipre is right a good Yle, and a fair, and a great, and it hath +4 principal Cytees within him. And at Famagost is one of the +principal Havens of the sea that is in the world, and Englishmen +have but a lytel while gone won that Yle from the Sarazynes. Yet +say that sort of Englishmen where of I told you, that is puny and +sore adread, that the Lond is poisonous and barren and of no avail, +for that Lond is much more hotter than it is here. Yet the +Englishmen that ben werryoures dwell there in tents, and the skill +is that they may ben the more fresh. + +From Cypre, Men gon to the Lond of Egypte, and in a Day and a Night +he that hath a good wind may come to the Haven of Alessandrie. Now +the Lond of Egypt longeth to the Soudan, yet the Soudan longeth not +to the Lond of Egypt. And when I say this, I do jape with words, +and may hap ye understond me not. Now Englishmen went in shippes to +Alessandrie, and brent it, and over ran the Lond, and their +soudyours warred agen the Bedoynes, and all to hold the way to Ynde. +For it is not long past since Frenchmen let dig a dyke, through the +narrow spit of lond, from the Midland sea to the Red sea, wherein +was Pharaoh drowned. So this is the shortest way to Ynde there may +be, to sail through that dyke, if men gon by sea. + +But all the Lond of Egypt is clepen the Vale enchaunted; for no man +may do his business well that goes thither, but always fares he +evil, and therefore clepen they Egypt the Vale perilous, and the +sepulchre of reputations. And men say there that is one of the +entrees of Helle. In that Vale is plentiful lack of Gold and +Silver, for many misbelieving men, and many Christian men also, have +gone often time for to take of the Thresoure that there was of old, +and have pilled the Thresoure, wherefore there is none left. And +Englishmen have let carry thither great store of our Thresoure, +9,000,000 of Pounds sterling, and whether they will see it agen I +misdoubt me. For that Vale is alle fulle of Develes and Fiendes +that men clepen Bondholderes, for that Egypt from of olde is the +Lond of Bondage. And whatsoever Thresoure cometh into the Lond, +these Devyls of Bondholders grabben the same. Natheless by that +Vale do Englishmen go unto Ynde, and they gon by Aden, even to +Kurrachee, at the mouth of the Flood of Ynde. Thereby they send +their souldyours, when they are adread of them of Muscovy. + +For, look you, there is another way into Ynde, and thereby the men +of Muscovy are fain to come, if the Englishmen let them not. That +way cometh by Desert and Wildernesse, from the sea that is clept +Caspian, even to Khiva, and so to Merv; and then come ye to Zulfikar +and Penjdeh, and anon to Herat, that is called the Key of the Gates +of Ynde. Then ye win the lond of the Emir of the Afghauns, a great +prince and a rich, and he hath in his Thresoure more crosses, and +stars, and coats that captains wearen, than any other man on earth. + +For all they of Muscovy, and all Englishmen maken him gifts, and he +keepeth the gifts, and he keepeth his own counsel. For his lond +lieth between Ynde and the folk of Muscovy, wherefore both +Englishmen and men of Muscovy would fain have him friendly, yea, and +independent. Wherefore they of both parties give him clocks, and +watches, and stars, and crosses, and culverins, and now and again +they let cut the throats of his men some deal, and pill his country. +Thereby they both set up their rest that the Emir will be +independent, yea, and friendly. But his men love him not, neither +love they the English, nor the Muscovy folk, for they are +worshippers of Mahound, and endure not Christian men. And they love +not them that cut their throats, and burn their country. + +Now they of Muscovy ben Devyls, and they ben subtle for to make a +thing seme otherwise than it is, for to deceive mankind. Wherefore +Englishmen putten no trust in them of Muscovy, save only the +Englishmen clept Radicals, for they make as if they loved these +Develes, out of the fear and dread of war wherein they go, and would +be slaves sooner than fight. But the folk of Ynde know not what +shall befall, nor whether they of Muscovy will take the Lond, or +Englishmen shall keep it, so that their hearts may not enduren for +drede. And methinks that soon shall Englishmen and Muscovy folk put +their bodies in adventure, and war one with another, and all for the +way to Ynde. + +But St. George for Englond, I say, and so enough; and may the +Seyntes hele thee, Sir John, of thy Gowtes Artetykes, that thee +tormenten. But to thy Boke I list not to give no credence. + + + +LETTER--To Alexandre Dumas + + + +Sir,--There are moments when the wheels of life, even of such a life +as yours, run slow, and when mistrust and doubt overshadow even the +most intrepid disposition. In such a moment, towards the ending of +your days, you said to your son, M. Alexandre Dumas, "I seem to see +myself set on a pedestal which trembles as if it were founded on the +sands." These sands, your uncounted volumes, are all of gold, and +make a foundation more solid than the rock. As well might the +singer of Odysseus, or the authors of the "Arabian Nights," or the +first inventors of the stories of Boccaccio, believe that their +works were perishable (their names, indeed, have perished), as the +creator of "Les Trois Mousquetaires" alarm himself with the thought +that the world could ever forget Alexandre Dumas. + +Than yours there has been no greater nor more kindly and beneficent +force in modern letters. To Scott, indeed, you owed the first +impulse of your genius; but, once set in motion, what miracles could +it not accomplish? Our dear Porthos was overcome, at last, by a +super-human burden; but your imaginative strength never found a task +too great for it. What an extraordinary vigour, what health, what +an overflow of force was yours! It is good, in a day of small and +laborious ingenuities, to breathe the free air of your books, and +dwell in the company of Dumas's men--so gallant, so frank, so +indomitable, such swordsmen, and such trenchermen. Like M. de +Rochefort in "Vingt Ans Apres," like that prisoner of the Bastille, +your genius "n'est que d'un parti, c'est du parti du grand air." + +There seems to radiate from you a still persistent energy and +enjoyment; in that current of strength not only your characters +live, frolic, kindly, and sane, but even your very collaborators +were animated by the virtue which went out of you. How else can we +explain it, the dreary charge which feeble and envious tongues have +brought against you, in England and at home? They say you employed +in your novels and dramas that vicarious aid which, in the slang of +the studio, the "sculptor's ghost" is fabled to afford. + +Well, let it be so; these ghosts, when uninspired by you, were faint +and impotent as "the strengthless tribes of the dead" in Homer's +Hades, before Odysseus had poured forth the blood that gave them a +momentary valour. It was from you and your inexhaustible vitality +that these collaborating spectres drew what life they possessed; and +when they parted from you they shuddered back into their +nothingness. Where are the plays, where the romances which Maquet +and the rest wrote in their own strength? They are forgotten with +last year's snows; they have passed into the wide waste-paper basket +of the world. You say of D'Artagnan, when severed from his three +friends--from Porthos, Athos, and Aramis--"he felt that he could do +nothing, save on the condition that each of these companions yielded +to him, if one may so speak, a share of that electric fluid which +was his gift from heaven." + +No man of letters ever had so great a measure of that gift as you; +none gave of it more freely to all who came--to the chance associate +of the hour, as to the characters, all so burly and full-blooded, +who flocked from your brain. Thus it was that you failed when you +approached the supernatural. Your ghosts had too much flesh and +blood, more than the living persons of feebler fancies. A writer so +fertile, so rapid, so masterly in the ease with which he worked, +could not escape the reproaches of barren envy. Because you +overflowed with wit, you could not be "serious;" because you created +with a word, you were said to scamp your work; because you were +never dull, never pedantic, incapable of greed, you were to be +censured as desultory, inaccurate, and prodigal. + +A generation suffering from mental and physical anaemia--a +generation devoted to the "chiselled phrase," to accumulated +"documents," to microscopic porings over human baseness, to minute +and disgustful records of what in humanity is least human--may +readily bring these unregarded and railing accusations. Like one of +the great and good-humoured Giants of Rabelais, you may hear the +murmurs from afar, and smile with disdain. To you, who can amuse +the world--to you who offer it the fresh air of the highway, the +battlefield, and the sea--the world must always return: escaping +gladly from the boudoirs and the bouges, from the surgeries and +hospitals, and dead rooms, of M. Daudet and M. Zola and of the +wearisome De Goncourt. + +With all your frankness, and with that queer morality of the Camp +which, if it swallows a camel now and again, never strains at a +gnat, how healthy and wholesome, and even pure, are your romances! +You never gloat over sin, nor dabble with an ugly curiosity in the +corruptions of sense. The passions in your tales are honourable and +brave, the motives are clearly human. Honour, Love, Friendship make +the threefold cord, the clue your knights and dames follow through +how delightful a labyrinth of adventures! Your greatest books, I +take the liberty to maintain, are the Cycle of the Valois ("La Reine +Margot," "La Dame de Montsoreau," "Les Quarante-cinq"), and the +Cycle of Louis Treize and Louis Quatorze ("Les Trois Mousquetaires," +"Vingt Ans Apres," "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne"); and, beside these +two trilogies--a lonely monument, like the sphinx hard by the three +pyramids--"Monte Cristo." + +In these romances how easy it would have been for you to burn +incense to that great goddess, Lubricity, whom our critic says your +people worship. You had Brantome, you had Tallemant, you had Retif, +and a dozen others, to furnish materials for scenes of +voluptuousness and of blood that would have outdone even the present +naturalistes. From these alcoves of "Les Dames Galantes," and from +the torture chambers (M. Zola would not have spared us one starting +sinew of brave La Mole on the rack) you turned, as Scott would have +turned, without a thought of their profitable literary uses. You +had other metal to work on: you gave us that superstitious and +tragical true love of La Mole's, that devotion--how tender and how +pure!--of Bussy for the Dame de Montsoreau. You gave us the valour +of D'Artagnan, the strength of Porthos, the melancholy nobility of +Athos: Honour, Chivalry, and Friendship. I declare your characters +are real people to me and old friends. I cannot bear to read the +end of "Bragelonne," and to part with them for ever. "Suppose +Porthos, Athos, and Aramis should enter with a noiseless swagger, +curling their moustaches." How we would welcome them, forgiving +D'Artagnan even his hateful fourberie in the case of Milady. The +brilliance of your dialogue has never been approached: there is wit +everywhere; repartees glitter and ring like the flash and clink of +small-swords. Then what duels are yours! and what inimitable +battle-pieces! I know four good fights of one against a multitude, +in literature. These are the Death of Gretir the Strong, the Death +of Gunnar of Lithend, the Death of Hereward the Wake, the Death of +Bussy d'Amboise. We can compare the strokes of the heroic fighting- +times with those described in later days; and, upon my word, I do +not know that the short sword of Gretir, or the bill of Skarphedin, +or the bow of Gunnar was better wielded than the rapier of your +Bussy or the sword and shield of Kingsley's Hereward. + +They say your fencing is unhistorical; no doubt it is so, and you +knew it. La Mole could not have lunged on Coconnas "after deceiving +circle;" for the parry was not invented except by your immortal +Chicot, a genius in advance of his time. Even so Hamlet and Laertes +would have fought with shields and axes, not with small swords. But +what matters this pedantry? In your works we hear the Homeric Muse +again, rejoicing in the clash of steel; and even, at times, your +very phrases are unconsciously Homeric. + +Look at these men of murder, on the Eve of St. Bartholomew, who flee +in terror from the Queen's chamber, and "find the door too narrow +for their flight:" the very words were anticipated in a line of the +"Odyssey" concerning the massacre of the Wooers. And the picture of +Catherine de Medicis, prowling "like a wolf among the bodies and the +blood," in a passage of the Louvre--the picture is taken unwittingly +from