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diff --git a/39447-h/39447-h.htm b/39447-h/39447-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c1c7553 --- /dev/null +++ b/39447-h/39447-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9595 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shelburne Essays, Third Series, by Paul Elmer More</title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1em; + margin-bottom: .5em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + width: 60%; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + .half {width: 10em; margin-left: 15%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 85%;} + .nblockquot{text-indent: -2em; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 85%; margin-left: 2em;} + .gquot{margin-left: 25%; + margin-right: 25%; + } + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px; width: 60%; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em;} + + .noidt {text-indent: 0em;} + .center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 82%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left; font-size: 85%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 10em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i14 {display: block; margin-left: 14em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i16 {display: block; margin-left: 16em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i20 {display: block; margin-left: 20em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i22 {display: block; margin-left: 22em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 6em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Shelburne Essays, Third Series, by Paul Elmer +More</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Shelburne Essays, Third Series</p> +<p>Author: Paul Elmer More</p> +<p>Release Date: April 14, 2012 [eBook #39447]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHELBURNE ESSAYS, THIRD SERIES***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4>E-text prepared by Bryan Ness<br /> + and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> + from page images generously made available by the<br /> + Google Books Library Project<br /> + (<a href="http://books.google.com">http://books.google.com</a>)</h4> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Note: + </td> + <td> + Images of the original pages are available through + the the Google Books Library Project. See + <a href="http://books.google.com/books?vid=DfK64Q_zmAUC&id"> + http://books.google.com/books?vid=DfK64Q_zmAUC&id</a> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>Shelburne Essays</h1> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center">By</p> + +<h3>Paul Elmer More</h3> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center"><i>Third Series</i></p> + +<p> </p> + +<div class="gquot"> +<p>Τίνι χρὴ κρίνεσθαι +τὰ μέλλοντα καλὢς +κριθήσεσθαι;<br /> +ἄρ' οὐκ ἐμπειρίᾳ +τε καὶ φρονήσει +καὶ λόγῳ;</p> + +<p style='text-align: right'><span class="smcap">Plato</span>, <i>Republic</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p class="center"> +<big>G. P. Putnam's Sons</big><br /> +New York and London<br /> +<b>The Knickerbocker Press</b><br /> + +1905</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1905</span><br /> + +<small>BY</small><br /> + +PAUL ELMER MORE</p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h5>The Knickerbocker Press, New York</h5> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="gquot"> +<h4>ADVERTISEMENT</h4> + + +<p>The last essay in this volume, though written several +years ago, has never before been printed. For permission +to reprint the other essays thanks are due to the publishers +of the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, the <i>Independent</i>, and +the New York <i>Evening Post</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'></td><td align='right'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Correspondence of William Cowper</span> </td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Whittier the Poet</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Centenary of Sainte-Beuve</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Scotch Novels and Scotch History</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Swinburne</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Christina Rossetti</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Why is Browning Popular?</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Note on Byron's "Don Juan"</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Laurence Sterne</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">J. Henry Shorthouse</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Quest of a Century</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h1><a name="SHELBURNE_ESSAYS" id="SHELBURNE_ESSAYS"></a>SHELBURNE ESSAYS</h1> + +<h3>THIRD SERIES</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE CORRESPONDENCE OF WILLIAM<br /> +COWPER</h2> + + +<p>If, as I sometimes think, a man's interest in +letters is almost the surest measure of his love for +Letters in the larger sense of the word, the busy +schoolmaster of Olney ought to stand high in +favour for the labour he has bestowed on completing +and rearranging the <i>Correspondence of +William Cowper</i>.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> It may be that Mr. Wright's +competence as an editor still leaves something +to be desired. Certainly, if I may speak for my +own taste, he has in one respect failed to profit +by a golden opportunity; it needed only to +print the more intimate poems of Cowper in +their proper place among the letters to have +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>produced a work doubly interesting and perfectly +unique. The correspondence itself would +have been shot through by a new light, and the +poetry might have been restored once more to its +rightful seat in our affections. The fact is that +not many readers to-day can approach the verse +of the eighteenth century in a mood to enjoy or +even to understand it. We have grown so accustomed +to over-emphasis in style and wasteful effusion +in sentiment that the clarity and self-restraint +of that age repel us as ungenuine; we are warned +by a certain <i>frigus</i> at the heart to seek our comfort +elsewhere. And just here was the chance for +an enlightened editor. So much of Cowper's +poetry is the record of his own simple life and of +the little adventures that befell him in the valley +of the Ouse, that it would have lost its seeming +artificiality and would have gained a fresh appeal +by association with the letters that relate the +same events and emotions. How, for example, +the quiet grace of the fables (and good fables are +so rare in English!) would be brought back to us +again if we could read them side by side with the +actual stories out of which they grew. There is a +whole charming natural history here of beast and +bird and insect and flower. The nightingale which +Cowper heard on New Year's Day sings in a +letter as well as in the poem; and here, to name +no others, are the incidents of the serpent and the +kittens, and of that walk by the Ouse when the +poet's dog Beau brought him the water lily. Or, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>to turn to more serious things, how much the +pathetic stanzas <i>To Mary</i> would gain in poignant +realism if we came upon them immediately after +reading the letters in which Cowper lays bare his +remorse for the strain his malady had imposed +upon her.</p> + +<p>A still more striking example would be the +lines written <i>On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture</i>. +By a literary tradition these are reckoned among +the most perfect examples of pathos in the language, +and yet how often to-day are they read +with any deep emotion? I suspect no tears have +fallen on that page for many a long year.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With me but roughly since I heard thee last.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The same that oft in childhood solaced me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class="half" /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Short-lived possession! but the record fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still outlives many a storm that has effaced<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand other themes less deeply traced.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy morning bounties as I left my home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The biscuit or confectionary plum:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All this, and more enduring still than all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,—<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> + +<p class="noidt">do you not feel the expression here, the very +balance of the rhymes, to stand like a barrier between +the poet's emotion and your own susceptibility? +And that <i>confectionary plum</i>—somehow +the savour of it has long ago evaporated. Even +the closing lines—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">need some allowance to cover their artificial mode. +And it is just this allowance that association with +the letters would afford; the mind would pass +without a shock from the simple recital in prose +of Cowper's ruined days to these phrases at once +so metaphorical and so conventional, and would +find in them a new power to move the heart. +Or compare with the sentiment of the poem this +paragraph from the letter to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham—all +of it a model of simple beauty:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The world could not have furnished you with a present +so acceptable to me, as the picture you have so kindly +sent me. I received it the night before last, and viewed +it with a trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat +akin to what I should have felt, had the dear original +presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it and +hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, +and, of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the +morning. She died when I completed my sixth year; +yet I remember her well, and am an ocular witness of +the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a multitude +of the maternal tendernesses which I received from +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>her, and which have endeared her memory to me beyond +expression.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">To read together the whole of this letter and of +the poem is something more than a demonstration +of what might be accomplished by a skilful editor; +it is a lesson, too, in that quality of restrained +dignity, I had almost said of self-respect, which +we find it so difficult to impress on our broken +modern style.</p> + +<p>Some day, no doubt, we shall have such an +interwoven edition of Cowper's prose and verse, +to obtain which we would willingly sacrifice a full +third of the letters if this were necessary. Meanwhile, +let us be thankful for whatever fresh light +our Olney editor has thrown on the correspondence, +and take the occasion to look a little more +closely into one of the strangest and most tragic +of literary lives. William Cowper was born at +Great Berkhampstead in 1731. His father, who +was rector of the parish, belonged to a family of +high connections, and his mother, Anne Donne, +was also of noble lineage, claiming descent +through four different lines from Henry III. The +fact is of some importance, for the son was very +much the traditional gentleman, and showed the +pride of race both in his language and manners. +He himself affected to think more of his kinship +to John Donne, of poetical memory, than of his +other forefathers, and, half in play, traced the +irritability of his temper and his verse-mongering +back to that "venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>Paul's."<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> It is fanciful, but one is tempted to lay +upon the old poet's meddling with coffins and +ghastly thoughts some of the responsibility for the +younger man's nightly terrors. "That which we +call life is but <i>Hebdomada mortium</i>, a week of death, +seven days, seven periods of life spent in dying," +preached Donne in his last sermon, and an awful +echo of the words might seem to have troubled his +descendant's nerves. But that is not yet. As a boy +and young man Cowper appears to have been high-spirited +and natural. At Westminster School he +passed under the instruction of Vincent Bourne, +so many of whose fables he was to translate in +after years, and who, with Milton and Prior, was +most influential in forming his poetical manner.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I love the memory of Vinny Bourne [he wrote in one +of his letters]. I think him a better Latin poet than +Tibullus, Propertius, Ausonius, or any of the writers in +his way, except Ovid.... He was so good-natured, +and so indolent, that I lost more than I got by him; for +he made me as idle as himself. He was such a sloven, +as if he had trusted to his genius as a cloak for everything +that could disgust you in his person.... I remember +seeing the Duke of Richmond set fire to his greasy +locks and box his ears to put it out again.</p></div> + +<p>After leaving Westminster he spent a few +months at Berkhampstead, and then came to Lon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>don +under the pretext of studying law, living first +with an attorney in Southampton Row and afterwards +taking chambers in the Middle Temple. +Life went merrily for a while. He was a fellow +student with Thurlow, and there he was, he "and +the future Lord Chancellor, constantly employed +from morning to night in giggling and making +giggle, instead of studying the law. Oh, fie, +cousin!" he adds, "how could you do so?" This +pretty "Oh fie!" introduces us to one who was to +be his best and dearest correspondent, his cousin +Harriet Cowper, afterwards Lady Hesketh, and +who was to befriend him and cheer him in a thousand +ways. It may introduce us also to Harriet's +sister, Theodora, with whom Cowper, after the +fashion of idle students, fell thoughtlessly in love. +He would have married her, too, bringing an incalculable +element into his writing which I do not +like to contemplate; for it is the way of poets to +describe most ideally what fortune has denied +them in reality, and Cowper's task, we know, +was to portray in prose and verse the quiet charms +of the family. But the lady's father, for reasons +very common in such cases, put an end to that +danger. Cowper took the separation easily +enough, if we may judge from the letters of the +period; but to Theodora, one fancies, it meant a +life of sad memories. They never exchanged +letters, but in after years, when Lady Hesketh +renewed correspondence with Cowper and brought +him into connection with his kinsfolk, Theodora,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +as "Anonymous," sent money and other gifts to +eke out his slender living. It is generally assumed +that the recipient never guessed the name +of his retiring benefactress, but I prefer to regard +it rather as a part of his delicacy and taste to +affect ignorance where the donor did not wish to +be revealed, and think that his penetration of the +secret added a kind of wistful regret to his gratitude. +"On Friday I received a letter from dear +Anonymous," he writes to Lady Hesketh, "apprising +me of a parcel that the coach would bring +me on Saturday. Who is there in the world that +has, or thinks he has, reason to love me to the +degree that he does? But it is no matter. He +chooses to be unknown, and his choice is, and +ever shall be, so sacred to me, that if his name +lay on the table before me reversed, I would not +turn the paper about that I might read it. Much +as it would gratify me to thank him, I would turn +my eyes away from the forbidden discovery." +Could there be a more tactful way of conveying +his thanks and insinuating his knowledge while +respecting Theodora's reserve?</p> + +<p>But all this was to come after the great change +in Cowper's life. As with Charles Lamb, a name +one likes to link with his, the terrible shadow of +madness fell upon him one day, never wholly to +rise. The story of that calamity is too well known +to need retelling in detail. A first stroke seized +him in his London days, but seems not to have +been serious. He recovered, and took up again<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +the easy life that was in retrospect to appear to +him so criminally careless. In order to establish +him in the world, his cousin, Major Cowper, +offered him the office of Clerk of the Journals to +the House of Lords. There was, however, some +dispute as to the validity of the donor's powers, +and it became necessary for Cowper to prove his +competency at the bar of the House. The result +was pitiable. Anxiety and nervous dread completely +prostrated him. After trying futilely to +take his own life, he was placed by his family in +a private asylum at St. Albans, where he remained +about a year and a half. His recovery took the +form of religious conversion and a rapturous belief +in his eternal salvation. Instead of returning +to London, he went to live in the town of Huntingdon, +drawn thither both by the retirement of +the place and its nearness to Cambridge, where +his brother John resided. Here he became acquainted +with the Unwins:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>... the most agreeable people imaginable; quite +sociable, and as free from the ceremonious civility of +country gentlefolks as any I ever met with. They treat +me more like a near relation than a stranger, and their +house is always open to me. The old gentleman carries +me to Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of learning +and good sense, and as simple as Parson Adams. His +wife has a very uncommon understanding, has read much +to excellent purpose, and is more polite than a duchess. +The son, who belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable +young man, and the daughter quite of a piece with the +rest of the family. They see but little company, which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +suits me exactly; go when I will, I find a house full of +peace and cordiality in all its parts.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">The intimacy ripened and Cowper was taken into +the family almost as one of its members. But +trouble and change soon broke into this idyllic +home. Mr. Unwin was thrown from his horse +and killed; the son was called away to a charge; +the daughter married. Meanwhile, Mrs. Unwin +and Cowper had gone to live at Olney, a dull +town on the Ouse, where they might enjoy the +evangelical preaching of that reformed sea-captain +and slave-dealer, the Rev. John Newton.</p> + +<p>The letters of this period are filled with a tremulous +joy; it was as if one of the timid animals he +loved so well had found concealment in the rocks +and heard the baying of the hounds, thrown from +the scent and far off. "For my own part," he +writes to Lady Hesketh, "who am but as a +Thames wherry, in a world full of tempest and +commotion, I know so well the value of the creek +I have put into, and the snugness it affords me, +that I have a sensible sympathy with you in the +pleasure you find in being once more blown to +Droxford." Books he has in abundance, and +happy country walks; friends that are more than +friends to occupy his heart, and quaint characters +to engage his wit. He finds an image of his days +in Rousseau's description of an English morning, +and his evenings differ from them in nothing except +that they are still more snug and quieter. +His talk is of the mercies and deliverance of God;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +he is eager to convert the little world of his correspondents +to his own exultant peace; and, it +must be confessed, only the charm and breeding +of his language save a number of these letters +from the wearisomeness of misplaced preaching.