the "Iliad." There was in you that reserve of primitive force, +that epic grandeur and simplicity of diction. This is the force +that animates "Monte Cristo," the earlier chapters, the prison, and +the escape. In later volumes of that romance, methinks, you stoop +your wing. Of your dramas I have little room, and less skill, to +speak. "Antony," they tell me, was "the greatest literary event of +its time," was a restoration of the stage. "While Victor Hugo needs +the cast-off clothes of history, the wardrobe and costume, the +sepulchre of Charlemagne, the ghost of Barbarossa, the coffins of +Lucretia Borgia, Alexandre Dumas requires no more than a room in an +inn, where people meet in riding cloaks, to move the soul with the +last degree of terror and of pity." + +The reproach of being amusing has somewhat dimmed your fame--for a +moment. The shadow of this tyranny will soon be overpast; and when +"La Curee" and "Pot-Bouille" are more forgotten than "Le Grand +Cyrus," men and women--and, above all, boys--will laugh and weep +over the page of Alexandre Dumas. Like Scott himself, you take us +captive in our childhood. I remember a very idle little boy who was +busy with the "Three Musketeers" when he should have been occupied +with "Wilkins's Latin Prose." "Twenty years after" (alas! and more) +he is still constant to that gallant company; and, at this very +moment, is breathlessly wondering whether Grimaud will steal M. de +Beaufort out of the Cardinal's prison. + + + +LETTER--To Theocritus + + + +"Sweet, methinks, is the whispering sound of yonder pine-tree," so, +Theocritus, with that sweet word [Greek text], didst thou begin and +strike the keynote of thy songs. "Sweet," and didst thou find aught +of sweet, when thou, like thy Daphnis, didst "go down the stream, +when the whirling wave closed over the man the Muses loved, the man +not hated of the Nymphs"? Perchance below those waters of death +thou didst find, like thine own Hylas, the lovely Nereids waiting +thee, Eunice, and Malis, and Nycheia with her April eyes. In the +House of Hades, Theocritus, doth there dwell aught that is fair, and +can the low light on the fields of asphodel make thee forget thy +Sicily? Nay, methinks thou hast not forgotten, and perchance for +poets dead there is prepared a place more beautiful than their +dreams. It was well for the later minstrels of another day, it was +well for Ronsard and Du Bellay to desire a dim Elysium of their own, +where the sunlight comes faintly through the shadow of the earth, +where the poplars are duskier, and the waters more pale than in the +meadows of Anjou. + +There, in that restful twilight, far remote from war and plot, from +sword and fire, and from religions that sharpened the steel and lit +the torch, there these learned singers would fain have wandered with +their learned ladies, satiated with life and in love with an +unearthly quiet. But to thee, Theocritus, no twilight of the Hollow +Land was dear, but the high suns of Sicily and the brown cheeks of +the country maidens were happiness enough. For thee, therefore, +methinks, surely is reserved an Elysium beneath the summer of a far- +off system, with stars not ours and alien seasons. There, as Bion +prayed, shall Spring, the thrice desirable, be with thee the whole +year through, where there is neither frost, nor is the heat so heavy +on men, but all is fruitful, and all sweet things blossom, and +evenly meted are darkness and dawn. Space is wide, and there be +many worlds, and suns enow, and the Sun-god surely has had a care of +his own. Little didst thou need, in thy native land, the isle of +the three capes, little didst thou need but sunlight on land and +sea. Death can have shown thee naught dearer than the fragrant +shadow of the pines, where the dry needles of the fir are strewn, or +glades where feathered ferns make "a couch more soft than Sleep." +The short grass of the cliffs, too, thou didst love, where thou +wouldst lie, and watch, with the tunny watcher till the deep blue +sea was broken by the burnished sides of the tunny shoal, and afoam +with their gambols in the brine. There the Muses met thee, and the +Nymphs, and there Apollo, remembering his old thraldom with Admetus, +would lead once more a mortal's flocks, and listen and learn, +Theocritus, while thou, like thine own Comatas, "didst sweetly +sing." + +There, methinks, I see thee as in thy happy days, "reclined on deep +beds of fragrant lentisk, lowly strewn, and rejoicing in new stript +leaves of the vine, while far above thy head waved many a poplar, +many an elm-tree, and close at hand the sacred waters sang from the +mouth of the cavern of the nymphs." And when night came, methinks +thou wouldst flee from the merry company and the dancing girls, from +the fading crowns of roses or white violets, from the cottabos, and +the minstrelsy, and the Bibline wine, from these thou wouldst slip +away into the summer night. Then the beauty of life and of the +summer would keep thee from thy couch, and wandering away from +Syracuse by the sandhills and the sea, thou wouldst watch the low +cabin, roofed with grass, where the fishing-rods of reed were +leaning against the door, while the Mediterranean floated up her +waves, and filled the waste with sound. There didst thou see thine +ancient fishermen rising ere the dawn from their bed of dry seaweed, +and heardst them stirring, drowsy, among their fishing gear, and +heardst them tell their dreams. + +Or again thou wouldst wander with dusty feet through the ways that +the dust makes silent, while the breath of the kine, as they were +driven forth with the morning, came fresh to thee, and the trailing +dewy branch of honeysuckle struck sudden on thy cheek. Thou wouldst +see the Dawn awake in rose and saffron across the waters, and Etna, +grey and pale against the sky, and the setting crescent would dip +strangely in the glow, on her way to the sea. Then, methinks, thou +wouldst murmur, like thine own Simaetha, the love-lorn witch, +"Farewell, Selene, bright and fair; farewell, ye other stars, that +follow the wheels of the quiet Night." Nay, surely it was in such +an hour that thou didst behold the girl as she burned the laurel +leaves and the barley grain, and melted the waxen image, and called +on Selene to bring her lover home. Even so, even now, in the +islands of Greece, the setting Moon may listen to the prayers of +maidens. "Bright golden Moon, that now art near the waters, go thou +and salute my lover, he that stole my love, and that kissed me, +saying "Never will I leave thee." And lo, he hath left me as men +leave a field reaped and gleaned, like a church where none cometh to +pray, like a city desolate." + +So the girls still sing in Greece, for though the Temples have +fallen, and the wandering shepherds sleep beneath the broken columns +of the god's house in Selinus, yet these ancient fires burn still to +the old divinities in the shrines of the hearths of the peasants. +It is none of the new creeds that cry, in the dirge of the Sicilian +shepherds of our time, "Ah, light of mine eyes, what gift shall I +send thee, what offering to the other world? The apple fadeth, the +quince decayeth, and one by one they perish, the petals of the rose. +I will send thee my tears shed on a napkin, and what though it +burneth in the flame, if my tears reach thee at the last." + +Yes, little is altered, Theocritus, on these shores beneath the sun, +where thou didst wear a tawny skin stripped from the roughest of he- +goats, and about thy breast an old cloak buckled with a plaited +belt. Thou wert happier there, in Sicily, methinks, and among vines +and shadowy lime-trees of Cos, than in the dust, and heat, and noise +of Alexandria. What love of fame, what lust of gold tempted thee +away from the red cliffs, and grey olives, and wells of black water +wreathed with maidenhair? + + +The music of thy rustic flute +Kept not for long its happy country tone; +Lost it too soon, and learned a stormy note +Of men contention tost, of men who groan, +Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat - +It failed, and thou wast mute! + + +What hadst thou to make in cities, and what could Ptolemies and +Princes give thee better than the goat-milk cheese and the Ptelean +wine? Thy Muses were meant to be the delight of peaceful men, not +of tyrants and wealthy merchants, to whom they vainly went on a +begging errand. "Who will open his door and gladly receive our +Muses within his house, who is there that will not send them back +again without a gift? And they with naked feet and looks askance +come homewards, and sorely they upbraid me when they have gone on a +vain journey, and listless again in the bottom of their empty coffer +they dwell with heads bowed over their chilly knees, where is their +drear abode, when portionless they return." How far happier was the +prisoned goat-herd, Comatas, in the fragrant cedar chest where the +blunt-faced bees from the meadow fed him with food of tender +flowers, because still the Muse dropped sweet nectar on his lips! + +Thou didst leave the neat-herds and the kine, and the oaks of +Himera, the galingale hummed over by the bees, and the pine that +dropped her cones, and Amaryllis in her cave, and Bombyca with her +feet of carven ivory. Thou soughtest the City, and strife with +other singers, and the learned write still on thy quarrels with +Apollonius and Callimachus, and Antagoras of Rhodes. So ancient are +the hatreds of poets, envy, jealousy, and all unkindness. + +Not to the wits of Courts couldst thou teach thy rural song, though +all these centuries, more than two thousand years, they have +laboured to vie with thee. There has come no new pastoral poet, +though Virgil copied thee, and Pope, and Phillips, and all the +buckram band of the teacup time; and all the modish swains of France +have sung against thee, as the SOW CHALLENGED ATHENE. They never +knew the shepherd's life, the long winter nights on dried heather by +the fire, the long summer days, when over the parched grass all is +quiet, and only the insects hum, and the shrunken burn whispers a +silver tune. Swains in high-heeled shoon, and lace, shepherdesses +in rouge and diamonds, the world is weary of all concerning them, +save their images in porcelain, effigies how unlike thy golden +figures, dedicate to Aphrodite, of Bombyca and Battus! Somewhat, +Theocritus, thou hast to answer for, thou that first of men brought +the shepherd to Court, and made courtiers wild to go a Maying with +the shepherds. + + + +LETTER--To Edgar Allan Poe + + + +Sir,--Your English readers, better acquainted with your poems and +romances than with your criticisms, have long wondered at the +indefatigable hatred which pursues your memory. You, who knew the +men, will not marvel that certain microbes of letters, the survivors +of your own generation, still harass your name with their +malevolence, while old women twitter out their incredible and +unheeded slanders in the literary papers of New York. But their +persistent animosity does not quite suffice to explain the dislike +with which many American critics regard the greatest poet, perhaps +the greatest literary genius, of their country. With a commendable +patriotism, they are not apt to rate native merit too low; and you, +I think, are the only example of an American prophet almost without +honour in his own country. + +The recent publication of a cold, careful, and in many respects +admirable study of your career ("Edgar Allan Poe," by George +Woodberry: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., Boston) reminds English +readers who have forgotten it, and teaches those who never knew it, +that you were, unfortunately, a Reviewer. How unhappy were the +necessities, how deplorable the vein, that compelled or seduced a +man of your eminence into the dusty and stony ways of contemporary +criticism! About the writers of his own generation a leader of that +generation should hold his peace. He should neither praise nor +blame nor defend his equals; he should not strike one blow at the +buzzing ephemerae of letters. The breath of their life is in the +columns of "Literary Gossip;" and they should be allowed to perish +with the weekly advertisements on which they pasture. Reviewing, of +course, there must needs be; but great minds should only criticise +the great who have passed beyond the reach of eulogy or fault- +finding. + +Unhappily, taste and circumstances combined to make you a censor; +you vexed a continent, and you are still unforgiven. What +"irritation of a sensitive nature, chafed by some indefinite sense +of wrong," drove you (in Mr. Longfellow's own words) to attack his +pure and beneficent Muse we may never ascertain. But Mr. Longfellow +forgave you easily; for pardon comes easily to the great. It was +the smaller men, the Daweses, Griswolds, and the like, that knew not +how to forget. "The New Yorkers never forgave him," says your +latest biographer; and one scarcely marvels at the inveteracy of +their malice. It was not individual vanity alone, but the whole +literary class that you assailed. "As a literary people," you +wrote, "we are one vast perambulating humbug." After that +declaration of war you died, and left your reputation to the +vanities yet writhing beneath your scorn. They are writhing and +writing still. He who knows them need not linger over the attacks +and defences of your personal character; he will not waste time on +calumnies, tale-bearing, private letters, and all the noisome dust +which takes so long in settling above your tomb. + +For us it is enough to know that you were compelled to live by your +pen, and that in an age when the author of "To Helen" and "The Cask +of Amontillado" was paid at the rate of a dollar a column. When +such poverty was the mate of such pride as yours, a misery more deep +than that of Burns, an agony longer than Chatterton's, were +inevitable and assured. No man was less fortunate than you in the +moment of his birth--infelix opportunitate vitae. Had you lived a +generation later, honour, wealth, applause, success in Europe and at +home, would all have been yours. Within thirty years so great a +change has passed over the profession of letters in America; and it +is impossible to estimate the rewards which would have fallen to +Edgar Poe, had chance made him the contemporary of Mark Twain and of +"Called Back." It may be that your criticisms helped to bring in +the new era, and to lift letters out of the reach of quite +unlettered scribblers. Though not a scholar, at least you had a +respect for scholarship. You might still marvel over such words as +"objectional" in the new biography of yourself, and might ask what +is meant by such a sentence as "his connection with it had inured to +his own benefit by the frequent puffs of himself," and so forth. + +Best known in your own day as a critic, it is as a poet and a writer +of short tales that you must live. But to discuss your few and +elaborate poems is a waste of time, so completely does your own +brief definition of poetry, "the rhythmic creation of the +beautiful," exhaust your theory, and so perfectly is the theory +illustrated by the poems. Natural bent, and reaction against the +example of Mr. Longfellow, combined to make you too intolerant of +what you call the "didactic" element in verse. Even if morality be +not seven-eighths of our life (the exact proportion as at present +estimated), there was a place even on the Hellenic Parnassus for +gnomic bards, and theirs in the nature of the case must always be +the largest public. + +"Music is the perfection of the soul or the idea of poetry," so you +wrote; "the vagueness of exaltation aroused by a sweet air (which +should be indefinite and never too strongly suggestive) is precisely +what we should aim at in poetry." You aimed at that mark, and +struck it again and again, notably in "Helen, thy beauty is to me," +in "The Haunted Palace," "The Valley of Unrest," and "The City in +the Sea." But by some Nemesis which might, perhaps, have been +foreseen, you are, to the world, the poet of one poem--"The Raven:" +a piece in which the music is highly artificial, and the +"exaltation" (what there is of it) by no means particularly "vague." +So a portion of the public know little of Shelley but the "Skylark," +and those two incongruous birds, the lark and the raven, bear each +of them a poet's name, vivu' per ora virum. Your theory of poetry, +if accepted, would make you (after the author of "Kubla Khan") the +foremost of the poets of the world; at no long distance would come +Mr. William Morris as he was when he wrote "Golden Wings," "The Blue +Closet," and "The Sailing of the Sword;" and, close up, Mr. Lear, +the author of "The Yongi Bongi Bo," an the lay of the "Jumblies." + +On the other hand Homer would sink into the limbo to which you +consigned Moliere. If we may judge a theory by its results, when +compared with the deliberate verdict of the world, your aesthetic +does not seem to hold water. The "Odyssey" is not really inferior +to "Ulalume," as it ought to be if your doctrine of poetry were +correct, nor "Le Festin de Pierre" to "Undine." Yet you deserve the +praise of having been constant, in your poetic practice, to your +poetic principles--principles commonly deserted by poets who, like +Wordsworth, have published their aesthetic system. Your pieces are +few; and Dr. Johnson would have called you, like Fielding, "a barren +rascal." But how can a writer's verses be numerous if with him, as +with you, "poetry is not a pursuit but a passion . . . which cannot +at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations or the +more paltry commendations of mankind!" Of you it may be said, more +truly than Shelley said it of himself, that "to ask you for anything +human, is like asking at a gin-shop for a leg of mutton." + +Humanity must always be, to the majority of men, the true stuff of +poetry; and only a minority will thank you for that rare music which +(like the strains of the fiddler in the story) is touched on a +single string, and on an instrument fashioned from the spoils of the +grave. You chose, or you were destined + + +To vary from the kindly race of men; + + +and the consequences, which wasted your life, pursue your +reputation. + +For your stories has been reserved a boundless popularity, and that +highest success--the success of a perfectly sympathetic translation. +By this time, of course, you have made the acquaintance of your +translator, M. Charles Baudelaire, who so strenuously shared your +views about Mr. Emerson and the Transcendentalists, and who so +energetically resisted all those ideas of "progress" which "came +from Hell or Boston." On this point, however, the world continues +to differ from you and M. Baudelaire, and perhaps there is only the +choice between our optimism and universal suicide or universal +opium-eating. But to discuss your ultimate ideas is perhaps a +profitless digression from the topic of your prose romances. + +An English critic (probably a Northerner at heart) has described +them as "Hawthorne and delirium tremens." I am not aware that +extreme orderliness, masterly elaboration, and unchecked progress +towards a predetermined effect are characteristics of the visions of +delirium. If they be, then there is a deal of truth in the +criticism, and a good deal of delirium tremens in your style. But +your ingenuity, your completeness, your occasional luxuriance of +fancy and wealth of jewel-like words, are not, perhaps, gifts which +Mr. Hawthorne had at his command. He was a great writer--the +greatest writer in prose fiction whom America has produced. But you +and he have not much in common, except a certain mortuary turn of +mind and a taste for gloomy allegories about the workings of +conscience. + +I forbear to anticipate your verdict about the latest essays of +American fiction. These by no means follow in the lines which you +laid down about brevity and the steady working to one single effect. +Probably you would not be very tolerant (tolerance was not your +leading virtue) of Mr. Roe, now your countrymen's favourite +novelist. He is long, he is didactic, he is eminently uninspired. +In the works of one who is, what you were called yourself, a +Bostonian, you would admire, at least, the acute observation, the +subtlety, and the unfailing distinction. But, destitute of humour +as you unhappily but undeniably were, you would miss, I fear, the +charm of "Daisy Miller." You would admit the unity of effect +secured in "Washington Square," though that effect is as remote as +possible from the terror of "The House of Usher" or the vindictive +triumph of "The Cask of Amontillado." + +Farewell, farewell, thou sombre and solitary spirit: a genius +tethered to the hack-work of the press, a gentleman among canaille, +a poet among poetasters, dowered with a scholar's taste without a +scholar's training, embittered by his sensitive scorn, and all +unsupported by his consolations. + + + +LETTER--To Sir Walter Scott, Bart. + + + +Rodono, St. Mary's Loch: +Sept. 8, 1885. + +Sir,--In your biography it is recorded that you not only won the +favour of all men and women; but that a domestic fowl conceived an +affection for you, and that a pig, by his will, had never been +severed from your company. If some Circe had repeated in my case +her favourite miracle of turning mortals into swine, and had given +me a choice, into that fortunate pig, blessed among his race, would +I have been converted! You, almost alone among men of letters, +still, like a living friend, win and charm us out of the past; and +if one might call up a poet, as the scholiast tried to call Homer, +from the shades, who would not, out of all the rest, demand some +hours of your society? Who that ever meddled with letters, what +child of the irritable race, possessed even a tithe of your simple +manliness, of the heart that never knew a touch of jealousy, that +envied no man his laurels, that took honour and wealth as they came, +but never would have deplored them had you missed both and remained +but the Border sportsman and the Border antiquary? + +Were the word "genial" not so much profaned, were it not misused in +easy good-nature, to extenuate lettered and sensual indolence, that +worn old term might be applied, above all men, to "the Shirra." But +perhaps we scarcely need a word (it would be seldom in use) for a +character so rare, or rather so lonely, in its nobility and charm as +that of Walter Scott. Here, in the heart of your own country, among +your own grey round-shouldered hills (each so like the other that +the shadow of one falling on its neighbour exactly outlines that +neighbour's shape), it is of you and of your works that a native of +the Forest is most frequently brought in mind. All the spirits of +the river and the hill, all the dying refrains of ballad and the +fading echoes of story, all the memory of the wild past, each legend +of burn and loch, seem to have combined to inform your spirit, and +to secure themselves an immortal life in your song. It is through +you that we remember them; and in recalling them, as in treading +each hillside in this land, we again remember you and bless you. + +It is not, "Sixty Years Since" the echo of Tweed among his pebbles +fell for the last time on your ear; not sixty years since, and how +much is altered! But two generations have passed; the lad who used +to ride from Edinburgh to Abbotsford, carrying new books for you, +and old, is still vending, in George Street, old books and new. Of +politics I have not the heart to speak. Little joy would you have +had in most that has befallen since the Reform Bill was passed, to +the chivalrous cry of "burke Sir Walter." We are still very Radical +in the Forest, and you were taken away from many evils to come. How +would the cheek of Walter Scott, or of Leyden, have blushed at the +names of Majuba, The Soudan, Maiwand, and many others that recall +political cowardice or military incapacity! On the other hand, who +but you could have sung the dirge of Gordon, or wedded with immortal +verse the names of Hamilton (who fell with Cavagnari), of the two +Stewarts, of many another clansman, brave among the bravest! Only +he who told how + + +The stubborn spearmen still made good +Their dark impenetrable wood + + +could have fitly rhymed a score of feats of arms in which, as at +M'Neill's Zareba and at Abu Klea, + + +Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, +As fearlessly and well. + + +Ah, Sir, the hearts of the rulers may wax faint, and the voting +classes may forget that they are Britons; but when it comes to blows +our fighting men might cry, with Leyden, + + +My name is little Jock Elliot, +And wha daur meddle wi' me! + + +Much is changed, in the countryside as well as in the country; but +much remains. The little towns of your time are populous and +excessively black with the smoke of factories--not, I fear, at +present very flourishing. In Galashiels you still see the little +change-house and the cluster of cottages round the Laird's lodge, +like the clachan of Tully Veolan. But these plain remnants of the +old Scotch towns are almost buried in a multitude of "smoky dwarf +houses"--a living poet, Mr. Matthew Arnold, has found the fitting +phrase for these dwellings, once for all. All over the Forest the +waters are dirty and poisoned: I think they are filthiest below +Hawick; but this may be mere local prejudice in a Selkirk man. To +keep them clean costs money; and, though improvements are often +promised, I cannot see much change--for the better. Abbotsford, +luckily, is above Galashiels, and only receives the dirt and dyes of +Selkirk, Peebles, Walkerburn, and Innerleithen. On the other hand, +your ill-omened later dwelling, "the unhappy palace of your race," +is overlooked by villas that prick a cockney ear among their +larches, hotels of the future. Ah, Sir, Scotland is a strange +place. Whisky is exiled from some of our caravanserais, and