</p> + +<p>Cowper removed with Mrs. Unwin to Olney in +1767. Six years later came the miraculous event +which changed the whole tenor of his life and +which gave the unique character to all the letters +he was to write thereafter. He was seized one +night with a frantic despondency, and again for +a year and a half, during all which time Mr. +Newton cared for him as for a brother, suffered +acute melancholia. He recovered his sanity in +ordinary matters, but the spring of joy and peace +had been dried up within him. Thenceforth he +never, save for brief intervals, could shake off the +conviction that he had been abandoned by God—rather +that for some inscrutable reason God had +deliberately singled him out as a victim of omnipotent +wrath and eternal damnation. No doubt +there was some physical origin, some lesion of +the nerves, at the bottom of this disease, but the +peculiar form of his mania and its virulence can +be traced to causes quite within the range of literary +explanation. He was a scapegoat of his +age; he accepted with perfect faith what other +men talked about, and it darkened his reason. +Those were the days when a sharp and unwholesome +opposition had arisen between the compromise +of the Church with worldly forms and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +evangelical absolutism of Wesley and Whitefield +and John Newton. Cowper himself, on emerging +from his melancholia at St. Albans, had adopted +the extreme Calvinistic tenets in regard to the +divine omnipotence. Man was but a toy in the +hands of an arbitrary Providence; conversion was +first a recognition of the utter nullity of the human +will; and there was no true religion, no +salvation, until Grace had descended freely like a +fire from heaven and devoured this offering of a +man's soul. To understand Cowper's faith one +should read his letter of March 31, 1770, in which +he relates the death-bed conversion of his brother +at Cambridge. Now John was a clergyman in +good standing, a man apparently of blameless life +and Christian faith, yet to himself and to William +he was without hope until the miracle of regeneration +had been wrought upon him. After reading +Cowper's letter one should turn to Jonathan Edwards's +treatise on <i>The Freedom of the Will</i>, and +follow the inexorable logic by which the New +England divine proves that God must be the +source of all good and evil, of this man's salvation +and that man's loss: "If once it should be allowed +that things may come to pass without a Cause, +we should not only have no proof of the Being of +God, but we should be without evidence of anything +whatsoever but our own immediately present +ideas and consciousness. For we have no way to +prove anything else but by arguing from effects +to causes." Yet the responsibility of a man abides<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +through all his helplessness: "The Case of such +as are given up of God to Sin and of fallen Man +in general, proves moral Necessity and Inability +to be consistent with blameworthiness." Good +Dr. Holmes has said somewhere in his jaunty way +that it was only decent for a man who believed in +this doctrine to go mad. Well, Cowper believed +in it; there was no insulating pad of worldly indifference +between his faith and his nerves, and +he went mad.</p> + +<p>And he was in another way the victim of his +age. We have heard him comparing his days at +Huntingdon with <i>Rousseau's description of an +English morning</i>. Unfortunately, the malady +also which came into the world with Rousseau, +the morbid exaggeration of personal consciousness, +had laid hold of Cowper. Even when +suffering from the earlier stroke he had written +these words to his cousin: "I am of a very singular +temper, and very unlike all the men that I +have ever conversed with"; and this sense of his +singularity follows him through life. During the +Huntingdon days it takes the form of a magnified +confidence that Heaven is peculiarly concerned in +his rescue from the fires of affliction; after the overthrow +at Olney it is reversed, and fills him with the +certainty that God has marked him out among all +mankind for the special display of vengeance:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This all-too humble soul would arrogate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unto itself some signalising hate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the supreme indifference of Fate!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> +<p class="noidt">Writing to his mentor, John Newton (who had +left Olney), he declares that there is a mystery in +his destruction; and again to Lady Hesketh: +"Mine has been a life of wonders for many years, +and a life of wonders I in my heart believe it will +be to the end." More than once in reply to those +who would console him he avers that there is a +singularity in his case which marks it off from that +of all other men, that Providence has chosen him +as a special object of its hostility. In Rousseau, +whose mission was to preach the essential goodness +of mankind, the union of aggravated egotism +with his humanitarian doctrine brought about the +conviction that the whole human race was plotting +his ruin. In Cowper, whose mind dwelt on the +power and mercies of Providence, this self-consciousness +united with his Calvinism to produce +the belief that God had determined to ensnare and +destroy his soul. Such was the strange twist that +accompanied the birth of romanticism in France +and in England.</p> + +<p>The conviction came upon Cowper through the +agency of dreams and imaginary voices. The +depression first seized him on the 24th of January, +1773. About a month later a vision of the night +troubled his sleep, so distinct and terrible that the +effect on his brain could never be wholly dispelled. +Years afterwards he wrote to a friend:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>My thoughts are clad in a sober livery, for the most +part as grave as that of a bishop's servants. They turn +upon spiritual subjects; but the tallest fellow and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +loudest among them all is he who is continually crying +with a loud voice, <i>Actum est de te; periisti!</i> You wish +for more attention, I for less. Dissipation [distraction] +itself would be welcome to me, so it were not a vicious +one; but however earnestly invited, is coy, and keeps at +a distance. Yet with all this distressing gloom upon my +mind, I experience, as you do, the slipperiness of the +present hour, and the rapidity with which time escapes +me. Every thing around us, and every thing that befalls +us, constitutes a variety, which, whether agreeable or +otherwise, has still a thievish propensity, and steals from +us days, months, and years, with such unparalleled address, +that even while we say they are here, they are +gone.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">That apparently was the sentence which sounded +his doom on the night of dreams: <i>Actum est de te; +periisti</i>—it is done with thee, thou hast perished! +and no domestic happiness, or worldly success, or +wise counsel could ever, save for a little while, +lull him to forgetfulness. He might have said to +his friends, as Socrates replied to one who came +to offer him deliverance from jail: "Such words I +seem to hear, as the mystic worshippers seem to +hear the piping of flutes; and the sound of this +voice so murmurs in my ears that I can hear no +other."</p> + +<p>But it must not be supposed from all this that +Cowper's letters are morbid in tone or filled with +the dejection of melancholia. Their merit, on the +contrary, lies primarily in their dignity and restraint, +in a certain high-bred ease, which is +equally manifest in the language and the thought.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +Curiously enough, after the fatal visitation religion +becomes entirely subordinate in his correspondence, +and only at rare intervals does he allude +to his peculiar experience. He writes for the +most part like a man of the world who has seen +the fashions of life and has sought refuge from +their vanity. If I were seeking for a comparison +to relieve the quality of these Olney letters (and +it is these that form the real charm of Cowper's +correspondence), I would turn to Charles Lamb. +The fact that both men wrote under the shadow +of insanity brings them together immediately, +and there are other points of resemblance. Both +are notable among English letter-writers for the +exquisite grace of their language, but if I had to +choose between the two the one whose style possessed +the most enduring charm, a charm that +appealed to the heart most equally at all seasons +and left the reader always in that state of quiet +satisfaction which is the office of the purest taste, +I should name Cowper. The wit is keener in +Lamb and above all more artful; there is a certain +petulance of humour in him which surprises us +oftener into laughter, the pathos at times is more +poignant; but the effort to be entertaining is also +more apparent, and the continual holding up of +the mind by the unexpected word or phrase becomes +a little wearisome in the end. The attraction +of Cowper's style is in the perfect balance of +the members, an art which has become almost +lost since the eighteenth century, and in the spirit<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +of repose which awakens in the reader such a feeling +of easy elevation as remains for a while after +the book is laid down. Lamb is of the city, +Cowper of the fields. Both were admirers of +Vincent Bourne; Lamb chose naturally for translation +the poems of city life—<i>The Ballad Singers</i>, +<i>The Rival Bells</i>, the <i>Epitaph on a Dog:</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had he occasion for that staff, with which<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He now goes picking out his path in fear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the highways and crossings, but would plant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A firm foot forward still, till he had reached<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of passers-by in thickest confluence flowed:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To whom with loud and passionate laments<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From morn to eve his dark estate he wailed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Cowper just as inevitably selected the fables and +country-pieces—<i>The Glowworm</i>, <i>The Jackdaw</i>, +<i>The Cricket:</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Little inmate, full of mirth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chirping on my kitchen hearth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wheresoe'er be thine abode,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Always harbinger of good,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pay me for thy warm retreat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a song more soft and sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In return thou shalt receive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such a strain as I can give.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class='half' /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though in voice and shape they be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Formed as if akin to thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou surpassest, happier far,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Happiest grasshoppers that are;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Theirs is but a summer song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thine endures the winter long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Melody throughout the year.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Neither night nor dawn of day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Puts a period to thy play:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing, then—and extend thy span<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far beyond the date of man;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wretched man, whose years are spent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In repining discontent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lives not, agèd though he be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half a span, compared with thee.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There is in the blind beggar something of the +quality of Lamb's own life, with its inherent loneliness +imposed by an ever-present grief in the +midst of London's noisy streets; and in the verses +to the cricket it is scarcely fanciful to find an +image of Cowper's "domestic life in rural leisure +passed." Lamb was twenty-five when Cowper +died, in the year 1800. One is tempted to continue +in the language of fable and ask what +would have happened had the city mouse allured +the country mouse to visit his chambers in Holborn +or Southampton buildings. To be sure +there was no luxury of purple robe and mighty +feast in that abode; but I think the revelry and +the wit, and that hound of intemperance which +always pursued poor Lamb, would have fright<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>ened +his guest back to his hiding-place in the +wilderness:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">. . . me silva cavusque<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tutus ab insidiis tenui solabitur ervo!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Cowper, in fact, was the first writer to introduce +that intimate union of the home affections +with the love of country which, in the works of +Miss Austen and a host of others, was to become +one of the unique charms and consolations of +English literature. And the element of austere +gloom in his character, rarely exposed, but always, +we know, in the background, is what most +of all relieves his letters from insipidity. Lamb +strove deliberately by a kind of crackling mirth +to drown the sound of the grave inner voice; +Cowper listened reverently to its admonitions, +even to its threatenings; he spoke little of what +he heard, but it tempered his wit and the snug +comfort of his life with that profounder consciousness +of what, disguise it as we will, lies at the +bottom of the world's experience. We call him +mad because he believed himself abandoned of +God, and shuddered with remorseless conviction. +Put aside for a moment the language of the +market place, and be honest with ourselves: is +there not a little of our fate, of the fate of mankind, +in Cowper's desolation? After all, was his +melancholy radically different from the state of +that great Frenchman, a lover of his letters withal, +Sainte-Beuve, who dared not for a day rest from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +benumbing labour lest the questionings of his own +heart should make themselves heard, and who +wrote to a friend that no consolation could reach +that settled sadness which was rooted in <i>la grande +absence de Dieu?</i></p> + +<p>It is not strange that the society from which +Cowper fled should have seemed to him whimsical +and a little mad. "A line of Bourne's," he says, +"is very expressive of the spectacle which this +world exhibits, tragi-comical as the incidents of +it are, absurd in themselves, but terrible in their +consequences:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sunt res humanæ flebile ludibrium."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Nor is it strange that he wondered sometimes at +the gayety of his own letters: "It is as if Harlequin +should intrude himself into the gloomy +chamber, where a corpse is deposited in state. +His antic gesticulations would be unseasonable, +at any rate, but more especially so if they should +distort the features of the mournful attendants +into laughter." But it is not the humour of the +letters that attracts us so much as their picture of +quiet home delights in the midst of a stormy +world. We linger most over the account of those +still evenings by the fireside, while Mrs. Unwin, +and perhaps their friend Lady Austen, was busy +with her needles—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy needles, once a shining store,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my sake restless heretofore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now rust disused, and shine no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">My Mary!—<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> + +<p class="noidt">and while Cowper read aloud from some book of +travels and mingled his comments with the story +of the wanderer:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>My imagination is so captivated upon these occasions +that I seem to partake with the navigators in all the dangers +they encountered. I lose my anchor; my mainsail +is rent into shreds; I kill a shark, and by signs converse +with a Patagonian, and all this without moving from the +fireside.</p></div> + +<p>And here I cannot but regret again that we +have not an edition of these letters interspersed +with the passages of <i>The Task</i>, which describe the +same scenes. I confess that two-thirds at least +of that poem is indeed a task to-day. The long +tirades against vice, and the equally long preaching +of virtue, all in blank verse, lack, to my ear, +the vivacity and the sustaining power of the +earlier rhymed poems, such as <i>Hope</i> (that superb +moralising on the poet's own life) and <i>Retirement</i>, +to name the best of the series. But the fourth +book of <i>The Task</i>, and, indeed, all the exquisite +genre pictures of the poem:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throws up a steamy column, and the cups<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So let us welcome peaceful evening in—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">all this intimate correspondence with the world +in verse is not only interesting in itself, but gains<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +a double charm by association with the letters. +"We were just sitting down to supper," writes +Cowper to Mrs. Unwin's son, "when a hasty rap +alarmed us. I ran to the hall window, for the +hares being loose, it was impossible to open the +door." It is fortunate for the reader if his +memory at these words calls up those lines of +<i>The Task</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">One sheltered hare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has never heard the sanguinary yell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Innocent partner of my peaceful home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom ten long years' experience of my care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has made at last familiar; she has lost<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not needful here beneath a roof like mine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That feeds thee; <i>thou mayst frolic on the floor</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>At evening</i>, and at night retire secure</span> +<span class="i0">To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All that is human in me, to protect<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when I place thee in it, sighing say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I knew at least one hare that had a friend.