they +have banished Sir John Barleycorn. It seems as if the views of the +excellent critic (who wrote your life lately, and said you had left +no descendants, le pauvre homme!) were beginning to prevail. This +pious biographer was greatly shocked by that capital story about the +keg of whisky that arrived at the Liddesdale farmer's during family +prayers. Your Toryism also was an offence to him. + +Among these vicissitudes of things and the overthrow of customs, let +us be thankful that, beyond the reach of the manufacturers, the +Border country remains as kind and homely as ever. I looked at +Ashiestiel some days ago: the house seemed just as it may have been +when you left it for Abbotsford, only there was a lawn-tennis net on +the lawn, the hill on the opposite bank of the Tweed was covered to +the crest with turnips, and the burn did not sing below the little +bridge, for in this arid summer the burn was dry. But there was +still a grilse that rose to a big March brown in the shrunken stream +below Elibank. This may not interest you, who styled yourself + + +No fisher, +But a well-wisher +To the game! + + +Still, as when you were thinking over Marmion, a man might have +"grand gallops among the hills"--those grave wastes of heather and +bent that sever all the watercourses and roll their sheep-covered +pastures from Dollar Law to White Combe, and from White Combe to the +Three Brethren Cairn and the Windburg and Skelf-hill Pen. Yes, +Teviotdale is pleasant still, and there is not a drop of dye in the +water, purior electro, of Yarrow. St. Mary's Loch lies beneath me, +smitten with wind and rain--the St. Mary's of North and of the +Shepherd. Only the trout, that see a myriad of artificial flies, +are shyer than of yore. The Shepherd could no longer fill a cart up +Meggat with trout so much of a size that the country people took +them for herrings. + +The grave of Piers Cockburn is still not desecrated: hard by it +lies, within a little wood; and beneath that slab of old sandstone, +and the graven letters, and the sword and shield, sleep "Piers +Cockburn and Marjory his wife." Not a hundred yards off was the +castle-door where they hanged him; this is the tomb of the ballad, +and the lady that buried him rests now with her wild lord. + + +Oh, wat ye no my heart was sair, +When I happit the mouls on his yellow hair; +Oh, wat ye no my heart was wae, +When I turned about and went my way! {7} + + +Here too hearts have broken, and there is a sacredness in the shadow +and beneath these clustering berries of the rowan-trees. That +sacredness, that reverent memory of our old land, it is always and +inextricably blended with our memories, with our thoughts, with our +love of you. Scotchmen, methinks, who owe so much to you, owe you +most for the example you gave of the beauty of a life of honour, +showing them what, by heaven's blessing, a Scotchman still might be. + +Words, empty and unavailing--for what words of ours can speak our +thoughts or interpret our affections! From you first, as we +followed the deer with King James, or rode with William of Deloraine +on his midnight errand, did we learn what Poetry means and all the +happiness that is in the gift of song. This and more than may be +told you gave us, that are not forgetful, not ungrateful, though our +praise be unequal to our gratitude. Fungor inani munere! + + + +LETTER--To Eusebius of Caesarea (Concerning the gods of the heathen) + + + +Touching the Gods of the Heathen, most reverend Father, thou art not +ignorant that even now, as in the time of thy probation on earth, +there is great dissension. That these feigned Deities and idols, +the work of men's hands, are no longer worshipped thou knowest; +neither do men eat meat offered to idols. Even as spake that last +Oracle which murmured forth, the latest and the only true voice from +Delphi, even so "the fair-wrought court divine hath fallen; no more +hath Phoebus his home, no more his laurel-bough, nor the singing +well of water; nay, the sweet-voiced water is silent." The fane is +ruinous, and the images of men's idolatry are dust. + +Nevertheless, most worshipful, men do still dispute about the +beginnings of those sinful Gods: such as Zeus, Athene, and +Dionysus: and marvel how first they won their dominion over the +souls of the foolish peoples. Now, concerning these things there is +not one belief, but many; howbeit, there are two main kinds of +opinion. One sect of philosophers believes--as thyself, with +heavenly learning, didst not vainly persuade--that the Gods were the +inventions of wild and bestial folk, who, long before cities were +builded or life was honourably ordained, fashioned forth evil +spirits in their own savage likeness; ay, or in the likeness of the +very beasts that perish. To this judgment, as it is set forth in +thy Book of the Preparation for the Gospel, I, humble as I am, do +give my consent. But on the other side are many and learned men, +chiefly of the tribes of the Alemanni, who have almost conquered the +whole inhabited world. These, being unwilling to suppose that the +Hellenes were in bondage to superstitions handed down from times of +utter darkness and a bestial life, do chiefly hold with the heathen +philosophers, even with the writers whom thou, most venerable, didst +confound with thy wisdom and chasten with the scourge of small cords +of thy wit. + +Thus, like the heathen, our doctors and teachers maintain that the +gods of the nations were, in the beginning, such pure natural +creatures as the blue sky, the sun, the air, the bright dawn, and +the fire; but, as time went on, men, forgetting the meaning of their +own speech and no longer understanding the tongue of their own +fathers, were misled and beguiled into fashioning all those +lamentable tales: as that Zeus, for love of mortal women, took the +shape of a bull, a ram, a serpent, an ant, an eagle, and sinned in +such wise as it is a shame even to speak of. + +Behold, then, most worshipful, how these doctors and learned men +argue, even like the philosophers of the heathen whom thou didst +confound. For they declare the gods to have been natural elements, +sun and sky and storm, even as did thy opponents; and, like them, as +thou saidst, "they are nowise at one with each other in their +explanations." For of old some boasted that Hera was the Air; and +some that she signified the love of woman and man; and some that she +was the waters above the Earth; and others that she was the Earth +beneath the waters; and yet others that she was the Night, for that +Night is the shadow of Earth: as if, forsooth, the men who first +worshipped Hera had understanding of these things! And when Hera +and Zeus quarrel unseemly (as Homer declareth), this meant (said the +learned in thy days) no more than the strife and confusion of the +elements, and was not in the beginning an idle slanderous tale. + +To all which, most worshipful, thou didst answer wisely: saying +that Hera could not be both night, and earth, and water, and air, +and the love of sexes, and the confusion of the elements; but that +all these opinions were vain dreams, and the guesses of the learned. +And why--thou saidst--even if the Gods were pure natural creatures, +are such foul things told of them in the Mysteries as it is not +fitting for me to declare. "These wanderings, and drinkings, and +loves, and seductions, that would be shameful in men, why," thou +saidst, "were they attributed to the natural elements; and wherefore +did the Gods constantly show themselves, like the sorcerers called +werewolves, in the shape of the perishable beasts?" But, mainly, +thou didst argue that, till the philosophers of the heathen were +agreed among themselves, not all contradicting each the other, they +had no semblance of a sure foundation for their doctrine. + +To all this and more, most worshipful Father, I know not what the +heathen answered thee. But, in our time, the learned men who stand +to it that the heathen Gods were in the beginning the pure elements, +and that the nations, forgetting their first love and the +significance of their own speech, became confused and were betrayed +into foul stories about the pure Gods--these learned men, I say, +agree no whit among themselves. Nay, they differ one from another, +not less than did Plutarch and Porphyry and Theagenes, and the rest +whom thou didst laugh to scorn. Bear with me, Father, while I tell +thee how the new Plutarchs and Porphyrys do contend among +themselves; and yet these differences of theirs they call "Science"! + +Consider the goddess Athene, who sprang armed from the head of Zeus, +even as--among the fables of the poor heathen folk of seas thou +never knewest--goddesses are fabled to leap out from the armpits or +feet of their fathers. Thou must know that what Plato, in the +"Cratylus," made Socrates say in jest, the learned among us practise +in sad earnest. For, when they wish to explain the nature of any +God, they first examine his name, and torment the letters thereof, +arranging and altering them according to their will, and flying off +to the speech of the Indians and Medes and Chaldeans, and other +Barbarians, if Greek will not serve their turn. How saith Socrates? +"I bethink me of a very new and ingenious idea that occurs to me; +and, if I do not mind, I shall be wiser than I should be by to- +morrow's dawn. My notion is that we may put in and pull out letters +at pleasure and alter the accents." + +Even so do the learned--not at pleasure, maybe, but according to +certain fixed laws (so they declare); yet none the more do they +agree among themselves. And I deny not that they discover many +things true and good to be known; but, as touching the names of the +Gods, their learning, as it standeth, is confusion. Look, then, at +the goddess Athene: taking one example out of hundreds. We have +dwelling in our coasts Muellerus, the most erudite of the doctors of +the Alemanni, and the most golden-mouthed. Concerning Athene, he +saith that her name is none other than, in the ancient tongue of the +Brachmanae, Ahana, which, being interpreted, means the Dawn. "And +that the morning light," saith he, "offers the best starting-point +for the later growth of Athene has been proved, I believe, beyond +the reach of doubt or even cavil." {8} + +Yet this same doctor candidly lets us know that another of his +nation, the witty Benfeius, hath devised another sense and origin of +Athene, taken from the speech of the old Medes. But Muellerus +declares to us that whosoever shall examine the contention of +Benfeius "will be bound, in common honesty, to confess that it is +untenable." This, Father, is "one for Benfeius," as the saying +goes. And as Muellerus holds that these matters "admit of almost +mathematical precision," it would seem that Benfeius is but a +Dummkopf, as the Alemanni say, in their own language, when they +would be pleasant among themselves. + +Now, wouldst thou credit it? despite the mathematical plainness of +the facts, other Alemanni agree neither with Muellerus, nor yet with +Benfeius, and will neither hear that Athene was the Dawn, nor yet +that she is "the feminine of the Zend Thraetana athwyana." Lo, you! +how Prellerus goes about to show that her name is drawn not from +Ahana and the old Brachmanae, nor athwyana and the old Medes, but +from "the root [Greek text], whence [Greek text], the air, or [Greek +text], whence [Greek text], a flower." Yea, and Prellerus will have +it that no man knows the verity of this matter. None the less he is +very bold, and will none of the Dawn; but holds to it that Athene +was, from the first, "the clear pure height of the Air, which is +exceeding pure in Attica." + +Now, Father, as if all this were not enough, comes one Roscherus in, +with a mighty great volume on the Gods, and Furtwaenglerus, among +others, for his ally. And these doctors will neither with +Rueckertus and Hermannus, take Athene for "wisdom in person;" nor +with Welckerus and Prellerus, for "the goddess of air;" nor even, +with Muellerus and mathematical certainty, for "the Morning-Red:" +but they say that Athene is the "black thunder-cloud, and the +lightning that leapeth therefrom"! I make no doubt that other +Alemanni are of other minds: quot Alemanni tot sententiae. + +Yea, as thou saidst of the learned heathen, [Greek text]. Yet these +disputes of theirs they call "Science"! But if any man says to the +learned: "Best of men, you are erudite, and laborious and witty; +but, till you are more of the same mind, your opinions cannot be +styled knowledge. Nay, they are at present of no avail whereon to +found any doctrine concerning the Gods"--that man is railed at for +his "mean" and "weak" arguments. + +Was it thus, Father, that the heathen railed against thee? But I +must still believe, with thee, that these evil tales of the Gods +were invented "when man's life was yet brutish and wandering" (as is +the life of many tribes that even now tell like tales), and were +maintained in honour by the later Greeks "because none dared alter +the ancient beliefs of his ancestors." Farewell, Father; and all +good be with thee, wishes thy well-wisher and thy disciple. + + + +LETTER--To Percy Bysshe Shelley + + + +Sir,--In your lifetime on earth you were not more than commonly +curious as to what was said by "the herd of mankind," if I may quote +your own phrase. It was that of one who loved his fellow-men, but +did not in his less enthusiastic moments overestimate their virtues +and their discretion. Removed so far away from our hubbub, and that +world where, as you say, we "pursue our serious folly as of old," +you are, one may guess, but moderately concerned about the fate of +your writings and your reputation. As to the first, you have +somewhere said, in one of your letters, that the final judgment on +your merits as a poet is in the hands of posterity, and that you +fear the verdict will be "Guilty," and the sentence "Death." Such +apprehensions cannot have been fixed or frequent in the mind of one +whose genius burned always with a clearer and steadier flame to the +last. The jury of which you spoke has met: a mixed jury and a +merciful. The verdict is "Well done," and the sentence Immortality +of Fame. There have been, there are, dissenters; yet probably they +will be less and less heard as the years go on. + +One judge, or juryman, has made up his mind that prose was your true +province, and that your letters will out-live your lays. I know not +whether it was the same or an equally well-inspired critic, who +spoke of your most perfect lyrics (so Beau Brummell spoke of his +ill-tied cravats) as "a gallery of your failures." But the general +voice does not echo these utterances of a too subtle intellect. At +a famous University (not your own) once existed a band of men known +as "The Trinity Sniffers." Perhaps the spirit of the sniffer may +still inspire some of the jurors who from time to time make +themselves heard in your case. The "Quarterly Review," I fear, is +still unreconciled. It regards your attempts as tainted by the +spirit of "The Liberal Movement in English Literature;" and it is +impossible, alas! to maintain with any success that you were a +Throne and Altar Tory. At Oxford you are forgiven; and the old +rooms where you let the oysters burn (was not your founder, King +Alfred, once guilty of similar negligence?) are now shown to pious +pilgrims. + +But Conservatives, 'tis rumoured, are still averse to your opinions, +and are believed to prefer to yours the works of the Reverend Mr. +Keble, and, indeed, of the clergy in general. But, in spite of all +this, your poems, like the affections of the true lovers in +Theocritus, are yet "in the mouths of all, and chiefly on the lips +of the young." It is in your lyrics that you live, and I do not +mean that every one could pass an examination in the plot of +"Prometheus Unbound." Talking of this piece, by the way, a +Cambridge critic finds that it reveals in you a hankering after life +in a cave--doubtless an unconsciously inherited memory from cave- +man. Speaking of cave-man reminds me that you once spoke of +deserting song for prose, and of producing a history of the moral, +intellectual, and political elements in human society, which, we now +agree, began, as Asia would fain have ended, in a cave. + +Fortunately you gave us "Adonais" and "Hellas" instead of this +treatise, and we have now successfully written the natural history +of Man for ourselves. Science tells us that before becoming a cave- +dweller he was a Brute; Experience daily proclaims that he +constantly reverts to his original condition. L'homme est un +mechant animal, in spite of your boyish efforts to add pretty girls +"to the list of the good, the disinterested, and the free." + +Ah, not in the wastes of Speculation, nor the sterile din of +Politics, were "the haunts meet for thee." Watching the yellow bees +in the ivy bloom, and the reflected pine forest in the water-pools, +watching the sunset as it faded, and the dawn as it fired, and +weaving all fair and fleeting things into a tissue where light and +music were at one, that was the task of Shelley! "To ask you for +anything human," you said, "was like asking for a leg of mutton at a +gin-shop." Nay, rather, like asking Apollo and Hebe, in the +Olympian abodes, to give us beef for ambrosia, and port for nectar. +Each poet gives what he has, and what he can offer; you spread +before us fairy bread, and enchanted wine, and shall we turn away, +with a sneer, because, out of all the multitudes of singers, one is +spiritual and strange, one has seen Artemis unveiled? One, like +Anchises, has been beloved of the Goddess, and his eyes, when he +looks on the common world of common men, are, like the eyes of +Anchises, blind with excess of light. Let Shelley sing of what he +saw, what none saw but Shelley! + +Notwithstanding the popularity of your poems (the most romantic of +things didactic), our world is no better than the world you knew. +This will disappoint you, who had "a passion for reforming it." +Kings and priests are very much where you left them. True, we have +a poet who assails them, at large, frequently and fearlessly; yet +Mr. Swinburne has never, like "kind Hunt," been in prison, nor do we +fear for him a charge of treason. Moreover, chemical science has +discovered new and ingenious ways of destroying principalities and +powers. You would be interested in the methods, but your peaceful +Revolutionism, which disdained physical force, would regret their +application. + +Our foreign affairs are not in a state which even you would consider +satisfactory; for we have just had to contend with a Revolt of +Islam, and we still find in Russia exactly the qualities which you +recognised and described. We have a great statesman whose methods +and eloquence somewhat resemble those you attribute to Laon and +Prince Athanase. Alas! he is a youth of more than seventy summers; +and not in his time will Prometheus retire to a cavern and pass a +peaceful millennium in twining buds and beams. + +In domestic affairs most of the Reforms you desired to see have been +carried. Ireland has received Emancipation, and almost everything +else she can ask for. I regret to say that she is still unhappy; +her wounds unstanched, her wrongs unforgiven. At home we have +enfranchised the paupers, and expect the most happy results. +Paupers (as Mr. Gladstone says) are "our own flesh and blood," and, +as we compel them to be vaccinated, so we should permit them to +vote. Is it a dream that Mr. Jesse Collings (how you would have +loved that man!) has a Bill for extending the priceless boon of the +vote to inmates of Pauper Lunatic Asylums? This may prove that last +element in the Elixir of political happiness which we have long +sought in vain. Atheists, you will regret to hear, are still +unpopular; but the new Parliament has done something for Mr. +Bradlaugh. You should have known our Charles while you were in the +"Queen Mab" stage. I fear you wandered, later, from his robust +condition of intellectual development. + +As to your private life, many biographers contrive to make public as +much of it as possible. Your name, even in life, was, alas! a kind +of ducdame to bring people of no very great sense into your circle. +This curious fascination has attracted round your memory a feeble +folk of commentators, biographers, anecdotists, and others of the +tribe. They swarm round you like carrion-flies round a sensitive +plant, like night-birds bewildered by the sun. Men of sense and +taste have written on you, indeed; but your weaker admirers are now +disputing as to whether it was your heart, or a less dignified and +most troublesome organ, which escaped the flames of the funeral +pyre. These biographers fight terribly among themselves, and vainly +prolong the memory of "old unhappy far-off things, and sorrows long +ago." Let us leave them and their squabbles over what is +unessential, their raking up of old letters and old stories. + +The town has lately yawned a weary laugh over an enemy of yours, who +has produced two heavy volumes, styled by him "The Real Shelley." +The real Shelley, it appears, was Shelley as conceived of by a +worthy gentleman so prejudiced and so skilled in taking up things by +the wrong handle that I wonder he has not made a name in the exact +science of Comparative Mythology. He criticises you in the spirit +of that Christian Apologist, the Englishman who called you "a damned +Atheist" in the post-office at Pisa. He finds that you had "a +little turned-up nose," a feature no less important in his system +than was the nose of Cleopatra (according to Pascal) in the history +of the world. To be in harmony with your nose, you were a +"phenomenal" liar, an ill-bred, ill-born, profligate, partly insane, +an evil-tempered monster, a self-righteous person, full of self- +approbation--in fact you were the Beast of this pious Apocalypse. +Your friend Dr. Lind was an embittered and scurrilous apothecary, "a +bad old man." But enough of this inopportune brawler. + +For Humanity, of which you hoped such great things, Science predicts +extinction in a night of Frost. The sun will grow cold, slowly--as +slowly as doom came on Jupiter in your "Prometheus," but as surely. +If this nightmare be fulfilled, perhaps the Last Man, in some fetid +hut on the ice-bound Equator, will read, by a fading lamp charged +with the dregs of the oil in his cruse, the poetry of Shelley. So +reading, he, the latest of his race, will not wholly be deprived of +those sights which alone (says the nameless Greek) make life worth +enduring. In your verse he will have sight of sky, and sea, and +cloud, the gold of dawn and the gloom of earthquake and eclipse. He +will be face to face, in fancy, with the great powers that are dead, +sun, and ocean, and the illimitable azure of the heavens. In +Shelley's poetry, while Man endures, all those will survive; for +your "voice is as the voice of winds and tides," and perhaps more +deathless than all of these, and only perishable with the perishing +of the human spirit. + + + +LETTER--To Monsieur de Moliere, Valet de Chambre du Roi + + + +Monsieur,--With what awe does a writer venture into the presence of +the great Moliere! As a courtier in your time would scratch humbly +(with his comb!) at the door of the Grand Monarch, so I presume to +draw near your dwelling among the Immortals. You, like the king +who, among all his titles, has now none so proud as that of the +friend of Moliere--you found your dominions small, humble, and +distracted; you raised them to the dignity of an empire: what Louis +XIV. did for France you achieved for French comedy; and the baton of +Scapin still wields its sway though the sword of Louis was broken at +Blenheim. For the King the Pyrenees, or so he fancied, ceased to +exist; by a more magnificent conquest you overcame the Channel. If +England vanquished your country's arms, it was through you that +France ferum victorem cepit, and restored the dynasty of Comedy to +the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden borrowed +"L'Etourdi," our tardy apish nation has lived (in matters +theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France. + +In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered. While +you lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was the +congenial business of English playwrights to foist their rustic +grossness and their large Fescennine jests into the urban page of +Moliere. Now they are diversely occupied; and it is their affair to +lend modesty where they borrow wit, and to spare a blush to the +cheek of the Lord Chamberlain. But still, as has ever been our wont +since Etherege saw, and envied, and imitated your successes--still +we pilfer the plays of France, and take our bien, as you said in +your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We are the privateers +of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that a comedy pleases +the town which has not first been "cut out" from the countrymen of +Moliere. Why this should be, and what "tenebriferous star" (as +Paracelsus, your companion in the "Dialogues des Morts," would have +believed) thus darkens the sun of English humour, we know not; but +certainly our dependence on France is the sincerest tribute to you. +Without you, neither Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor "a wilderness of +monkeys" like Scarron, could ever have given Comedy to France and +restored her to Europe. + +While we owe to you, Monsieur, the beautiful advent of Comedy, fair +and beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, it is still to +you that we must turn when of comedies we desire the best. If you +studied with daily and nightly care the works of Plautus and +Terence, if you "let no musty bouquin escape you" (so your enemies +declared), it was to some purpose that you laboured. Shakespeare +excepted, you eclipsed all who came before you; and from those that +follow, however fresh, we turn: we turn from Regnard and +Beaumarchais, from Sheridan and Goldsmith, from Musset and Pailleron +and Labiche, to that crowded world of your creations. "Creations" +one may well say, for you anticipated Nature herself: you gave us, +before she did, in Alceste a Rousseau who was a gentleman not a +lacquey; in a mot of Don Juan's, the secret of the new Religion and +the watchword of Comte, l'amour de l'humanite. + +Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a Frenchman with +humour; and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise philosophy of +a secular civilisation? With a heart the most tender, delicate, +loving, and generous, a heart often in agony and torment, you had to +make life endurable (we cannot doubt it) without any whisper of +promise, or hope, or warning from Religion. Yes, in an age when the +greatest mind of all, the mind of Pascal, proclaimed that the only +help was in voluntary blindness, that the only chance was to hazard +all on a bet at evens, you, Monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to +pretend to see what you found invisible. + +In Religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits and +Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartufe the portrait +of their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in your play +conceived that you were girding at his neighbour), you all the while +were mocking every credulous excess of Faith. In the sermons +preached to Agnes we surely hear your private laughter; in the +arguments for credulity which are presented to Don Juan by his valet +we listen to the eternal self-defence of superstition. Thus, +desolate of belief, you sought for the permanent element of life-- +precisely where Pascal recognised all that was most fleeting and +unsubstantial--in divertissement; in the pleasure of looking on, a +spectator of the accidents of existence, an observer of the follies +of mankind. Like the Gods of the Epicurean, you seem to regard our +life as a play that is played, as a comedy; yet how often the tragic +note comes in! What pity, and in the laughter what an accent of +tears, as of rain in the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and +human as you; none has had a heart, like you, to feel for his butts, +and to leave them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their +tormentors. Sganarelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the +rest--our sympathy, somehow, is with them, after all; and M. de +Pourceaugnac is a gentleman, despite his misadventures. + +Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays may batter +and defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not all the victory, +or you did not mean that they should win it. They go off with +laughter, and their victim with a grimace; but in him we, that are +past our youth, behold an actor in an unending tragedy, the defeat +of a generation. Your sympathy is not wholly with the dogs that are +having their day; you can throw a bone or a crust to the dog that +has had his, and has been taught that it is over and ended. +Yourself not unlearned in shame, in jealousy, in endurance of the +wanton pride of men (how could the poor player and the husband of +Celimene be untaught in that experience?), you never sided quite +heartily, as other comedians have done, with young prosperity and +rank and power. + +I am not the first who has dared to approach you in the Shades; for +just after your own death the author of "Les Dialogues des Morts" +gave you Paracelsus as a companion, and the author of "Le Jugement +de Pluton" made the "mighty warder" decide that "Moliere should not +talk philosophy." These writers, like most of us, feel that, after +all, the comedies of the Contemplateur, of the translator of +Lucretius, are a philosophy of life in themselves, and that in them +we read the lessons of human experience writ small and clear. + +What comedian but Moliere has combined with such depths--with the +indignation of Alceste, the self-deception of Tartufe, the blasphemy +of Don Juan--such wildness of irresponsible mirth, such humour, such +wit! Even now, when more than two hundred years have sped by, when +so much water has flowed under the bridges and has borne away so +many trifles of contemporary mirth (cetera fluminis ritu feruntur), +even now we never laugh so well as when Mascarille and Vadius and M. +Jourdain tread the boards in the Maison de Moliere. Since those +mobile dark brows of yours ceased to make men laugh, since your +voice denounced the "demoniac" manner of contemporary tragedians, I +take leave to think that no player has been more worthy to wear the +canons of Mascarille or the gown of Vadius than M. Coquelin of the +Comedie Francaise. In him you have a successor to your Mascarille +so perfect, that the ghosts of playgoers of your date might cry, +could they see him, that Moliere had come again. But, with all +respect to the efforts of the fair, I doubt if Mdlle. Barthet, or +Mdme. Croizette herself, would reconcile the town to the loss of the +fair De Brie, and Madeleine, and the first, the true Celimene, +Armande. Yet had you ever so merry a soubrette as Mdme. Samary, so +exquisite a Nicole? + +Denounced, persecuted, and buried hugger-mugger two hundred years +ago, you are now not over-praised, but more worshipped, with more +servility and ostentation, studied with more prying curiosity than +you may approve. Are not the Molieristes a body who carry adoration +to fanaticism? Any scrap of your handwriting (so few are these), +any anecdote even remotely touching on your life, any fact that may +prove your house was numbered 15 not 22, is eagerly seized and +discussed by your too minute historians. Concerning your private +life, these men often speak more like malicious enemies than +friends; repeating the fabulous scandals of Le Boulanger, and trying +vainly to support them by grubbing in dusty parish registers. It is +most necessary to defend you from your friends--from such friends as +the veteran and inveterate M. Arsene Houssaye, or the industrious +but puzzle-headed M. Loiseleur. Truly they seek the living among +the dead, and the immortal Moliere among the sweepings of attorneys' +offices. As I regard them (for I have tarried in their tents) and +as I behold their trivialities--the exercises of men who neglect +Moliere's works to gossip about Moliere's great-grand-mother's +second-best bed--I sometimes wish that Moliere were here to write on +his devotees a new comedy, "Les Molieristes." How fortunate were +they, Monsieur, who lived and worked with you, who saw you day by +day, who were attached, as Lagrange tells us, by the kindest loyalty +to the best and most honourable of men, the most open-handed in +friendship, in charity the most delicate, of the heartiest sympathy! +Ah, that for one day I could behold you, writing in the study, +rehearsing on the stage, musing in the lace-seller's shop, strolling +through the Palais, turning over the new books at Billaine's, +dusting your ruffles among the old volumes on the sunny stalls. +Would that, through the ages, we could hear you after supper, merry +with Boileau, and with Racine,--not yet a traitor,--laughing over +Chapelain, combining to gird at him in an epigram, or mocking at +Cotin, or talking your favourite philosophy, mindful of Descartes. +Surely of all the wits none was ever so good a man, none ever made +life so rich with humour and friendship. + + + +LETTER--To Robert Burns + + + +Sir,--Among men of Genius, and especially among Poets, there are +some to whom we turn with a peculiar and unfeigned affection; there +are others whom we admire rather than love. By some we are won with +our will, by others conquered against our desire. It has been your +peculiar fortune to capture the hearts of a whole people--a people +not usually prone to praise, but devoted with a personal and +patriotic loyalty to you and to your reputation. In you every Scot +who IS a Scot sees, admires, and compliments Himself, his ideal +self--independent, fond of whisky, fonder of the lassies; you are +the true representative of him and of his nation. Next year will be +the hundredth since the press of Kilmarnock brought to light its +solitary masterpiece, your Poems; and next year, therefore, +methinks, the revenue will receive a welcome accession from the +abundance of whisky drunk in your honour. It is a cruel thing for +any of your countrymen to feel that, where all the rest love, he can +only admire; where all the rest are idolators, he may not bend the +knee; but stands apart and beats upon his breast, observing, not +adoring--a critic. Yet to some of us--petty souls, perhaps, and +envious--that loud indiscriminating praise of "Robbie Burns" (for so +they style you in their Change-house familiarity) has long been +ungrateful; and, among the treasures of your songs, we venture to +select and even to reject. So it must be! We cannot all love +Haggis, nor "painch, tripe, and thairm," and all those rural +dainties which you celebrate as "warm-reekin, rich!" "Rather too +rich," as the Young Lady said on an occasion recorded by Sam Weller. + + +Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware +That jaups in luggies; +But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, +Gie her a Haggis! + + +You HAVE given her a Haggis, with a vengeance, and her "gratefu' +prayer" is yours for ever. But if even an eternity of partridge may +pall on the epicure, so of Haggis too, as of all earthly delights, +cometh satiety at last. And yet what a glorious Haggis it is--the +more emphatically rustic and even Fescennine part of your verse! We +have had many a rural bard since Theocritus "watched the visionary +flocks," but you are the only one of them all who has spoken the +sincere Doric. Yours is the talk of the byre and the plough-tail; +yours is that large utterance of the early hinds. Even Theocritus +minces matters, save where Lacon and Comatas quite out-do the swains +of Ayrshire. "But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?" you ask, and +yourself out-match him in this wide rude region, trodden only by the +rural Muse. "THY rural loves are nature's sel';" and the wooer of +Jean Armour speaks more like a true shepherd than the elegant +Daphnis of the "Oaristys." + +Indeed it is with this that moral critics of your life reproach you, +forgetting, perhaps, that in your amours you were but as other +Scotch ploughmen and shepherds of the past and present. Ettrick may +still, with Afghanistan, offer matter for idylls, as Mr. Carlyle +(your antithesis, and the complement of the Scotch character) +supposed; but the morals of Ettrick are those of rural Sicily in old +days, or of Mossgiel in your days. Over these matters the Kirk, +with all her power, and the Free Kirk too, have had absolutely no +influence whatever. To leave so delicate a topic, you were but as +other swains, or, as "that Birkie ca'd a lord," Lord Byron; only you +combined (in certain of your letters) a libertine theory with your +practice; you poured out in song your audacious raptures, your half- +hearted repentance, your shame and your scorn. You spoke the truth +about rural lives and loves. We may like it or dislike it but we +cannot deny the verity. + +Was it not as unhappy a thing, Sir, for you, as it was fortunate for +Letters and for Scotland, that you were born at the meeting of two +ages and of two worlds--precisely in the moment when bookish +literature was beginning to reach the people, and when Society was +first learning to admit the low-born to her Minor Mysteries? Before +you how many singers not less truly poets than yourself--though less +versatile not less passionate, though less sensuous not less simple- +-had been born and had died in poor men's cottages! There abides +not even the shadow of a name of the old Scotch song-smiths, of the +old ballad-makers. The authors of "Clerk Saunders," of "The Wife of +Usher's Well," of "Fair Annie," and "Sir Patrick Spens," and "The +Bonny Hind," are as unknown to us as Homer, whom in their directness +and force they resemble. They never, perhaps, gave their poems to +writing; certainly they never gave them to the press. On the lips +and in the hearts of the people they have their lives; and the +singers, after a life obscure and untroubled by society or by fame, +are forgotten. "The Iniquity of Oblivion blindly scattereth his +Poppy." + +Had you been born some years earlier you would have been even as +these unnamed Immortals, leaving great verses to a little clan-- +verses retained only by Memory. You would have been but the +minstrel of your native valley: the wider world would not have +known you, nor you the world. Great thoughts of independence and +revolt would never have burned in you; indignation would not have +vexed you. Society would not have given and denied her caresses. +You would have been happy. Your songs would have lingered in all +"the circle of the summer hills;" and