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>How much of the letters could be illustrated in +this way—the walks about Olney, the gardening, +the greenhouse, the lamentations over the American +Rebellion, the tirades against fickle fashions, +and a thousand other matters that go to make +up their quiet yet variegated substance. For it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +must not be supposed that Cowper, in these Olney +days at least, was ever dull. I will quote the +opening paragraph of one other letter—to his +friend the Rev. William Bull, great preacher +of Newport Pagnell, and, alas! great smoker,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> +"smoke-inhaling Bull," "Dear Taureau"—as a +change from the more serious theme, and then +pass on:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Mon aimable et très cher Ami</i>—It is not in the power +of chaises or chariots to carry you where my affections +will not follow you; if I heard that you were gone to +finish your days in the Moon, I should not love you the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>less; but should contemplate the place of your abode, as +often as it appeared in the heavens, and say—Farewell, +my friend, forever! Lost, but not forgotten! Live +happy in thy lantern, and smoke the remainder of thy +pipes in peace! Thou art rid of Earth, at least of all its +cares, and so far can I rejoice in thy removal.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">Might not that have been written by Lamb to one +of his cronies—by a Lamb still of the eighteenth +century?</p> + +<p>But the Olney days must come to a close. After +nineteen years of residence there Cowper and his +companion (was ever love like theirs, that was yet +not love!) were induced to move to Weston Lodge, +a more convenient house in the village of Weston +Underwood, not far away. Somehow, with the +change, the letters lose the freshness of their +peculiar interest. We shall never again find him +writing of his home as he had written before of +Olney:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The world is before me; I am not shut up in the Bastille; +there are no moats about my castle, <i>no locks upon +my gates of which I have not the key</i>; but an invisible, +uncontrollable agency, a local attachment, an inclination +more forcible than I ever felt, even to the place of my +birth, serves me for prison-walls, and for bounds which I +cannot pass.... The very stones in the garden-walls +are my intimate acquaintance. I should miss +almost the minutest object, and be disagreeably affected +by its removal, and am persuaded that, were it possible I +could leave this incommodious nook for a twelvemonth, +I should return to it again with rapture, and be transported +with the sight of objects which to all the world<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +beside would be at least indifferent; some of them perhaps, +such as the ragged thatch and the tottering walls +of the neighbouring cottages, disgusting. But so it is, +and it is so, because here is to be my abode, and because +such is the appointment of Him that placed me in it.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">Often while reading the letters from Weston one +wishes he had never turned the key in the lock +of that beloved enclosure. Fame had come to +him now. His correspondence is distributed +among more people; he is neither quite of the +world, nor of the cloister. Above all, he is busy—endlessly, +wearisomely busy—with his translation +of Homer. I have often wondered what +the result would have been had his good friends +and neighbours the Throckmortons converted him +from his rigid Calvinism to their own milder +Catholic faith, and set him in spiritual comfort to +writing another <i>Task</i>. Idle conjecture! For the +rest of his life he toiled resolutely at a translation +which the world did not want and which brought +its own tedium into his letters. And then comes +the pitiful collapse of Mrs. Unwin, broken at last +by the long vigil over her sick companion:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The twentieth year is well-nigh past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since first our sky was overcast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah would that this might be the last!<br /></span> +<span class="i10">My Mary!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy spirits have a fainter flow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see thee daily weaker grow—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'T was my distress that brought thee low,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">My Mary!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> +<p>The end is tragic, terrible. In 1794, Cowper +sank into a state of melancholia, in which for +hours he would walk backward and forward in +his study like a caged tiger. Mrs. Unwin was +dying. At last a cousin, the Rev. John Johnson, +took charge of the invalids and carried them away +into Norfolk. The last few letters, written in +Cowper's ever-dwindling moments of sanity, are +without a parallel in English. The contrast of +the wild images with the stately and restrained +language leaves an impression of awe, almost of +fear, on the mind. "My thoughts," he writes to +Lady Hesketh, "are like loose and dry sand, +which the closer it is grasped slips the sooner +away"; and again to the same faithful friend +from Mundesley on the coast:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The cliff is here of a height that it is terrible to look +down from; and yesterday evening, by moonlight, I +passed sometimes within a foot of the edge of it, from +which to have fallen would probably have been to be +dashed in pieces. But though to have been dashed in +pieces would perhaps have been best for me, I shrunk +from the precipice, and am waiting to be dashed in pieces +by other means. At two miles distance on the coast is a +solitary pillar of rock, that the crumbling cliff has left at +the high-water mark. I have visited it twice, and have +found it an emblem of myself. Torn from my natural +connections, I stand alone and expect the storm that +shall displace me.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">There is in this that sheer physical horror which +it is not good to write or to read. Somewhere in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +his earlier letters he quotes the well-known line +of Horace: "We and all ours are but a debt to +death." How the commonplace words come back +with frightfully intensified meaning as we read +this story of decay! It is not good, I say, to see +the nakedness of human fate so ruthlessly revealed. +The mind reverts instinctively from this +scene to the homely life at Olney. Might it not +be that if Cowper had remained in that spot +where the very stones of the garden walls were +endeared to him, if he had never been torn from +his natural connections—might it not be that he +would have passed from the world in the end +saddened but not frenzied by his dreams? At +least in our thoughts let us leave him, not standing +alone on the crumbling cliff over a hungry +sea, but walking with his sympathetic companion +arm in arm in the peaceful valley of the Ouse.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="WHITTIER_THE_POET" id="WHITTIER_THE_POET"></a>WHITTIER THE POET</h2> + + +<p>Last month we took the new edition of +Cowper's Letters as an occasion to consider the +life of the poet, who brought the quiet affections +of the home into English literature, and that may +be our excuse for waiving the immediate pressure +of the book-market and turning to the American +poet whose inspiration springs largely from the +same source. Different as the two writers are in +so many respects, different above all in their education +and surroundings, yet it would not be difficult +to find points of resemblance to justify such a +sequence. In both the spirit of religion was +bound up with the cult of seclusion; to both the +home was a refuge from the world; to both this +comfort was sweetened by the care of a beloved +companion, though neither of them ever married. +But, after all, no apology is needed, I trust, for +writing about a poet who is very dear to me as to +many others, and who has suffered more than +most at the hands of his biographers and critics.</p> + +<p>It should seem that no one could go through +Whittier's poems even casually without remarking +the peculiar beauty of the idyl called <i>The +Pennsylvania Pilgrim</i>. It is one of the longest +and, all things considered, quite the most char<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>acteristic +of his works. Yet Mr. Pickard in his +official biography brings the poem into no relief; +Professor Carpenter names it in passing without +a word of comment; and Colonel Higginson in +his volume in the English Men of Letters Series +does not mention it at all—but then he has a habit +of omitting the essential. Among those who have +written critically of American literature the poem +is not even named, so far as I am aware, by Mr. +Stedman or by Professors Richardson, Lawton, +Wendell, and Trent. I confess that this conspiracy +of silence, as I hunted through one historian +and critic after another, grew disconcerting, +and I began to distrust my own judgment until I +chanced upon a confirmation in two passages of +Whittier's letters. Writing of <i>The Pennsylvania +Pilgrim</i> to his publisher in May, 1872, he said: +"I think honestly it is as good as (if not better +than) any long poem I have written"; and a little +later to Celia Thaxter: "It is as long as <i>Snow-Bound</i>, +and better, but nobody will find it out." +One suspects that all these gentlemen in treating +of Whittier have merely followed the line of least +resistance, without taking much care to form an +independent opinion; and the line of least resistance +has a miserable trick of leading us astray. +In the first place, Whittier's share in the Abolition +and other reforming movements bulks so large in +the historians' eyes that sometimes they seem +almost to forget Whittier the poet. And the +critics have taken the same cue. "Whittier,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +says one of them, "will be remembered even more +as the trumpet-voice of Emancipation than as the +peaceful singer of rural New England."</p> + +<p>The error, if it may be said with reverence, can +be traced even higher, and in Whittier we meet +only one more witness to the unconcern of Nature +over the marring of her finer products. The +wonder is not that he turned out so much that is +faulty, but that now and then he attained such +exquisite grace. Whittier was born, December 17, +1807, in East Haverhill, in the old homestead +which still stands, a museum now, hidden among +the hills from any other human habitation. It is +a country not without quiet charm, though the +familiar lines of <i>Snow-Bound</i> make us think of it +first as beaten by storm and locked in by frost. +And, notwithstanding the solace of an affectionate +home, life on the farm was unnecessarily hard. +The habits of the grim pioneers had persisted and +weighed heavily on their dwindled descendants. +Thus the Whittiers, who used to drive regularly +to the Quaker meeting at Amesbury, eight miles +distant, are said to have taken no pains to protect +themselves from the bleakest weather. The poet +suffered in body all his life from the rigour of this +discipline; nor did he suffer less from insufficiency +of mental training. Not only was the family +poor, but it even appears that the sober tradition +of his people looked askance at the limited means +of education at hand. Only at the earnest solicitation +of outsiders was the boy allowed to attend<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +the academy at Haverhill. Meanwhile, he was a +little of everything: farm worker, shoemaker, +teacher—he seems to have shifted about as chance +or necessity directed. There were few—he has +told us how few—books in the house, and little +time for reading those he could borrow. But if +he read little, he wrote prodigiously. The story +of his first printed poem in the <i>Free Press</i> of Newburyport +and of the encouragement given him by +the far-sighted editor, William Lloyd Garrison, is +one of the best known and most picturesque incidents +in American letters. The young poet—he +was then nineteen—was launched; from that time +he became an assiduous writer for the press, +and was at intervals editor of various country or +propagandist newspapers.</p> + +<p>The great currents of literary tradition reached +him vaguely from afar and troubled his dreams. +Burns fell early into his hands, and the ambition +was soon formed of transferring the braes and +byres of Scotland to the hills and folds of New +England. The rhythms of Thomas Moore rang +seductively in his ears. Byron, too, by a spirit +of contrast, appealed to the Quaker lad, and one +may read in Mr. Pickard's capital little book, +<i>Whittier-Land</i>, verses and fragments of letters +which show how deeply that poison of the age +had bitten into his heart. But the influence of +those sons of fire was more than counteracted by +the gentle spirit of Mrs. Hemans—indeed, the +worst to be said of Whittier is that never, to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +day of his death, did he quite throw off allegiance +to the facile and innocent muse of that lady. It +is only right to add that in his later years, especially +in the calm that followed the civil war, +he became a pretty widely read man, a man of far +more culture than he is commonly supposed to +have been.</p> + +<p>Such was the boy, then—thirsting for fame, +scantily educated, totally without critical guidance +or environment, looking this way and that—who +was thrust under the two dominant influences of +his time and place. To one of these, transcendentalism, +we owe nearly all that is highest, and +unfortunately much also that is most inchoate, in +New England literature. Its spirit of complacent +self-dependence was dangerous at the best, although +in Whittier I cannot see that it did more +than confirm his habit of uncritical prolixity; it +could offer no spiritual seduction to one who held +liberally the easy doctrine of the Friends. But to +the other influence he fell a natural prey. The +whole tradition of the Quakers—the memory of +Pastorius, whom he was to sing as the Pennsylvania +Pilgrim; the inheritance of saintly John +Woolman, whose Journal he was to edit—prepared +him to take part in the great battle of the +Abolitionists. From that memorable hour when +he met Garrison face to face on his Haverhill +farm to the ending of the war in 1865, he was no +longer free to develop intellectually, but was a +servant of reform and politics. I am not, of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +course, criticising that movement or its achievement; +I regret only that one whose temper and +genius called for fostering in quiet fields should +have been dragged into that stormy arena. As +he says in lines that are true if not elegant:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hater of din and riot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He lived in days unquiet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, lover of all beauty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trod the hard ways of duty.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is not merely that political interests absorbed +the energy which would otherwise have gone to +letters; the knowledge of life acquired might have +compensated and more than compensated for less +writing, and, indeed, he wrote too much as it was. +The difficulty is rather that "the pledged philanthropy +of earth" somehow militates against art, +as Whittier himself felt. Not only the poems +actually written to forward the propaganda are +for the most part dismal reading, but something +of their tone has crept into other poems, with an +effect to-day not far from cant. Twice the cry of +the liberator in Whittier rose to noble writing. +But in both cases it is not the mere pleading of +reform but a very human and personal indignation +that speaks. In <i>Massachusetts to Virginia</i> +this feeling of outrage calls forth one of the most +stirring pieces of personification ever written, nor +can I imagine a day when a man of Massachusetts +shall be able to read it without a tingling of the +blood, or a Virginian born hear it without a sense<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +of unacknowledged shame; in <i>Ichabod</i> he uttered +a word of individual scorn that will rise up for +quotation whenever any strong leader misuses, +or is thought to misuse, his powers. Every one +knows the lines in which Webster is pilloried for +his defection:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of all we loved and honoured, naught<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Save power remains;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fallen angel's pride of thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Still strong in chains.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All else is gone; from those great eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The soul has fled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When faith is lost, when honour dies,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The man is dead!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then pay the reverence of old days<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To his dead fame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Walk backward, with averted gaze,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And hide the shame!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is instructive that only when his note is thus +pierced by individual emotion does the reformer +attain to universality of appeal. Unfortunately +most of Whittier's slave songs sink down to a +dreary level—down to the almost humorous pathos +of the lines suggested by <i>Uncle Tom's Cabin</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dry the tears for holy Eva,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the blessed angels leave her. . . .<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>What he needed above everything else, what +his surroundings were least of all able to give<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +him, was a canon of taste, which would have +driven him to stiffen his work, to purge away the +flaccid and set the genuinely poetical in stronger +relief—a purely literary canon which would have +offset the moralist and reformer in him, and made +it impossible for him (and his essays show that the +critical vein was not absent by nature) to write +of Longfellow's <i>Psalm of Life</i>: "These nine +simple verses are worth more than all the dreams +of Shelley, and Keats, and Wordsworth. They +are alive and vigorous with the spirit of the day +in which we live—the moral steam enginery of an +age of action." While Tennyson and Matthew +Arnold were writing in England, the earlier tradition +had not entirely died out in America that +the first proof of genius is an abandonment of +one's mind to temperament and "inspiration." +Byron had written verse as vacillating and formless +as any of Whittier's; Shelley had poured +forth page after page of effusive vapourings; Keats +learned the lesson of self-restraint almost too late; +Wordsworth indulged in platitudes as simpering +as "holy Eva"; but none of these poets suffered +so deplorably from the lack of criticism as the +finest of our New England spirits. The very +magnificence of their rebellion, the depth and +originality of their emotion, were a compensation +for their licence, were perhaps inevitably involved +in it. The humbler theme of Whittier's muse can +offer no such apology; he who sings the commonplace +joys and cares of the heart needs above all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +to attain that <i>simplex munditiis</i> which is the last +refinement of taste; lacking that, he becomes himself +commonplace. And Whittier knew this. In +the Proem to the first general collection of his +poems, he wrote:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No rounded art the lack supplies;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unskilled the subtle line to trace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or softer shades of Nature's face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Nor mine the seer-like power to show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The secrets of the heart and mind;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>To drop the plummet line below</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Our common world of joy and woe,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But at this point we must part company with +his confession. His reward is not that he showed +"a hate of tyranny intense" or laid his gifts on +the shrine of Freedom, but that more completely +than any other poet he developed the peculiarly +English <i>ideal of the home</i> which Cowper first +brought intimately into letters, and added to it +those <i>homely comforts of the spirit</i> which Cowper +never felt. With Longfellow he was destined to +throw the glamour of the imagination over "our +common world of joy and woe."</p> + +<p>Perhaps something in his American surroundings +fitted him peculiarly for this humbler rôle. +The fact that the men who had made the new +colony belonged to the middle class of society<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +tended to raise the idea of home into undisputed +honour, and the isolation and perils of their situation +in the earlier years had enhanced this feeling +into something akin to a cult. America is still +the land of homes. That may be a lowly theme +for a poet; to admire such poetry may, indeed it +does, seem to many to smack of a bourgeois taste. +And yet there is an implication here that carries +a grave injustice. For myself, I admit that +Whittier is one of the authors of my choice, and +that I read him with ever fresh delight; I even +think there must be something spurious in that +man's culture whose appreciation of Milton or +Shelley dulls his ear to the paler but very refined +charm of Whittier. If truth be told, there is +sometimes a kind of exquisite content in turning +from the pretentious poets who exact so much of +the reader to the more immediate appeal of our +sweet Quaker. In comparison with those more +exalted muses his nymph is like the nut-brown +lass of the old song—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when we come where comfort is,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">She never will say No.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">And often, after fatiguing the brain with the +searchings and inquisitive flight of the Masters, +we are ready to say with Whittier:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I break my pilgrim staff, I lay<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Aside the toiling oar;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The angel sought so far away<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I welcome at my door.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> +<p>There, to me at least, and not in the ballads +which are more generally praised, lies the rare +excellence of Whittier. True enough, some of +these narrative poems are spirited and admirably +composed. Now and then, as in <i>Cassandra +Southwick</i>, they strike a note which reminds one +singularly of the real ballads of the people; in +fact, it would not be fanciful to discover a certain +resemblance between the manner of their production +and of the old popular songs. Their +publication in obscure newspapers, from which +they were copied and gradually sent the rounds +of the country, is not essentially different from +the way in which many of the ballads were +probably spread abroad. The very atmosphere +that surrounded the boy in a land where the +traditions of border warfare and miraculous +events still ran from mouth to mouth prepared +him for such balladry. Take, for example, this +account of his youth from the Introduction to +<i>Snow-Bound</i>:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Under such circumstances story-telling was a necessary +resource in the long winter evenings. My father when a +young man had traversed the wilderness to Canada, and +could tell us of his adventures with Indians and wild +beasts, and of his sojourn in the French villages. My +uncle was ready with his record of hunting and fishing, +and, it must be confessed, with stories, which he at least +half-believed, of witchcraft and apparitions. My mother, +who was born in the Indian-haunted region of Somersworth, +New Hampshire, between Dover and Portsmouth,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +told us of the inroads of the savages, and the narrow +escape of her ancestors.</p></div> + +<p>No doubt this legendary training helped to +give more life to Whittier's ballads and border +tales than ordinarily enters into that rather factitious +form of composition; and for a while he +made a deliberate attempt to create out of it a +native literature. But the effect was still deeper, +by a kind of contrast, on his poetry of the home. +After several incursions into the world as editor +and agitator, he was compelled by ill health to +settle down finally in the Amesbury house, which +he had bought in 1836; and there with little interruption +he lived from his thirty-third to his +eighty-fifth year, the year of his death. In <i>Snow-Bound</i> +his memory called up a picture of the old +Haverhill homestead, unsurpassed in its kind for +sincerity and picturesqueness; in poem after poem +he celebrated directly or indirectly "the river +hemmed with leaning trees," the hills and ponds, +the very roads and bridges of the land about these +sheltered towns. On the one hand, the recollection +of the wilder life through which his parents +had come added to the snugness and intimacy of +these peaceful scenes, and, on the other hand, the +encroachment of trade and factories into their +midst lent a poignancy of regret for a grace that +was passing away. Mr. Pickard's little guide-book, +to which I have already referred, brings +together happily the innumerable allusions of +local interest; there is no spot in America, not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +even Concord, where the light of fancy lies so +entrancingly:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A tender glow, exceeding fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dream of day without its glare.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>For it must be seen that the crudeness of +Whittier's education, and the thorny ways into +which he was drawn, marred a large part, but by +no means all, of his work. There are a few +poems in his collection of an admirable craftsmanship +in that genre which is none the less +difficult—which I sometimes think is almost more +difficult—because it lies so perilously near the +trivial and mean. There are others which need +only a little pruning, perhaps a little heightening +here and there, to approach the same perfection +of charm. Especially they have that harmony +of tone which arises from the unspoiled sincerity of +the writer and ends by subduing the reader to a +restful sympathy with their mood. No one can +read much in Whittier without feeling that these +hills and valleys about the Merrimac have become +one of the inalienable domiciles of the spirit—a +familiar place where the imagination dwells with +untroubled delight. Even the little things, the +flowers and birds of the country, are made to contribute +to the sense of homely content. There is +one poem in particular which has always seemed +to me significant of Whittier's manner, and a +comparison of it with the famous flower poems +of Wordsworth will show the difference between<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +what I call the poetry of the hearth and the poetry +of intimate nature. It was written to celebrate a +gift of <i>Pressed Gentian</i> that hung at the poet's +window, presenting to wayside travellers only a +"grey disk of clouded glass":</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They cannot from their outlook see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The perfect grace it hath for me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For there the flower, whose fringes through<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The frosty breath of autumn blew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turns from without its face of bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the warm tropic of my room,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As fair as when beside its brook<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hue of bending skies it took.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So from the trodden ways of earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seem some sweet souls who veil their worth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And offer to the careless glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The clouding grey of circumstance. . . .<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">There is not a little of self-portraiture in this image +of the flower, and it may be that some who have +written of Whittier patronisingly are like the +hasty passer-by—they see only the <i>grey disk of +clouded glass</i>.</p> + +<p>And the emotion that furnishes the loudest +note to most poets is subdued in Whittier to the +same gentle tone. To be sure, there is evidence +enough that his heart in youth was touched almost +to a Byronic melancholy, and he himself +somewhere remarks that "Few guessed beneath +his aspect grave, What passions strove in chains." +But was there not a remnant of self-deception<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +here? Do not the calmest and wisest of us like +to believe we are calm and wise by virtue of +vigorous self-repression? Wordsworth, we remember, +explained the absence of love from his +poetry on the ground that his passions were too +violent to allow any safe expression of them. +Possibly they were. Certainly, in Whittier's +verse we have no reflection of those tropic heats, +but only "the Indian summer of the heart." The +very title, <i>Memories</i>, of his best-known love poem +(based on a real experience, the details of which +have recently been revealed) suggests the mood in +which he approaches this subject. It is not the +quest of desire he sings, but the home-coming after +the frustrate search and the dreaming recollection +by the hearth of an ancient loss. In the same +way, his ballad <i>Maud Muller</i>, which is supposed +to appeal only to the unsophisticated, is attuned +to that shamelessly provincial rhyme,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For of all sad words of tongue or pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The saddest are these: "It might have been!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It is a little so with us all, perhaps, as it was +with the judge and the maiden; only, as we +learn the lesson of years, the disillusion is likely +to be mingled strangely with relief, and the +sadness to take on a most comfortable and flattering +Quaker drab—as it did with our "hermit of +Amesbury."</p> + +<p>If love was a memory, religion was for Whittier +a hope and an ever-present consolation—peculiarly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +a consolation, because he brought into it the same +thought of home-coming that marks his treatment +of nature and the passions. Partly, this was due +to his inherited creed, which was tolerant enough +to soften theological dispute: "Quakerism," he +once wrote to Lucy Larcom, "has no Church of +its own—it belongs to the Church Universal and +Invisible." In great part the spirit of his faith +was private to him; it even called for a note of +apology to the sterner of his brethren:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O friends! with whom my feet have trod<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The quiet aisles of prayer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glad witness to your zeal for God<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And love of man I bear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I trace your lines of argument;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Your logic linked and strong<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I weigh as one who dreads dissent,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And fears a doubt as wrong.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But still my human hands are weak<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To hold your iron creeds:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the words ye bid me speak<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My heart within me pleads. . . .<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">And the inimitably tender conclusion:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so beside the Silent Sea<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I wait the muffled oar;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No harm from Him can come to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On ocean or on shore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know not where His islands lift<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Their fronded palms in air;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only know I cannot drift<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Beyond His love and care.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O brothers! if my faith is vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">If hopes like these betray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pray for me that my feet may gain<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sure and safer way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thy creatures as they be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgive me if too close I lean<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My human heart on Thee!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Not a strenuous mood it may be, or very exalted—not +the mood of the battling saints, but one +familiar to many a troubled man in his hours of +simpler trust. We have been led to Whittier +through the familiar poetry of Cowper; consider +what it would have been to that tormented soul +if for one day he could have forgotten the awe of +his divinity and <i>leaned his human heart on God</i>. +It is not good for any but the strongest to dwell +too much with abstractions of the mind. And, +after all, change the phrasing a little, substitute +if you choose some other intuitive belief for the +poet's childlike faith, and you will be surprised to +find how many of the world's philosophers would +accept the response of Whittier:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We search the world for truth; we cull<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The good, the pure, the beautiful,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From graven stone and written scroll,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From all old flower-fields of the soul;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, weary seekers of the best,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We come back laden from our quest,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find that all the sages said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is in the Book our mothers read.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Such a rout of the intellect may seem ignominious, +but is it any more so than the petulance of +Renan because all his learning had only brought +him to the same state of skepticism as that of the +gamin in the streets of Paris? Our tether is short +enough, whichever way we seek escape. It is +worth noting that in his essay on Baxter (he who +conceived of the saints' rest in a very different +spirit) Whittier blames that worthy just for the +exaltation of his character. "In our view," he +says, "this was its radical defect. He had too +little of humanity, he felt too little of the attraction +of this world, and lived too exclusively in the +spiritual and the unearthly."</p> + +<p>And if Whittler's faith was simple and human, +his vision of the other world was strangely like +the remembrance of a home that we have left in +youth. There is a striking expression of this in +one of his prose tales, now almost forgotten despite +their elements of pale but very genuine +humour and pathos, as if written by an attenuated +Hawthorne. The good physician, Dr. Singletary, +and his friends are discussing the future life, +and says one of them:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Have you not felt at times that our ordinary conceptions +of heaven itself, derived from the vague hints and +Oriental imagery of the Scriptures, are sadly inadequate +to our human wants and hopes? How gladly would we +forego the golden streets and gates of pearl, the thrones,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +temples, and harps, for the sunset lights of our native +valleys; the woodpaths, where moss carpets are woven +with violets and wild flowers; the songs of birds, the low +of cattle, the hum of bees in the apple-blossoms—the +sweet, familiar voices of human life and nature! In the +place of strange splendours and unknown music, should +we not welcome rather whatever reminded us of the common +sights and sounds of our old home?"</p></div> + +<p>It was eminently proper that, as the poet lay +awaiting death, with his kinsfolk gathered about +him, one of them should have recited the stanzas +of his psalm <i>At Last</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When on my day of life the night is falling,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear far voices out of darkness calling<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My feet to paths unknown,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Leave not its tenant when its walls decay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Love Divine, O Helper ever present,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Be Thou my strength and stay!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class="half" /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have but Thee, my Father! let Thy spirit<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Be with me then to comfort and uphold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Nor street of shining gold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Suffice it if—my good and ill unreckoned,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I find myself by hands familiar beckoned<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Unto my fitting place.