your scorn, your satire, your +narrative verse, would have been unwritten or unknown. To the world +what a loss! and what a gain to you! We should have possessed but a +few of your lyrics, as + + +When o'er the hill the eastern star +Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; +And owsen frae the furrowed field, +Return sae dowf and wearie O! + + +How noble that is, how natural, how unconsciously Greek! You found, +oddly, in good Mrs. Barbauld, the merits of the Tenth Muse: + + +In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives +Even Sappho's flame! + + +But how unconsciously you remind us both of Sappho and of Homer in +these strains about the Evening Star and the hour when the Day +[Greek text]? Had you lived and died the pastoral poet of some +silent glen, such lyrics could not but have survived; free, too, of +all that in your songs reminds us of the Poet's Corner in the +"Kirkcudbright Advertiser." We should not have read how + + +Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning, +Banishes ilk darksome shade! + + +Still we might keep a love-poem unexcelled by Catullus, + + +Had we never loved sae kindly, +Had we never loved sae blindly, +Never met--or never parted, +We had ne'er been broken-hearted. + + +But the letters to Clarinda would have been unwritten, and the +thrush would have been untaught in "the style of the Bird of +Paradise." + +A quiet life of song, fallentis semita vitae, was not to be yours. +Fate otherwise decreed it. The touch of a lettered society, the +strife with the Kirk, discontent with the State, poverty and pride, +neglect and success, were needed to make your Genius what it was, +and to endow the world with "Tam o' Shanter," the "Jolly Beggars," +and "Holy Willie's Prayer." Who can praise them too highly--who +admire in them too much the humour, the scorn, the wisdom, the +unsurpassed energy and courage? So powerful, so commanding, is the +movement of that Beggars' Chorus, that, methinks, it unconsciously +echoed in the brain of our greatest living poet when he conceived +the "Vision of Sin." You shall judge for yourself. Recall: + + +Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! +Here's to all the wandering train! +Here's our ragged bairns and callets! +One and all cry out, Amen! + +A fig for those by law protected! +Liberty's a glorious feast! +Courts for cowards were erected! +Churches built to please the priest! + + +Then read this: + + +Drink to lofty hopes that cool - +Visions of a perfect state: +Drink we, last, the public fool, +Frantic love and frantic hate. + +* * * + +Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, +While we keep a little breath! +Drink to heavy Ignorance, +Hob and nob with brother Death! + + +Is not the movement the same, though the modern speaks a wilder +recklessness? + +So in the best company we leave you, who were the life and soul of +so much company, good and bad. No poet, since the Psalmist of +Israel, ever gave the world more assurance of a man; none lived a +life more strenuous, engaged in an eternal conflict of the passions, +and by them overcome--"mighty and mightily fallen." When we think +of you, Byron seems, as Plato would have said, remote by one degree +from actual truth, and Musset by a degree more remote than Byron. + + + +LETTER--To Lord Byron + + + +My Lord, + +(Do you remember how Leigh Hunt +Enraged you once by writing MY DEAR BYRON?) +Books have their fates,--as mortals have who punt, +And YOURS have entered on an age of iron. +Critics there be who think your satire blunt, +Your pathos, fudge; such perils must environ +Poets who in their time were quite the rage, +Though now there's not a soul to turn their page. +Yes, there is much dispute about your worth, +And much is said which you might like to know +By modern poets here upon the earth, +Where poets live, and love each other so; +And, in Elysium, it may move your mirth +To hear of bards that pitch your praises low, +Though there be some that for your credit stickle, +As--Glorious Mat,--and not inglorious Nichol. + +(This kind of writing is my pet aversion, +I hate the slang, I hate the personalities, +I loathe the aimless, reckless, loose dispersion, +Of every rhyme that in the singer's wallet is, +I hate it as you hated the EXCURSION, +But, while no man a hero to his valet is, +The hero's still the model; I indite +The kind of rhymes that Byron oft would write.) + +There's a Swiss critic whom I cannot rhyme to, +One Scherer, dry as sawdust, grim and prim. +Of him there's much to say, if I had time to +Concern myself in any wise with HIM. +He seems to hate the heights he cannot climb to, +He thinks your poetry a coxcomb's whim, +A good deal of his sawdust he has spilt on +Shakespeare, and Moliere, and you, and Milton. + +Ay, much his temper is like Vivien's mood, +Which found not Galahad pure, nor Lancelot brave; +Cold as a hailstorm on an April wood, +He buries poets in an icy grave, +His Essays--he of the Genevan hood! +Nothing so fine, but better doth he crave. +So stupid and so solemn in his spite +He dares to print that Moliere could not write! + +Enough of these excursions; I was saying +That half our English Bards are turned Reviewers, +And Arnold was discussing and assaying +The weight and value of that work of yours, +Examining and testing it and weighing, +And proved, the gems are pure, the gold endures. +While Swinburne cries with an exceeding joy, +The stones are paste, and half the gold, alloy. + +In Byron, Arnold finds the greatest force, +Poetic, in this later age of ours; +His song, a torrent from a mountain source, +Clear as the crystal, singing with the showers, +Sweeps to the sea in unrestricted course +Through banks o'erhung with rocks and sweet with flowers; +None of your brooks that modestly meander, +But swift as Awe along the Pass of Brander. + +And when our century has clomb its crest, +And backward gazes o'er the plains of Time, +And counts its harvest, yours is still the best, +The richest garner in the field of rhyme +(The metaphoric mixture, 'tis comfest, +Is all my own, and is not quite sublime). +But fame's not yours alone; you must divide all +The plums and pudding with the Bard of Rydal! + +WORDSWORTH and BYRON, these the lordly names +And these the gods to whom most incense burns. +"Absurd!" cries Swinburne, and in anger flames, +And in an AEschylean fury spurns +With impious foot your altar, and exclaims +And wreathes his laurels on the golden urns +Where Coleridge's and Shelley's ashes lie, +Deaf to the din and heedless of the cry. + +For Byron (Swinburne shouts) has never woven +One honest thread of life within his song; +As Offenbach is to divine Beethoven +So Byron is to Shelley (THIS is strong!), +And on Parnassus' peak, divinely cloven, +He may not stand, or stands by cruel wrong; +For Byron's rank (the examiner has reckoned) +Is in the third class or a feeble second. + +"A Bernesque poet" at the very most, +And "never earnest save in politics," +The Pegasus that he was wont to boast +A blundering, floundering hackney, full of tricks, +A beast that must be driven to the post +By whips and spurs and oaths and kicks and sticks, +A gasping, ranting, broken-winded brute, +That any judge of Pegasi would shoot; + +In sooth, a half-bred Pegasus, and far gone +In spavin, curb, and half a hundred woes. +And Byron's style is "jolter-headed jargon;" +His verse is "only bearable in prose." +So living poets write of those that ARE gone, +And o'er the Eagle thus the Bantam crows; +And Swinburne ends where Verisopht began, +By owning you "a very clever man." + +Or rather does not end: he still must utter +A quantity of the unkindest things. +Ah! were you here, I marvel, would you flutter +O'er such a foe the tempest of your wings? +'Tis "rant and cant and glare and splash and splutter" +That rend the modest air when Byron sings. +There Swinburne stops: a critic rather fiery. +Animis caelestibus tantaene irae? + +But whether he or Arnold in the right is, +Long is the argument, the quarrel long; +Non nobis est to settle tantas lites; +No poet I, to judge of right or wrong: +But of all things I always think a fight is +The MOST unpleasant in the lists of song; +When Marsyas of old was flayed, Apollo +Set an example which we need not follow. + +The fashion changes! Maidens do not wear, +As once they wore, in necklaces and lockets +A curl ambrosial of Lord Byron's hair; +"Don Juan" is not always in our pockets - +Nay, a New Writer's readers do not care +Much for your verse, but are inclined to mock its +Manners and morals. Ay, and most young ladies +To yours prefer the "Epic" called "of Hades"! + +I do not blame them; I'm inclined to think +That with the reigning taste 'tis vain to quarrel, +And Burns might teach his votaries to drink, +And Byron never meant to make them moral. +You yet have lovers true, who will not shrink +From lauding you and giving you the laurel; +The Germans too, those men of blood and iron, +Of all our poets chiefly swear by Byron. + +Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods! +Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit, +Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds, +Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit; +Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies' rods, +Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit; +Beholding whom, men think how fairer far +Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! {9} + + + +LETTER--To Omar Khayyam + + + +Wise Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling +Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring, +The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose, +The wild white Roses you were wont to sing? + +Far in the South I know a Land divine, {10} +And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, +And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows +Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine. + +You were a Saint of unbelieving Days, +Liking your Life and happy in Men's Praise; +Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough, +Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways. + +Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell, +Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell, +Content to know not all thou knowest now, +What's Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well? + +The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, +Shall He torment them if they chance to spill? +Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast +Forth and forgotten,--and what will be will! + +So still were we, before the Months began +That rounded us and shaped us into Man. +So still we SHALL be, surely, at the last, +Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban! + +Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought - +How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought - +Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, +In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought, + +Which gave our England for a captive Land +To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, +A gift to the Believer from the Priest, +Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! {11} + +Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave +Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save +His England, even of Harold Godwin's son; +The high Tide murmurs by the Hero's Grave! {12} + +And THOU wert wreathing Roses--who can tell? - +Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well, +Or satst at Wine in Nashapur, when dun +The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell! + +The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam! +Along the white Walls of his guarded Home +No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o'er the Wave +The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam! + +And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, +Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea; +The SWAN'S PATH of his Fathers is his Grave: +His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be. + +His was the Age of Faith, when all the West +Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest; +And thou wert living then, and didst not heed +The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed! + +Ages of Progress! These eight hundred Years +Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or Fears, +And now!--she listens in the Wilderness +To THEE, and half believeth what she hears! + +Hadst THOU THE SECRET? Ah, and who may tell? +"An Hour we have," thou saidst; "Ah, waste it well!" +An Hour we have, and yet Eternity +Looms o'er us, and the Thought of Heaven or Hell! + +Nay, we can never be as wise as thou, +O idle Singer 'neath the blossomed Bough. +Nay, and we cannot be content to die. +WE cannot shirk the Questions "Where?" and "How?" + +Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content +Shall we of England go the way HE went - +The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose - +Nay, otherwise than HIS our Day is spent! + +Serene he dwelt in fragrant Nashapur, +But we must wander while the Stars endure. +HE knew THE SECRET: we have none that knows, +No Man so sure as Omar once was sure! + + + +LETTER--To Q. Horatius Flaccus + + + +In what manner of Paradise are we to conceive that you, Horace, are +dwelling, or what region of immortality can give you such pleasures +as this life afforded? The country and the town, nature and men, +who knew them so well as you, or who ever so wisely made the best of +those two worlds? Truly here you had good things, nor do you ever, +in all your poems, look for more delight in the life beyond; you +never expect consolation for present sorrow, and when you once have +shaken hands with a friend the parting seems to you eternal. + + +Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus +Tam cari capitis? + + +So you sing, for the dear head you mourn has sunk, for ever, beneath +the wave. Virgil might wander forth bearing the golden branch "the +Sibyl doth to singing men allow," and might visit, as one not wholly +without hope, the dim dwellings of the dead and the unborn. To him +was it permitted to see and sing "mothers and men, and the bodies +outworn of mighty heroes, boys and unwedded maids, and young men +borne to the funeral fire before their parent's eyes." The endless +caravan swept past him--"many as fluttering leaves that drop and +fall in autumn woods when the first frost begins; many as birds that +flock landward from the great sea when now the chill year drives +them o'er the deep and leads them to sunnier lands." Such things +was it given to the sacred poet to behold, and "the happy seats and +sweet pleasances of fortunate souls, where the larger light clothes +all the plains and dips them in a rosier gleam, plains with their +own new sun and stars before unknown." Ah, not frustra pius was +Virgil, as you say, Horace, in your melancholy song. In him, we +fancy, there was a happier mood than your melancholy patience. +"Not, though thou wert sweeter of song than Thracian Orpheus, with +that lyre whose lay led the dancing trees, not so would the blood +return to the empty shade of him whom once with dread wand, the +inexorable God hath folded with his shadowy flocks; but patience +lighteneth what heaven forbids us to undo." + + +Durum, sed levius fit patietia! + + +It was all your philosophy in that last sad resort to which we are +pushed so often - + + +"With close-lipped Patience for our only friend, +Sad Patience, too near neighbour of Despair." + + +The Epicurean is at one with the Stoic at last, and Horace with +Marcus Aurelius. "To go away from among men, if there are Gods, is +not a thing to be afraid of; but if indeed they do not exist, or if +they have no concern about human affairs, what is it to me to live +in a universe devoid of gods or devoid of providence?" + +An excellent philosophy, but easier to those for whom no Hope had +dawned or seemed to set. Yes! it is harder than common, Horace, for +us to think of YOU, still glad somewhere, among rivers like Liris +and plains and vine-clad hills, that + + +Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt. + + +It is hard, for you looked for no such thing. + + +Omnes una manet nox +Et calcanda semel via leti. + + +You could not tell Maecenas that you would meet him again; you could +only promise to tread the dark path with him. + + +Ibimus, ibimus, +Utcunque praecedes, supremum +Carpere iter comites parati. + + +Enough, Horace, of these mortuary musings. You loved the lesson of +the roses, and now and again would speak somewhat like a death's +head over your temperate cups of Sabine ordinaire. Your melancholy +moral was but meant to heighten the joy of your pleasant life, when +wearied Italy, after all her wars and civic bloodshed, had won a +peaceful haven. The harbour might be treacherous; the prince might +turn to the tyrant; far away on the wide Roman marches might be +heard, as it were, the endless, ceaseless monotone of beating +horses' hoofs and marching feet of men. They were coming, they were +nearing, like footsteps heard on wool; there was a sound of +multitudes and millions of barbarians, all the North, officina +gentium, mustering and marshalling her peoples. But their coming +was not to be to-day, nor to-morrow, nor to-day was the budding +Empire to blossom into the blood-red flower of Nero. In the lull +between the two tempests of Republic and Empire your odes sound +"like linnets in the pauses of the wind." + +What joy there is in these songs! what delight of life, what an +exquisite Hellenic grace of art, what a manly nature to endure, what +tenderness and constancy of friendship, what a sense of all that is +fair in the glittering stream, the music of the waterfall, the hum +of bees, the silvery grey of the olive woods on the hillside! How +human are all your verses, Horace! what a pleasure is yours in the +straining poplars, swaying in the wind! what gladness you gain from +the white crest of Soracte, beheld through the fluttering snowflakes +while the logs are being piled higher on the hearth. You sing of +women and wine--not all wholehearted in your praise of them, +perhaps, for passion frightens you, and 'tis pleasure more than love +that you commend to the young. Lydia and Glycera, and the others, +are but passing guests of a heart at ease in itself, and happy +enough when their facile reign is ended. You seem to me like a man +who welcomes middle age, and is more glad than Sophocles was to +"flee from these hard masters" the passions. In the fallow leisure +of life you glance round contented, and find all very good save the +need to leave all behind. Even that you take with an Italian good- +humour, as the folk of your sunny country bear poverty and hunger. + + +Durum, sed levius fit patientia! + + +To them, to you, the loveliness of your land is, and was, a thing to +live for. None of the Latin poets your fellows, or none but Virgil, +seem to me to have known so well as you, Horace, how happy and +fortunate a thing it was to be born in Italy. You do not say so, +like your Virgil, in one splendid passage, numbering the glories of +the land as a lover might count the perfections of his mistress. +But the sentiment is ever in your heart and often on your lips. + + +Me nec tam patiens Lacedaemon, +Nec tam Larissae percussit campus opimae, +Quam domus Albuneae resonantis +Et praeceps Anio, ac Tiburni lucus, et uda +Mobilibus pomaria rivis. {13} + + +So a poet should speak, and to every singer his own land should be +dearest. Beautiful is Italy with the grave and delicate outlines of +her sacred hills, her dark groves, her little cities perched like +eyries on the crags, her rivers gliding under ancient walls; +beautiful is Italy, her seas, and her suns: but dearer to me the +long grey wave that bites the rock below the minster in the north; +dearer are the barren moor and black peat-water swirling in tauny +foam, and the scent of bog myrtle and the bloom of heather, and, +watching over the lochs, the green round-shouldered hills. + +In affection for your native land, Horace, certainly the pride in +great Romans dead and gone made part, and you were, in all senses, a +lover of your country, your country's heroes, your country's gods. +None but a patriot could have sung that ode on Regulus, who died, as +our own hero died on an evil day, for the honour of Rome, as Gordon +for the honour of England. + + +Fertur pudicae conjugis osculum, +Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor, +Ab se removisse, et virilem +Torvus humi posuisse voltum: + +Donec labantes consilio patres +Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato, +Interque maerentes amicos +Egregius properaret exul. + +Atqui sciebat, quae sibi barbarus +Tortor pararet: non aliter tamen +Dimovit obstantes propinquos, +Et populum reditus morantem, + +Quam si clientum longa negotia +Dijudicata lite relinqueret, +Tendens Venafranos in agros +Aut Lacedaemonium Tarentum. {14} + + +We talk of the Greeks as your teachers. Your teachers they were, +but that poem could only have been written by a Roman! The +strength, the tenderness, the noble and monumental resolution and +resignation--these are the gifts of the lords of human things, the +masters of the world. + +Your country's heroes are dear to you, Horace, but you did not sing +them better than your country's Gods, the pious protecting spirits +of the hearth, the farm, the field; kindly ghosts, it may be, of +Latin fathers dead or Gods framed in the image of these. What you +actually believed we know not, YOU knew not. Who knows what he +believes? Parcus Deorum cultor you bowed not often, it may be, in +the temples of the state religion and before the statues of the +great Olympians; but the pure and pious worship of rustic tradition, +the faith handed down by the homely elders, with THAT you never +broke. Clean hands and a pure heart, these, with a sacred cake and +shining grains of salt, you could offer to the Lares. It was a +benignant religion, uniting old times and new, men living and men +long dead and gone, in a kind of service and sacrifice solemn yet +familiar. + + +Te nihil attinet +Tentare multa caede bidentium +Parvos coronantem marino +Rore deos fragilique myrto. + +Immunis aram si tetigit manus, +Non sumptuosa blandior hostia +Mellivit aversos Penates +Farre pio et saliente mica, {15} + + +Farewell, dear Horace; farewell, thou wise and kindly heathen; of +mortals the most human, the friend of my friends and of so many +generations of men, + +Ave atque Vale! + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} I am informed that the Natural History of Young Ladies is +attributed, by some writers, to another philosopher, the author of +The Art of Pluck. + +{2} Rape of the Lock. + +{3} In Mr. Hogarth's Caricatura. + +{4} Elwin's Pope, ii. 15. + +{5} "Poor Pope was always a hand-to-mouth liar."--Pope, by Leslie +Stephen, 139. + +{6} The Greek [Greek text which cannot be reproduced], mentioned by +Lucian and Theocritus, was the magical weapon of the Australians-- +the turndun. + +{7} Lord Napier and Ettrick points out to me that, unluckily, the +tradition is erroneous. Piers was not executed at all. William +Cockburn suffered in Edinburgh. But the Border Minstrelsy overrides +history. + +Criminal Trials in Scotland, by Robert Pitcairn, Esq. Vol. i. part +i. p. 144, A.D. 1530. 17 Jac. V. + +May 16. William Cokburne of Henderland, convicted (in presence of +the King) of high treason committed by him in bringing Alexander +Forestare and his son, Englishmen, to the plundering of Archibald +Somervile; and for treasonably bringing certain Englishmen to the +lands of Glenquhome; and for common theft, common reset of theft, +out-putting and in-putting thereof. Sentence. For which causes and +crimes he has forfeited his life, lands, and goods, movable and +immovable; which shall be escheated to the King. Beheaded. + +{8} "The Lesson of Jupiter."--Nineteenth Century, October 1885. + +{9} Mr. Swinburne's and Mr. Arnold's diverse views of Byron will be +found in the Selections by Mr. Arnold and in the Nineteenth Century. + +{10} The hills above San Remo, where rose-bushes are planted by the +shrines. Omar desired that his grave might be where the wind would +scatter rose-leaves over it. + +{11} Omar was contemporary with the battle of Hastings. + +{12} Per mandata Ducis, Rex hic, Heralde, quiescis, +Ut custos maneas littoris et pelagi. + +{13} "Me neither resolute Sparta nor the rich Larissaean plain so +enraptures as the fane of echoing Albunea, the headlong Anio, the +grove of Tibur, the orchards watered by the wandering rills." + +{14} "They say he put aside from him the pure lips of his wife and +his little children, like a man unfree, and with his brave face +bowed earthward sternly he waited till with such counsel as never +mortal gave he might strengthen the hearts of the Fathers, and +through his mourning friends go forth, a hero, into exile. Yet well +he knew what things were being prepared for him at the hands of the +tormentors, who, none the less, put aside the kinsmen that barred +his path and the people that would fain have delayed his return, +passing through their midst as he might have done if, his retainers' +weary business ended and the suits adjudged, he were faring to his +Venafran lands or to Dorian Tarentum." + +{15} "Thou, Phidyle, hast no need to besiege the gods with +slaughter so great of sheep, thou who crownest thy tiny deities with +myrtle rare and rosemary. If but the hand be clean that touches the +altar, then richest sacrifice will not more appease the angered +Penates than the duteous cake and salt that crackles in the blaze." + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters to Dead Authors by Andrew Lang + diff --git a/old/letda10.zip b/old/letda10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7fb674 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/letda10.zip |