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I would not call this the highest religious +poetry, pure and sweet as it may be. Something<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +still is lacking, but to see that want fulfilled one +must travel out of Whittier's age, back through +all the eighteenth century, back into the seventeenth. +There you will find it in Vaughan and +Herbert and sometimes in Marvell—poets whom +Whittier read and admired. Take two poems +from these two ages, place them side by side, and +the one thing needed fairly strikes the eyes. The +first poem Whittier wrote after the death of his +sister Elizabeth (who had been to him what Mrs. +Unwin had been to Cowper) was <i>The Vanishers</i>, +founded on a pretty superstition he had read in +Schoolcraft:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweetest of all childlike dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the simple Indian lore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still to me the legend seems<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of the shapes who flit before.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flitting, passing, seen, and gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Never reached nor found at rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Baffling search, but beckoning on<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the Sunset of the Blest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the clefts of mountain rocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through the dark of lowland firs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flash the eyes and flow the locks<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of the mystic Vanishers!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Now Vaughan, too, wrote a poem on those gone +from him:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They are all gone into the world of light,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And I alone sit lingering here;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their very memory is fair and bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And my sad thoughts doth clear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like stars upon some gloomy grove,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or those faint beams in which this hill is dress'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">After the sun's remove.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I see them walking in an air of glory,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Whose light doth trample on my days:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Mere glimmering and decays.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It is not a fair comparison to set one of Whittier's +inferior productions beside this superbest hymn +of an eloquent age; but would any religious poem +of the nineteenth century, even the best of them, +fare much better? There is indeed one thing +lacking, and that is <i>ecstasy</i>. But ecstasy demands +a different kind of faith from that of Whittier's +day or ours, and, missing that, I do not see why +we should begrudge our praise to a genius of pure +and quiet charm.</p> + +<p>I have already intimated that too complete a +preoccupation with the reforming and political +side of Whittier's life has kept the biographers +from recognising that charm in what he himself +regarded as his best poem. In 1872, in the full +maturity of his powers and when the national +peace had allowed him to indulge the peace in +his own heart, he wrote his exquisite idyl, <i>The +Pennsylvania Pilgrim</i>. Perhaps the mere name +of the poem may suggest another cause why it +has been overlooked. Whittier has always stood +pre-eminently as the exponent of New England +life, and for very natural reasons. And yet it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +would not be difficult to show from passages in +his prose works that his heart was never quite at +ease in that Puritan land. The recollection of +the sufferings which his people had undergone for +their faith' sake rankled a little in his breast, +and he was never in perfect sympathy with the +austerity of New England traditions. We catch +a tone of relief as he turns in imagination to the +peace that dwelt "within the land of Penn":</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who knows what goadings in their sterner way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What hate of heresy the east-wind woke?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It was no doubt during his early residence in +Philadelphia that he learned the story of the good +Pastorius, who, in 1683, left the fatherland and +the society of the mystics he loved to lead a colony +of Friends to Germantown. The Pilgrim's life in +that bountiful valley between the Schuylkill and +the Delaware—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the wedded rivers—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">offered to Whittier a subject admirably adapted +to his powers. Here the faults of taste that elsewhere +so often offend us are sunk in the harmony +of the whole and in the singular unity of impression; +and the lack of elevation that so often stints<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +our praise becomes a suave and mellow beauty. +All the better elements of his genius are displayed +here in opulent freedom. The affections of the +heart unfold in unembittered serenity. The sense +of home seclusion is heightened by the presence +of the enveloping wilderness, but not disturbed +by any harsher contrast. Within is familiar joy +and retirement unassailed—not without a touch +of humour, as when in the evening, "while his +wife put on her look of love's endurance," Pastorius +took down his tremendous manuscript—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And read, in half the languages of man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His <i>Rusca Apium</i>, which with bees began,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the gamut of creation ran.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">(The manuscript still exists; pray heaven it be +never published!) Now and then the winter +evenings were broken by the coming of some welcome +guest—some traveller from the Old World +bringing news of fair Von Merlau and the other +beloved mystics; some magistrate from the young +city,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Lovely even then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its fair women and its stately men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gracing the forest court of William Penn;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">or some neighbour of the country, the learned +Swedish pastor who, like Pastorius, "could baffle +Babel's lingual curse,"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or painful Kelpius, from his forest den<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Wissahickon, maddest of good men.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> +<p>Such was the life within, and out of doors were +the labours of the gardener and botanist, while</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">the seasons went<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of their own calm and measureless content.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">The scene calls forth some of Whittier's most +perfect lines of description. Could anything be +more harmonious than this, with its economy of +simple grace,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds sailed?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>No poem would be thoroughly characteristic of +Whittier without some echo of the slavery dispute, +and our first introduction to Pastorius is, indeed, +as to a baffled forerunner of John Woolman. But +the question here takes on its most human and +least political form; it lets in just enough of the +outside world of action to save the idyl from unreality. +Nor could religion well be absent; rather, +the whole poem may be called an illustration +through the Pilgrim's life of that Inner Guide, +speaking to him not with loud and controversial +tones, as it spoke to George Fox, but with the +still, small voice of comfortable persuasion:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">A Voice spake in his ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lo! all other voices far and near<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Died at that whisper, full of meanings clear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Light of Life shone round him; one by one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wandering lights, that all misleading run,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went out like candles paling in the sun.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">The account of the grave Friends, unsummoned +by bells, walking meeting-ward, and of the +gathered stillness of the room into which only +the songs of the birds penetrated from without, +is one of the happiest passages of the poem. How +dear those hours of common worship were to +Whittier may be understood from another poem, +addressed to a visitor who asked him why he did +not seek rather the grander temple of nature:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But nature is not solitude;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She crowds us with her thronging wood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her many hands reach out to us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her many tongues are garrulous;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perpetual riddles of surprise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She offers to our ears and eyes.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class='half' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so I find it well to come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For deeper rest to this still room,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For here the habit of the soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feels less the outer world's control;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The strength of mutual purpose pleads<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More earnestly our common needs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from the silence multiplied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By these still forms on every side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world that time and sense have known<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falls off and leaves us God alone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>For the dinner given to Whittier on his seventieth +birthday Longfellow wrote a sonnet on +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +<i>The Three Silences of Molinos</i>—the silence of speech, +of desire, and of thought, through which are +heard "mysterious sounds from realms beyond +our reach." Perhaps only one who at some time +in his life has caught, or seemed to catch, those +voices and melodies is quite able to appreciate the +charm of Whittier through the absence of so +much that calls to us in other poets.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_CENTENARY_OF_SAINTE-BEUVE" id="THE_CENTENARY_OF_SAINTE-BEUVE"></a>THE CENTENARY OF SAINTE-BEUVE</h2> + + +<p>It is a hundred years since Sainte-Beuve was +born in the Norman city that looks over toward +England, and more than a generation has passed +since his death just before the war with Germany.<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> +Yesterday three countries—France, Belgium, and +Switzerland—were celebrating his centenary with +speeches and essays and dinners, and the singing +of hymns. At Lausanne, where he had given his +lectures on <i>Port-Royal</i>, and had undergone not a +little chagrin for his pains, the University unveiled +a bronze medallion of his head,—a Sainte-Beuve +disillusioned and complex, writes a Parisian journalist, +with immoderate forehead radiating a cold +serenity, while the lips are contracted into a smile +at once voluptuous and sarcastic, as it were an +Erasmus grown fat, with a reminiscence of Baudelaire +in the ironic mask of the face. It is evidently +the "Père Beuve" as we know him in the portraits, +and it is not hard to imagine the lips curling +a little more sardonically at the thought of +the change that has come since he was a poverty-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>stricken +hack and his foibles were the ridicule of +Paris.</p> + +<p>Yet through all these honours I cannot help +observing a strain of reluctance, as so often happens +with a critic who has made himself feared by +the rectitude of his judgments. There has, for +one thing, been a good deal of rather foolish +scandal-mongering and raking up of old anecdotes +about his gross habits. Well, Sainte-Beuve +was sensual. "Je suis du peuple ainsi que mes +amours," he was wont to hum over his work; and +when that work was finished, his secretary tells +us how he used to draw a hat down over his face +(that face <i>dont le front démesurément haut rayonne +de sérénité froide</i>), and go out on the street for any +chance liaison. There is something too much of +these stories in what is written of Sainte-Beuve +to-day; and in the estimate of his intellectual +career too little emphasis is laid on what was +stable in his opinions, and too much emphasis on +the changes of his religious and literary creed. +To be sure, these mutations of belief are commonly +cited as his preparation for the art of critic, +and in a certain sense this is right. But even +then, if by critic is meant one who merely decides +the value of this or that book, the essential word +is left unsaid. He was a critic, and something +more; he was, if any man may claim such a title, +the <i>maître universel</i> of the century, as, indeed, he +has been called.</p> + +<p>And the time of his life contributed as much to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +this position of Doctor Universalis as did his own +intelligence. France, during those years from the +Revolution of 1830 to the fall of the Second Empire, +was the seething-pot of modern ideas, and +the impression left by the history of the period is +not unlike that of watching the witch scenes in +<i>Macbeth</i>. The eighteenth century had been earnest, +mad in part, but its intention was comparatively +single,—to tear down the fabric of +authority, whether political or religious, and +allow human nature, which was fundamentally +good, though depraved by custom, to assert itself. +And human nature did assert itself pretty vigorously +in the French Revolution, proving, one +might suppose, if it proved anything, that its +foundation, like its origin, is with the beasts. To +the men who came afterward that tremendous +event stood like a great prism between themselves +and the preceding age; the pillar of light toward +which they looked for guidance was distorted by +it and shattered into a thousand coloured rays. +For many of them, as for Sainte-Beuve, it meant +that the old humanitarian passion remained side +by side with a profound distrust of the popular +heart; for all, the path of reform took the direction +of some individual caprice or ideal. There were +democrats and monarchists and imperialists; there +was the rigid Catholic reaction led by Bonald and +de Maistre, and the liberal Catholicism of Lamennais; +there was the socialism of Saint-Simon, +mixed with notions of a religious hierarchy, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +other schemes of socialism innumerable; while +skepticism took every form of condescension or +antagonism. Literature also had its serious mission, +and the battle of the romanticists shook +Paris almost as violently as a political revolution. +Through it all science was marching with steady +gaze, waiting for the hour when it should lay its +cold hand on the heart of society.</p> + +<p>And with all these movements Sainte-Beuve +was more or less intimately concerned. As a boy +he brought with him to Paris the pietistic sentiments +of his mother and an aunt on whom, his +father being dead, his training had devolved. +Upon these sentiments he soon imposed the philosophy +of the eighteenth century, followed by a +close study of the Revolution. It is noteworthy +that his first journalistic work on the <i>Globe</i> was +a literary description of the places in Greece to +which the war for independence was calling attention, +and the reviewing of various memoirs of the +French Revolution. From these influences he +passed to the <i>cénacle</i> of Victor Hugo, and became +one of the champions of the new romantic school. +Meanwhile literature was mingled with romance +of another sort, and the story of the critic's friendship +for the haughty poet and of his love for the +poet's wife is of a kind almost incomprehensible +to the Anglo-Saxon mind. It may be said in +passing that the letters of Sainte-Beuve to M. and +Mme. Hugo, which have only to-day been recovered +and published in the <i>Revue de Paris</i>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +throw rather a new light on this whole affair. +They do not exculpate Sainte-Beuve, but they at +least free him from ridicule. His successful passion +for Mme. Hugo, with its abrupt close when +Mme. Hugo's daughter came to her first confession, +and his tormented courtship of Mme. d'Arbouville +in later years, were the chief elements in +that <i>éducation sentimentale</i> which made him so +cunning in the secrets of the feminine breast.</p> + +<p>But this is a digression. Personal and critical +causes carried him out of the camp of Victor Hugo +into the ranks of the Saint-Simonians, whom he +followed for a while with a kind of half-detached +enthusiasm. Probably he was less attracted by +the hopes of a mystically regenerated society, with +Enfantin as its supreme pontiff, than by the desire +of finding some rest for the imagination in +this religion of universal love. At least he perceived +in the new brotherhood a relief from the +strained individualism of the romantic poets, and +the same instinct, no doubt, followed him from +Saint-Simonism into the fold of Lamennais. +There at last he thought to see united the ideals +of religion and democracy, and some of the bitterest +words he ever wrote were in memory of +the final defalcation of Lamennais, who, as Sainte-Beuve +said, saved himself but left his disciples +stranded in the mire. Meanwhile this particular +disciple had met new friends in Switzerland, and +through their aid was brought at a critical moment +to Lausanne to lecture on <i>Port-Royal</i>. There he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +learned to know and respect Vinet, the Protestant +theologian and critic, who, with the help of his +good friends the Oliviers, undertook to convert +the wily Parisian to Calvinism. Saint-Beuve himself +seems to have gone into the discussion quite +earnestly, but for one who knows the past experiences +of that subtle twister there is something +almost ludicrous in the way these anxious missionaries +reported each accession and retrogression +of his faith. He came back to Paris a confirmed +and satisfied doubter, willing to sacrifice to the +goddess Chance as the blind deity of this world, +convinced of materialism and of the essential baseness +of human nature, yet equally convinced that +within man there rules some ultimate principle of +genius or individual authority which no rationalism +can explain, and above all things determined +to keep his mind open to whatever currents of +truth may blow through our murky human atmosphere. +He ended where he began, in what may +be called a subtilised and refined philosophy of +the eighteenth century, with a strain of melancholy +quite peculiar to the baffled experience of +the nineteenth. His aim henceforth was to apply +to the study of mankind the analytical precision +of science, with a scientific method of grouping +men into spiritual families.</p> + +<p>Much has been made of these varied twistings +of Sainte-Beuve's, both for his honour and dishonour. +Certainly they enabled him to insinuate +himself into almost every kind of intelligence and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +report of each author as if he were writing out a +phase of his own character; they made him in the +end the spokesman of that eager and troubled age +whose ferment is to-day just reaching America. +France scarcely holds the place of intellectual +supremacy once universally accorded her, yet to +her glory be it said that, if we look anywhere for +a single man who summed up within himself the +life of the nineteenth century, we instinctively +turn to that country. And more and more it appears +that to Sainte-Beuve in particular that +honour must accrue. His understanding was +more comprehensive than Taine's or Renan's, +more subtle than that of the former, more upright +than that of the latter, more single toward the +truth and more accurate than that of either. +He never, as did Taine, allowed a preconceived +idea to warp his arrangement of facts, nor did he +ever, at least in his mature years, allow his sentimentality, +as did Renan, to take the place of +judgment. Both the past and the present are reflected +in his essays with equal clearness.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, this versatility of experience +has not seldom been laid to lightness and inconsistency +of character. I cannot see that the +charge holds good, unless it be directed also +against the whole age through which he passed. +If any one thing has been made clear by the publishing +of Sainte-Beuve's letters and by the closer +investigation of his life, it is that he was in these +earlier years a sincere seeker after religion, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +was only held back at the last moment by some +invincible impotence of faith from joining himself +finally with this or that sect. And he was thus +an image of the times. What else is the meaning +of all those abortive attempts to amalgamate religion +with the humanitarianism left over from the +eighteenth century, but a searching for faith where +the spiritual eye had been blinded? I should +suppose that Sainte-Beuve's refusal in the end to +speak the irrevocable word of adhesion indicated +rather the clearness of his self-knowledge than +any lightness of procedure. Nor is his inconsistency, +whether religious or literary, quite so +great as it is sometimes held up to be. The inheritance +of the eighteenth century was strong +upon him, while at the same time he had a craving +for the inner life of the spirit. Naturally he +felt a powerful attraction in the preaching of such +men as Saint-Simon and Lamennais, who boasted +to combine these two tendencies; but the mummery +of Saint-Simonism and the instability of +Mennaisianism, when it came to the test, too +soon exposed the lack of spiritual substance in +both. With this revelation came a growing distrust +of human nature, caused by the political +degeneracy of France, and by a kind of revulsion +he threw himself upon the Jansenism which contained +the spirituality the other creeds missed, +and which based itself frankly on the total depravity +of mankind. He was too much a child +of the age to breathe in that thin air, and fell back<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +on all that remained to him,—inquisitive doubt +and a scientific demand for positive truth. It is +the history of the century.</p> + +<p>And in literature I find the same inconstancy +on the surface, while at heart he suffered little +change. Only here his experience ran counter +to the times, and most of the opprobrium that has +been cast on him is due to the fact that he never +allowed the clamour of popular taste and the +warmth of his sympathy with present modes to +drown that inner critical voice of doubt. As a +standard-bearer of Victor Hugo and the romanticists +he still maintained his reserves, and, on the +other hand, long after he had turned renegade +from that camp he still spoke of himself as only +<i>demi-converti</i>. The proportion changed with his +development, but from beginning to end he was +at bottom classical in his love of clarity and self-restraint, +while intensely interested in the life and +aspirations of his own day. There is in one of +the recently published letters to Victor Hugo a +noteworthy illustration of this steadfastness. It +was, in fact, the second letter he wrote to the +poet, and goes back to 1827, the year of <i>Cromwell</i>. +On the twelfth of February, Hugo read his new +tragi-comedy aloud, and Sainte-Beuve was evidently +warm in expressions of praise. But in the +seclusion of his own room the critical instinct reawoke +in him, and he wrote the next day a long +letter to the dramatist, not retracting what he had +said, but adding certain reservations and insinu<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>ating +certain admonitions. "Toutes ces critiques +rentrent dans une seule que je m'étais déjà permis +d'adresser à votre talent, l'excès, l'abus de la +<i>force</i>, et passez-moi le mot, la <i>charge</i>." Is not +the whole of his critical attitude toward the men +of his age practically contained in this rebuke of +excess, and over-emphasis, and self-indulgence? +And Sainte-Beuve when he wrote the words was +just twenty-three, was in the first ardour of his +attachment to the giant—the Cyclops, he seemed +to Sainte-Beuve later—of the century.</p> + +<p>But after all, it is not the elusive seeker of these +years that we think of when Sainte-Beuve is +named, nor the author of those many volumes,—the +<i>Portraits</i>, the <i>Chateaubriand</i>, even the <i>Port-Royal</i>,—but +the writer of the incomparable <i>Lundis</i>. +In 1849 he had returned from Liège after lecturing +for a year at the University, and found himself +abounding in ideas, keen for work, and without +regular employment. He was asked to contribute +a critical essay to the <i>Constitutionnel</i> each Monday, +and accepted the offer eagerly. "It is now +twenty-five years," he said, "since I started in +this career; it is the third form in which I have +been brought to give out my impressions and +literary judgments." These first <i>Causeries</i> continued +until 1860, and are published in fourteen +solid volumes. There was a brief respite then, +and in 1861 he began the <i>Nouveaux Lundis</i>, +which continued in the <i>Moniteur</i> and the <i>Temps</i> +until his last illness in 1869, filling thirteen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +similar volumes. Meanwhile his mother had died, +leaving him a house in Paris and a small income, +and in 1865 he had been created a senator by +Napoleon III. at the instigation of the Princesse +Mathilde.</p> + +<p>In his earlier years he had been poor and +anxious, living in a student's room, and toiling +indefatigably to keep the wolf from the door. At +the end he was rich, and had command of his +time, yet the story of his labours while writing +the latest <i>Lundis</i> is one of the heroic examples of +literature. "Every Tuesday morning," he once +wrote to a friend, "I go down to the bottom of a +pit, not to reascend until Friday evening at some +unknown hour." Those were the days of preparation +and plotting. From his friend M. Chéron, +who was librarian of the Bibliothèque Impériale, +came memoirs and histories and manuscripts,—whatever +might serve him in getting up his subject. +Late in the week he wrote a rough draft of +the essay, commonly about six thousand words +long, in a hand which no one but himself could +decipher. This task was ordinarily finished in a +single day, and the essay was then dictated off +rapidly to a secretary to take down in a fair copy. +That must have been a strenuous season for the +copyist, for Sainte-Beuve read at a prodigious rate, +showing impatience at any delay, and still greater +impatience at any proposed alteration. Indeed, +during the whole week of preparation he was +so absorbed in his theme as to ruffle up at the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +slightest opposition. In the evening he would +eat a hearty dinner, and then walk out with his +secretary to the outer Boulevards, the Luxembourg, +or the Place Saint-Sulpice, for his digestion, +talking all the while on the coming <i>Lundi</i> +with intense absorption. And woe to the poor +companion if he expressed any contradiction, or +hinted that the subject was trivial,—as indeed it +often was, until the critic had clothed it with the +life of his own thought. "In a word," Sainte-Beuve +would cry out savagely, "you wish to +hinder me in writing my article. The subject +has not the honour of your sympathy. Really +it is too bad." Whereupon he would turn angrily +on his heel and stride home. The story explains +the nature of Sainte-Beuve's criticism. For a +week he lived with his author; "he belonged +body and soul to his model! He embraced it, +espoused it, exalted it!"—with the result that +some of this enthusiasm is transmitted to the +reader, and the essays are instinct with life as no +other critic's work has ever been. The strain of +living thus passionately in a new subject week +after week was tremendous, and it is not strange +that his letters are filled with complaints of fatigue, +and that his health suffered in spite of his robust +constitution. Nor was the task ended with the +dictation late Friday night. Most of Saturday +and Sunday was given up to proofreading, and +at this time he invited every suggestion, even +contradiction, often practically rewriting an essay<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +before it reached the press. Monday he was free, +and it was on that day occurred the famous Magny +dinners, when Sainte-Beuve, Flaubert, Renan, the +Goncourts, and a few other chosen spirits, met and +talked as only Frenchmen can talk. Every conceivable +subject was passed under the fire of +criticism; nothing was held sacred. Only one +day a luckless guest, after faith in religion and +politics and morals had been laughed away, ventured +to intimate that Homer as a canon of taste +was merely a superstition like another; whereupon +such a hubbub arose as threatened to bring +the dinners to an end at once and for all. The +story is told in the <i>Journal</i> of the Goncourts, and +it was one of the brothers, I believe, who made +the perilous insinuation. Imagine, if you can, a +party of Englishmen taking Homer, or any other +question of literary faith, with tragic seriousness. +Such an incident explains many things; it explains +why English literature has never been, like +the French, an integral part of the national life.</p> + +<p>And the integrity of mind displayed in the +<i>Lundis</i> is as notable as the industry. From the +beginning Sainte-Beuve had possessed that inquisitive +passion for the truth, without which all +other critical gifts are as brass and tinkling cymbals. +Nevertheless, it is evident that he did not +always in his earlier writings find it expedient to +express his whole thought. He was, for example, +at one time the recognised herald of the romantic +revolt, and naturally, while writing about Victor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +Hugo, he did not feel it necessary to make in public +such frank reservations as his letters to that +poet contain. His whole thought is there, perhaps, +but one has to read between the lines to get +it. And so it was with the other men and movements +with which he for a while allied himself. +With the <i>Lundis</i> came a change; he was free of +all entanglements, and could make the precise +truth his single aim. No doubt a remnant of personal +jealousy toward those who had passed him +in the race of popularity embittered the critical +reservations which he felt, but which might otherwise +have been uttered more genially. But quite +as often this seeming rancour was due to the feeling +that he had hitherto been compelled to suppress +his full convictions, to a genuine regret for +the corrupt ways into which French literature +was deviating. How nearly the exigencies of a +hack writer had touched him is shown by a passage +in a letter to the Oliviers written in 1838. +His Swiss friend was debating whether he should +try his fortunes in Paris as a contributor to the +magazines, and had asked for advice. "But +where to write? what to write?" replied Sainte-Beuve; +"if one could only choose for himself! +You must wait on opportunity, and in the long +run this becomes a transaction in which conscience +may be saved, but every ideal perishes,"—<i>dans +laquelle la conscience peut toujours être +sauve mais où tout idéal périt.</i> Just about this time +he was thinking seriously of migrating with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +Oliviers to this country. It would be curious to +hear what he might have written from New York +to one who contemplated coming there as a hack +writer. As for the loss of ideals, his meaning, if +it needs any elucidation, may be gathered from a +well-known passage in one of his books:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The condition of man ordinarily is no more than a succession +of servitudes, and the only liberty that remains is +now and then to effect a change. Labour presses, necessity +commands, circumstances sweep us along: at the +risk of seeming to contradict ourselves or give ourselves +the lie, we must go on and for ever recommence; we +must accept whatever employments are offered, and even +though we fill them with all conscientiousness and zeal +we raise a dust on the way, we obscure the images of the +past, we soil and mar our own selves. And so it is that +before the goal of old age is reached, we have passed +through so many lives that scarcely, as we go back in +memory, can we tell which was our true life, that for +which we were made and of which we were worthy, the +life which we would have chosen.</p></div> + +<p>Those were the words with which he had closed +his chapters on <i>Chateaubriand</i>; yet through all +his deviations he had borne steadily toward one +point. In after years he could write without presumption +to a friend: "If I had a device, it would +be the <i>true</i>, the <i>true</i> alone; and the beautiful and +the good might come out as best they could." +There are a number of anecdotes which show how +precious he held this integrity of mind. The best +known is the fact that, in the days before he was +appointed senator, and despite the pressure that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +was brought to bear on him, he still refused to +write a review of the Emperor's <i>History of Cæsar</i>.</p> + +<p>Both the sense of disillusion, which was really +inherent in him from his youth, and the passion +for truth hindered him in his "creative" work, +while they increased his powers as a critic. He +grew up, it must be remembered, in the midst of +the full romantic tide, and as a writer of verse +there was really no path of great achievement +open to him save that of Victor Hugo and Lamartine +and the others of whose glory he was so +jealous. Whatever may have been the differences +of those poets, in one respect they were alike: +they all disregarded the subtle <i>nuance</i> wherein +the truth resides, and based their emotions on +some grandiose conception, half true and half +false; nor was this mingling of the false and true +any less predominant in one of Hugo's political +odes than in Lamartine's personal and religious +meditations. Now, the whole bent of Sainte-Beuve's +intellect was toward the subtle drawing +of distinctions, and even to-day a reader somewhat +romantically and emotionally inclined resents +the manner in which his scalpel cuts into +the work of these poets and severs what is morbid +from what is sound. That is criticism; but it +may easily be seen that such a habit of mind when +carried to excess would paralyse the poetic impulse. +The finest poetry, perhaps, is written +when this discriminating principle works in +the writer strongly but unconsciously; when a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +certain critical atmosphere about him controls his +taste, while not compelling him to dull the edge +of impulse by too much deliberation. Boileau +had created such an atmosphere about Molière +and Racine; Sainte-Beuve had attempted, but +unsuccessfully, to do the same for the poets of the +romantic renaissance. His failure was due in +part to a certain lack of impressiveness in his own +personality, but still more to the notions of individual +licence which lay at the very foundation of +that movement. There is a touch of real pathos +in his superb tribute to Boileau:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Let us salute and acknowledge to-day the noble and +mighty harmony of the <i>grand siècle</i>. Without Boileau, +and without Louis XIV., who recognised Boileau as his +Superintendent of Parnassus, what would have happened? +Would even the most talented have produced +in the same degree what forms their surest heritage of +glory? Racine, I fear, would have made more plays like +<i>Bérénice</i>; La Fontaine fewer <i>Fables</i> and more <i>Contes</i>; +Molière himself would have run to <i>Scapins</i>, and might +not have attained to the austere eminence of <i>Le Misanthrope</i>. +In a word, each of these fair geniuses would +have abounded in his natural defects. Boileau, that is to +say, the common sense of the poet-critic authorised and +confirmed by that of a great king, constrained them and +kept them, by the respect for his presence, to their better +and graver tasks. And do you know what, in our days, +has failed our poets, so strong at their beginning in native +ability, so filled with promise and happy inspiration? +There failed them a Boileau and an enlightened monarch, +the twain supporting and consecrating each other. So it +is these men of talent, seeing themselves in an age of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +anarchy and without discipline, have not hesitated to behave +accordingly; they have behaved, to be perfectly +frank, not like exalted geniuses, or even like men, but +like schoolboys out of school. We have seen the result.</p></div> + +<p>Nobler tribute to a great predecessor has not +often been uttered, and in contrast one remembers +the outrage that has been poured on Boileau's +name by the later poets of France and England. +One recalls the scorn of the young Keats, in those +days when he took licence upon himself to abuse +the King's English as only a wilful genius can:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Ill-fated, impious race!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That blasphemed the bright Lyrist face to face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And did not know it,—no, they went about,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding a poor decrepit standard out<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marked with most flimsy mottoes, and in large<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The name of one Boileau!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I am not one to fling abuse on the school of +Dryden and Pope, yet the eighteenth century +may to some minds justify the charge of Keats +and the romanticists. Certainly the critical restraint +of French rules, passing to England at a +time when the tide of inspiration had run low, induced +a certain aridity of manner. But consider +for a moment what might have been the result in +English letters if the court of Elizabeth had harboured +a man of authority such as Boileau, or, to +put it the other way, if the large inspiration of +those poets and playwrights had not come before +the critical sense of the land was out of its swaddling +clothes. What might it have been for us if<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +a Boileau and an Elizabeth together had taught +Shakespeare to prune his redundancies, to disentangle +his language at times, to eliminate the +relics of barbarism in his dénouements; if they +had compelled the lesser dramatists to simplify +their plots and render their characters conceivable +moral agents; if they had instructed the sonneteers +in common sense and in the laws of the sonnet; +if they had constrained Spenser to tell a +story,—consider what this might have meant, not +only to the writers of that day, but to the tradition +they formed for those that were to come after. +We should have had our own classics, and not +been forced to turn to Athens for our canons of +taste. There would not have been for our confusion +the miserable contrast between the "correctness" +of Queen Anne's day and the creative +genius of Elizabeth's, but the two together would +have made a literature incomparable for richness +and judgment. It is not too much to say that the +absence of such a controlling influence at the +great expansive moment of England is a loss for +which nothing can ever entirely compensate in +our literature.</p> + +<p>Such was the office which Sainte-Beuve sought +to fulfil in the France of his own day. That +conscious principle of restraint might, he thought, +when applied to his own poetical work, introduce +into French literature a style like that of Cowper's +or Wordsworth's in England; and to a certain +extent he was successful in this attempt. But in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +the end he found the Democritean maxim too +strong for him: <i>Excludit sanos Helicone poetas</i>; +and, indeed, the difference between the poet and +the critic may scarcely be better defined than in +this, that in the former the principle of restraint +works unconsciously and from without, whereas +in the latter it proceeds consciously and from +within. And finding himself debarred from +Helicon (not by impotence, as some would say, +but by excess of self-knowledge), he deliberately +undertook to introduce a little more sanity into +the notions of his contemporaries. I have shown +how at the very beginning of his career he took +upon himself privately such a task with Hugo. +It might almost be said that the history of his +intellect is summed up in his growth toward the +sane and the simple; that, like Goethe, from +whom so much of his critical method derives, his +life was a long endeavour to supplant the romantic +elements of his taste by the classical. What else +is the meaning of his attack on the excesses of +Balzac? or his defence of Erasmus (<i>le droit, je ne +dis des tièdes, mais des neutres</i>), and of all those +others who sought for themselves a governance +in the law of proportion? In one of his latest +volumes he took the occasion of Taine's <i>History +of English Literature</i> to speak out strongly for the +admirable qualities of Pope:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I insist on this because the danger to-day is in the sacrifice +of the writers and poets whom I will call the moderate. +For a long time they had all the honours: one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +pleaded for Shakespeare, for Milton, for Dante, even for +Homer; no one thought it necessary to plead for Virgil, +for Horace, for Boileau, Racine, Voltaire, Pope, Tasso,—these +were accepted and recognised by all. To-day the +first have completely gained their cause, and matters are +quite the other way about: the great and primitive +geniuses reign and triumph; even those who come after +them in invention, but are still naïve and original in +thought and expression, poets such as Regnier and Lucretius, +are raised to their proper rank; while the moderate, +the cultured, the polished, those who were the +classics to our fathers, we tend to make subordinate, +and, if we are not careful, to treat a little too cavalierly. +Something like disdain and contempt (relatively speaking) +will soon be their portion. It seems to me that +there is room for all, and that none need be sacrificed. +Let us render full homage and complete reverence to +those great human forces which are like the powers of +nature, and which like them burst forth with something +of strangeness and harshness; but still let us not cease +to honour those other forces which are more restrained, +and which, in their less explosive expression, clothe +themselves with elegance and sweetness.</p></div> + +<p>And this love of the golden mean, joined with +the long wanderings of his heart and his loneliness, +produced in him a preference for scenes near +at hand and for the quiet joys of the hearth. So +it was that the idyllic tales of George Sand touched +him quickly with their strange romance of the +familiar. Chateaubriand and the others of that +school had sought out the nature of India, the +savannahs of America, the forests of Canada. +"Here," he says, "are discoveries for you,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>—deserts, +mountains, the large horizons of Italy; +what remained to discover? That which was +nearest to us, here in the centre of our own +France. As happens always, what is most simple +comes at the last." In the same way he praised +the refined charm of a poet like Cowper, and +sought to throw into relief the purer and more +homely verses of a Parny: "If a little knowledge +removes us, yet greater knowledge brings us back +to the sentiment of the beauties and graces of the +hearth." Indeed, there is something almost +pathetic in the contrast between the life of this +laborious recluse, with his sinister distrust of +human nature, and the way in which he fondles +this image of a sheltered and affectionate home.</p> + +<p>But the nineteenth century was not the seventeenth, +neither was Sainte-Beuve a Boileau, to +stem the current of exaggeration and egotism. +His innate sense of proportion brought him to see +the dangerous tendencies of the day, and, failing +to correct them, he sank deeper into that disillusion +from which his weekly task was a long and +vain labour of deliverance. He took to himself the +saying of the Abbé Galiani: "Continue your +works; it is a proof of attachment to life to compose books." +Yet it may be that this very disillusion +was one of the elements of his success; +for after all, the real passion of literature, that +perfect flower of the contemplative intellect, +hardly comes to a man until the allurement of life +has been dispelled by many experiences, each<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +bringing its share of disappointment. Only, perhaps, +when the hope of love (the <i>spes animi +credula mutui</i>) and the visions of ambition, the +belief in pleasure and the luxury of grief, have +lost their sting, do we turn to books with the +contented understanding that the shadow is the +reality, and the seeming reality of things is the +shadow. At least for the critic, however it may +be for the "creative" writer, this final deliverance +from self-deception would seem to be necessary. +Nor do I mean any invidious distinction when I +separate the critic from the creative writer in this +respect. I know there is a kind of hostility between +the two classes. The poet feels that the +critic by the very possession of this self-knowledge +sets himself above the writer who accepts the inspiration +of his emotions unquestioningly, while +the critic resents the fact that the world at large +looks upon his work as subordinate, if not superfluous. +And yet, in the case of criticism, such as +Sainte-Beuve conceived it, this distinction almost +ceases to exist. No stigma attaches to the work +of the historian who recreates the political activities +of an age, to a Gibbon who raises a vast +bridge between the past and the present. Yet, +certainly, the best and most durable acts of mankind +are the ideals and emotions that go to make +up its books, and to describe and judge the literature +of a country, to pass under review a thousand +systems and reveries, to point out the meaning of +each, and so write the annals of the human spirit,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +to pluck out the heart of each man's mystery and +set it before the mind's eye quivering with life,—if +this be not a labour of immense creative energy +the word has no sense to my ears. We read and +enjoy, and the past slips unceasingly from our +memory. We are like the foolish peasant: the +river of history rolls at our feet, and for ever will +roll, while we stand and wait. And then comes +this magician, who speaks a word, and suddenly +the current is stopped; who has power like the +wizards of old to bid the tide turn back upon +itself, and the past becomes to us as the present, +and we are made the lords of time. I do not +know how it affects others, but for me, as I look +at the long row of volumes which hold the interpretation +of French literature, I am almost overwhelmed +at the magnitude of this man's +achievement.</p> + +<p>Nor is it to be supposed that Sainte-Beuve, because +he was primarily a critic, drew his knowledge +of life from books only, and wrote, as it +were, at second hand. The very contrary is true. +As a younger man, he had mixed much with +society, and even in his later years, when, as he +says, he lived at the bottom of a well, he still, +through his friendship with the Princesse Mathilde +and others of the great world, kept in +close touch with the active forces of the Empire. +As a matter of fact, every one knows, who has +read at all in his essays, that he was first of all +a psychologist, and that his knowledge of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +human breast was quite as sure as his acquaintance +with libraries. He might almost be accused of +slighting the written word in order to get at the +secret of the writer. What attracted him chiefly +was that middle ground where life and literature +meet, where life becomes self-conscious through +expression, and literature retains the reality of +association with facts. "A little poesy," he +thought, "separates us from history and the +reality of things; much of poesy brings us back." +Literature to him was one of the arts of society. +Hence he was never more at his ease, his touch +was never surer and his eloquence more communicable, +than when he was dealing with the +great ladies who guided the society of the eighteenth +century and retold its events in their letters +and memoirs,—Mme. du Deffand, Mme. de +Grafigny, Mlle. de Lespinasse, and those who +preceded and followed. Nowhere does one get +closer to the critic's own disappointment than +when he says with a sigh, thinking of those irrecoverable +days: "Happy time! all of life then was +turned to sociability." And he was describing +his own method as a critic, no less than the character +of Mlle. de Lespinasse, when he wrote: +"Her great art in society, one of the secrets of +her success, was to feel the intelligence <i>(l'esprit)</i> +of others, to make it prevail, and to seem to forget +her own. Her conversation was never either +above or below those with whom she spoke; she +possessed measure, proportion, rightness of mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +She reflected so well the impressions of others, +and received so visibly the influence of their intelligence, +that they loved her for the success she +helped them to attain. She raised this disposition +to an art. 'Ah!' she cried one day, 'how I long +to know the foible of every one!'" And this love +of the social side of literature, this hankering +after <i>la bella scuola</i> when men wrote under the +sway of some central governance, explains Sainte-Beuve's +feeling of desolation amidst the scattered, +individualistic tendencies of his own day.</p> + +<p>There lie the springs of Sainte-Beuve's critical +art,—his treatment of literature as a function of +social life, and his search in all things for the +golden mean. There we find his strength, and +there, too, his limitation. If he fails anywhere, it +is when he comes into the presence of those great +and imperious souls who stand apart from the +common concerns of men, and who rise above our +homely mediocrities, not by extravagance or egotism, +but by the lifting wings of inspiration. He +could, indeed, comprehend the ascetic grandeur of +a Pascal or the rolling eloquence of a Bossuet, but +he was distrustful of that fervid breath of poesy +that comes and goes unsummoned and uncontrolled. +It is a common charge against him that +he was cold to the sublime, and he himself was +aware of this defect, and sought to justify it. "Il +ne faut donner dans le sublime," he said, "qu'à +la dernière extrémité et à son corps défendant." +Something of this, too, must be held to account<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +for the haunting melancholy that he could forget, +but never overcome. He might have lived with +a kind of content in the society of those refined +and worldly women of the eighteenth century, +but, missing the solace of that support, he was +unable amid the dissipated energies of his own +age to rise to that surer peace that needs no communion +with others for its fulfilment. Like the +royal friend of Voltaire, he still lacked the highest +degree of culture, which is religion. He +strove for that during many years, but alone he +could not attain to it. As early as 1839 he wrote, +while staying at Aigues-Mortes: "My soul is like +this beach, where it is said Saint Louis embarked: +the sea and faith, alas! have long since drawn +away." One may excuse these limitations as the +"defect of his quality," as indeed they are. But +more than that, they belong to him as a French +critic, as they are to a certain degree inherent in +French literature. That literature and language, +we have been told by no less an authority than +M. Brunetière, are pre-eminently social in their +strength and their weakness. And Sainte-Beuve +was indirectly justifying his own method when +he pointed to the example of Voltaire, Molière, +La Fontaine, and Rabelais and Villon, the great +ancestors. "They have all," he said, "a corner +from which they mock at the sublime." I am +even inclined to think that these qualities explain +why England has never had, and may possibly +never have, a critic in any way comparable to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +Sainte-Beuve; for the chief glory of English literature +lies in the very field where French is weakest, +in the lonely and unsociable life of the spirit, just +as the faults of English are due to its lack of discipline +and uncertainty of taste. And after all, +the critical temperament consists primarily in just +this linking together of literature and life, and in +the levelling application of common sense.</p> + +<p>Yet if Sainte-Beuve is essentially French, indeed +almost inconceivable in English, he is still +immensely valuable, perhaps even more valuable, +to us for that very reason. There is nothing +more wholesome than to dip into this strong and +steady current of wise judgment. It is good for +us to catch the glow of his masterful knowledge +of letters and his faith in their supreme interest. +His long row of volumes are the scholar's Summa +Theologiæ. As John Cotton loved to sweeten his +mouth with a piece of Calvin before he went to +sleep, so the scholar may turn to Sainte-Beuve, +sure of his never-failing abundance and his ripe +intelligence.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_SCOTCH_NOVELS_AND_SCOTCH" id="THE_SCOTCH_NOVELS_AND_SCOTCH"></a>THE SCOTCH NOVELS AND SCOTCH<br /> +HISTORY</h2> + + +<p>Like many another innocent, no doubt, I was +seduced not long ago by the potent spell of Mr. +Andrew Lang's name into reading his voluminous +<i>History of Scotland</i>. Being too, like Mr. +Lang, sealed of the tribe of Sir Walter, and +knowing in a general way some of the romantic +features of Scotch annals, I was led to suppose +that these bulky volumes would be crammed from +cover to cover with the pageantry of fair Romance. +Alas, I soon learned, as I have so often learned +before, that a little knowledge is a dangerous +thing; and I was taught, moreover, a new application +of several well-worn lines of Milton. Amid +the inextricable feuds of Britons, Scots, Picts, and +English; amid the incomprehensible medley of +Bruces, Balliols, Stuarts, Douglases, Plantagenets, +and Tudors; amid the horrid tumult of Roberts, +Davids, Jameses, Malcolms (may their tribes decrease!), +Mr. Lang's reader, if he be of alien blood +and foreign shores, wanders helpless and utterly +bewildered. On leaving that <i>selva oscura</i> I felt +not unlike Milton's courageous hero (in courage +only, I trust) before the realm of Chaos and eldest +Night, where naught was perceptible but eternal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +anarchy and noise of endless wars. Yet with this +bold adventurer it might be said by me:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">I come no spy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With purpose to explore or to disturb<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The secrets of your realm; but by constraint<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wandering this darksome desert, as my way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Led through your spacious empire up to light.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">For throughout the labyrinth of all this anfractuous +narrative there was indeed one guiding ray +of light. As often as the author by way of anecdote +or allusion—and happily this occurred pretty +frequently—mentioned the works of Scott, a new +and powerful interest was given to the page. The +very name of Scott seemed providentially symbolical +of his office in literature, and through him +Scots history has become a theme of significance +to all the world.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, one is equally impressed by +the fact that the novels owe much of their vitality +to the manner in which they voice the spirit of +the national life; and we recognise the truth, +often maintained and as often disputed, that the +final verdict on a novelist's work is generally determined +by the authenticity of his portraiture, +not of individuals, but of a people, and consequently +by the lasting significance of the phase +of society or national life portrayed.</p> + +<p>The conditions of the novel should seem in this +respect to be quite different from those of the +poem. We are conscious within ourselves of some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +principle of isolation and exclusion—the <i>principium +individuationis</i>, as the old schoolmen called +it—that obstructs the completion of our being, of +some contracting force of nature that dwarfs our +sympathies with our fellow-men, that hinders the +development of our full humanity, and denies the +validity of our hopes; and the office of the imagination +and of the imaginative arts is for a while +to break down the walls of this narrowing individuality +and to bestow on us the illusion of +unconfined liberty.</p> + +<p>But if the end of the arts is the same, their +methods are various, and this variety extends +even to the different genres of literature. The +manner of the epic, and in a still higher degree +of the tragedy, is so to arouse the will and understanding +that their clogging limitations seem to +be swept away, until through our sympathy with +the hero we feel ourselves to be acting and speaking +the great passions of humanity in their fullest +and freest scope; for this reason we call the characters +of the poem types, and we believe that the +poet under the impulse of his inspiration is carried +into a region above our vision, where, like the +exalted souls in Plato's dream, he beholds face to +face the great ideas of which our worldly life and +circumstances are but faulty copies. In this way +Achilles stands as the perfect warrior, and Odysseus +as the enduring man of wiles; Hamlet is the +man of doubts, and Satan the creature of rebellious +pride. It may be that this effort or inspira<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>tion +of the poet to represent mankind in idealised +form will account in part for the peculiar tinge of +melancholy that is commonly an attribute of the +artistic temperament,—for the brooding uncertainty +of Shakespeare, if as many think Hamlet is +the true voice of his heart, for the feeling of +baffled despair which led Goethe to create Faust, +and for the self-tormenting of Childe Harold. It +is because the dissolving power of genius and the +personality of the man can never be quite reconciled; +he is detached from nature and attached to +her at the same time. On the one hand his genius +draws him to contemplate life with the disinterestedness +of a mind free from the attachments of +the individual, while on the other hand his own +personality, often of the most ardent character, +drags him irresistibly to seek the satisfaction of +individual emotions. Like the Empedocles of +Matthew Arnold, baffled in the ineffable longing +to escape themselves, these bearers of the divine +light are haled unwillingly</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Back to this meadow of calamity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This uncongenial place, this human life.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">What to the reader is merely a pleasant and momentary +illusion, or a salutary excitation from +without, is in the creative poet a partial dissolution +of his own personality. Shakespeare was not +dealing in empty words when he likened the poet +to the lover and the lunatic as being of imagination +all compact; nor was Plato speaking mere<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +metaphor when he said that "the poet is a light +and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention +in him until he has been inspired and is +out of his senses and the mind is no longer in +him." In the hour of inspiration some darkened +window is opened on the horizon to eyes that are +ordinarily confined within the four walls of his +meagre self, a door is thrown open to the heaven-sweeping +gales, he hears for a brief while the +voice of the Over-soul speaking a language that +with all his toil he can barely render into human +speech;—and when at last the door is closed, the +vision gone, and the voice hushed, he sits in the +darkened chamber of his own person, silent and +forlorn.</p> + +<p>I would not presume to describe absolutely the +inner state of the poet when life appears to him +in its ideal form, but the means by which he conveys +his illusion to the reader is quite clear. The +rhythm of his verse produces on the mind something +of the stimulating effect of music and this +effect is enhanced by the use of language and +metaphor lifted out of the common mould. Prose, +however, has no such resources to impose on the +fancy a creation of its own, in which the individual +will is raised above itself. On the contrary, +the office of the novel—and this we see +more clearly as fiction grows regularly more realistic—is +to represent life as controlled by environment +and to portray human beings as the servants +of the flesh. This, I take it, was the meaning of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +Goethe in his definition of the genres: "In the +novel sentiments and events chiefly are exhibited, +in the drama characters and deeds." The procedure +of the novel must be, so to speak, a passive +one. It depicts man as a creature of circumstance, +and its only method of escape is so to encompass +the individual in circumstance as to lend to his +separate life something of the pomp of universality. +It effects its purpose by breadth rather +than by exaltation. Its truest aim is not to represent +the actions of a single man as noteworthy +in themselves, but to represent the life of a people +or a phase of society; in the great sweep of human +activity something of the same largeness and +freedom is produced as in the poetic idealisation +of the individual will in the drama. Thus it happens +that the artistic validity of a novel depends +first of all on the power of the author to portray +broadly and veraciously some aspect of this wider +existence.</p> + +<p>Balzac, in some respects the master novelist, +was clearly conscious of this aim of his art; and +his <i>Comédie Humaine</i> is a supreme effort to grasp +the whole range of French society. Nor would it +be difficult in the case of the greater English +novelists to show that unwittingly—an Englishman +rarely if ever has the same knowledge of his +art as a Frenchman—they obeyed the same law. +We admire Fielding and Smollett not so much for +their individual characterisations as for the joy +we feel in escaping our conventional timidity in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +the old-time tumultuous country life of England, +with all its rude strength and even its vulgarity. +By a natural contrast we read Jane Austen for her +picture of rural security and stability, and are +glad to forget the vexations and uncertainties of +life's warfare in that gentle round of society, +where greed and passion are reduced to petty +foibles, and where the errors of mankind only +furnish material for malicious but innocent satire. +With Thackeray we put on the veneer of artificial +society which was the true idealism inherited by +him from the eighteenth century; and we move +more freely amidst that <i>gai monde</i> because there +runs through the story of it such a biting satire +of worldliness and snobbishness as flatters us with +the feeling of our own superiority. In Dickens +we are carried into the very opposite field of life, +and for a while we move with those who are the +creatures of grotesque whims and emotions: caricatures +we call his people, but deep in our hearts +we know that each of us longs at times to be as +humanity is in Dickens's world, the perfect and +unreflecting creature of his dearest whim—for +this too is liberty. Thus it is that the interest of +the novel depends as much, or almost as much, on +the intrinsic value of the national life or phase of +society reproduced as on the skill of the writer. +The prose author is in this respect far less a free +agent than the poet and far more the subject of +his environment; for he deals less with the unchanging +laws of character and more with what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +he perceives outwardly about him. It is this fact +which leads many readers to prefer the English +novelists to the French, although the latter +are unquestionably the greater masters of their +craft.</p> + +<p>Now the peculiar good fortune of Scott in this +matter was most strongly brought home to me in +reading the narrative work of Mr. Lang. Fine +and entertaining as are Scott's more professedly +historical novels, such as <i>Ivanhoe</i> and <i>Quentin +Durward</i>, I do not believe they could ever have +resisted the invasion of time were they not bolstered +up by the stories that deal more directly +with the realities of Scotch life. There is, to be +sure, in the foreign tales a wonderfully pure vein +of romance; but romantic writing in prose cannot +endure unless firmly grounded in realism, or unless, +like Hawthorne's work, it is surcharged with +spiritual meanings. Not having the power possessed +by verse to convey illusion, it lacks also +the vitality of verse. Younger readers may take +naturally to <i>Ivanhoe</i> or <i>The Talisman</i>, because +very little is required to evoke illusion with them. +More mature readers turn oftenest to <i>Guy Mannering</i> +and those tales in which the romance is +the realism of Scotch life, finding here a fulness +of interest that is more than a compensation for +the frequent slovenliness of Scott's language and +for the haphazard construction of his plots.</p> + +<p>These negligences of the indifferent craftsman +might, perhaps, need no such compensation, for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +we have grown hardened at last to slovenliness +in fiction. But there are other limitations to +Scott's powers that show more clearly how much +of his fame rests on the substratum of national life +on which he builds. An infinite variety of characters, +from kings in the council hall down to +strolling half-witted gaberlunzies, move through +the pages of his novels; but, and the fact is notorious, +the great Scotchman was little better at +painting the purple light of young desire than was +our own Cooper. There is something like love-making +in <i>Rob Roy</i>, and Di Vernon has been +signalised by Mr. Saintsbury as one of his five +chosen heroines; but in general the scenes that +form the ecstasy of most romance are dead and +perfunctory in Scott. And this is the more remarkable +since we know that he himself was a +lover—and a disappointed lover, which is vastly +more to the point in art, as all the world knows. +But in fact this inability to portray the softer emotions +is not an isolated phenomenon in Scott; he +skims very lightly over most of the deeper passions +of the heart, seeming to avoid them except +in so far as they express themselves in action. +His novels contain no adequate picture of remorse +or hatred, love or jealousy; neither do they contain +any such psychological analysis of the emotions +as has made the fame of subsequent writers. +But there is an infinite variety of characters in +action, and a perfect understanding of that form +of the imagination which displays itself in whim<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>sicalities +corresponding to the "originals" or +"humourists" of the Elizabethan comedy.</p> + +<p>The numberless quotations from "old plays" +at the head of Scott's chapters are not without +significance. At times he approaches closer to +Shakespeare than any other writer, whether of +prose or verse. In one scene at least in <i>The Bride +of Lammermoor</i>, where he describes the "singular +and gloomy delight" of the three old cummers +about the body of their contemporary, he lets us +know that he has in mind the meeting of the +witches in <i>Macbeth</i>, and I think on the whole he +excels the dramatist in his own field. After all +is said, the Shakespearian witch-scene is an arbitrary +exercise of the fancy, which fails to carry +with it a complete sense of reality: the illusion is +not fully maintained. The dialogue in the novelist, +on the contrary, is instinct with thrilling suggestiveness, +for the very reason that it is based on +the groundwork of national character. The superstitious +awe is here simple realism, from the +beginning of the scene down to the warning cry +of the paralytic hag from the cottage:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"He's a frank man, and a free-handed man, the Master," +said Annie Winnie, "and a comely personage—broad +in the shouthers, and narrow around the lunyies. +He wad mak a bonny corpse; I wad like to hae the +streiking and winding o' him."</p> + +<p>"It is written on his brow, Annie Winnie," returned +the octogenarian, her companion, "that hand of woman, +or of man either, will never straught him; dead-deal will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +never be laid on his back, make you your market of that, +for I hae it frae a sure hand."</p> + +<p>"Will it be his lot to die on the battle-ground then, +Ailsie Gourlay? Will he die by the sword or the ball, as +his forbears hae dune before him, mony ane o'them?"</p> + +<p>"Ask nae mair questions about it—he'll no be graced +sae far," replied the sage.</p> + +<p>"I ken ye are wiser than ither folk, Ailsie Gourlay. +But wha tell'd ye this?"</p> + +<p>"Fashna your thumb about that, Annie Winnie," answered +the sibyl. "I hae it frae a hand sure eneugh."</p> + +<p>"But ye said ye never saw the foul thief," reiterated +her inquisitive companion.</p> + +<p>"I hae it frae as sure a hand," said Ailsie, "and frae +them that spaed his fortune before the sark gaed ower +his head."</p> + +<p>"Hark! I hear his horse's feet riding aff," said the +other; "they dinna sound as if good luck was wi' +them."</p> + +<p>"Mak haste, sirs," cried the paralytic hag from the +cottage, "and let us do what is needfu', and say what is +fitting; for, if the dead corpse binna straughted, it will +girn and thraw, and that will fear the best o' us."</p></div> + +<p>But more often Scott approaches the lesser +lights of the Elizabethan comedians, whose work +is in general subject to the same laws as the +novel, and who filled their plays with whimsical +creatures—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose manners, now called humours, feed the stage.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">You cannot read through the <i>dramatis personæ</i> of +one of these plays (Witgood, Lucre, Hoard, +Limber, Kix, Lamprey, Spichcock, Dampit, etc.)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +without being reminded of the long list of originals +that figure in the Scotch novels; and in one +case at least, Baron Bradwardine of <i>Waverley</i>, +Scott goes out of his way to compare him with a +character of Ben Jonson's. And you cannot but +feel that Scott has surpassed his models on their +own ground, partly because his genius was greater +and partly because the novel is a wider and freer +field for such characters than the drama—at least +when the drama is deprived of its stage setting. +But Scott's greatest advantage is due to the fact +that what in England was mainly an exaggeration +of the more unsociable traits of character seems in +Scotland to reach down to the very foundation of +the popular life. His characters are not the creation +of individual eccentricities only, but spring +from an inexhaustible quaintness of the national +temper. From every standpoint we are led back +to consider the greatness of the author as depending +on his happy genius in finding a voice for a +rare and noteworthy phase of society.</p> + +<p>Much of the Scotch temperament, its self-dependence, +clan attachments, cunning, its gloomy +exaltations relieved at times by a wide and serene +prospect, may be traced, as Buckle has so admirably +shown, to the physical conditions of the +land; and in reading the history of Scotland, +with its stories of the adventures of Wallace +and Bruce and its battles of Bannockburn and +Prestonpans, it seems quite fitting that the +wild scenery of the country should be constantly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +associated with the deeds of its heroes. There +is something of charm in the very names of the +landscape—in the haughs, corries, straths, friths, +burns, and braes. The fascination of the Scotch +lakes and valleys was one of the first to awaken +the world to an admiration of savage nature, as +we may read in Gray's letters; and Scott, from +Waverley's excursion into the wild fastnesses of +highland robbers and chiefs to the lonely sea-scenes +of Zetland in <i>The Pirate</i>, has carried us +through a succession of natural pictures such as +no other novelist ever conceived. And he has +maintained always that most difficult art of describing +minutely enough to convey the illusion +of a particular scene and broadly enough to evoke +those general emotions which alone justify descriptive +writing. Perhaps his most notable success +is the visit of Guy Mannering to Ellangowan, +where sea, sky, and land unite to form a picture +of strangely luminous beauty. He not only succeeded +in exciting a new romantic interest in +Scotch scenery, but he has actually added to the +market price of properties. It is said that his +descriptions are mentioned in the title deeds of +various estates as forming a part of their transmitted +value.</p> + +<p>But the scenery depicted by Scott is only the +setting of a curious and paradoxical life, and it is +the light thrown on this life that lends the chief +interest to Mr. Lang's History. Owing in part +to the peculiar position and formation of the land,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +and in part to the strain of Celtic blood in the +Highland tribes, there was bred in the Scotch +people an unusual mingling of romance and realism, +of imagination and worldly cunning, that sets +them quite apart from other races; and this paradoxical +mingling of opposite tendencies shows +itself in the quality of their politics, their religion, +and in all their social manners.</p> + +<p>Not the least interesting of Mr. Lang's chapters +is that in which he analyses the feudal chivalry of +Scotland, and explains how it rested on a more +imaginative basis than in other countries; how +the power of the chief hung on unwritten rights +instead of formal charters, and how the loyalty +of the clansmen was exalted to the highest pitch +of personal enthusiasm. But to complete the picture +one should read Buckle's scathing arraignment +of a loyalty which was ready to sell its king +and was no purer than the faith that holds together +a band of murderous brigands. So, too, in +religion the Scotch were perhaps more given to +superstition, and were more ready to sacrifice life +and all else for their belief than any other people +of Europe, except the Spaniards, while at the same +time their bigotry never interfered with a vein of +caution and shrewd worldliness. There is in +<i>Waverley</i> an admirable example at once of this +paradoxical nature, and of the true basis of Scott's +strength. In the loyalism of Flora MacIvor he +has attempted to embody an ideal of the imagination +not based on this national mingling of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +qualities—though, of course, isolated individuals +of that heroic type may have existed in the land; +and as a result he has produced a character that +leaves the reader perfectly cold and unconvinced. +But the moment Waverley comes from the MacIvors +and descends to the real life of Scotland, +mark the change. We are immediately put on +terra firma by the cautious reply of Waverley's +guide when asked if it is Sunday: "Could na say +just preceesely; Sunday seldom cam aboon the +pass of Bally-Brough." Consider the mixture of +bigotry and worldly greed in Mr. Ebenezer Cruikshanks, +the innkeeper, who compounds for the +sin of receiving a traveller on fastday by doubling +the tariff. In any other land Mr. Ebenezer +Cruikshank would have been a hypocrite and a +scoundrel; in Scotland his religious fervour is +quite as genuine as his cunning; and the very +audacity of the combination carries with it the +conviction of realism.</p> + +<p>The same contrast of qualities will be found to +mark the lesser traits of character. Consider the +long list of servants and retainers with their stiff-necked +devotion and their incorrigible self-seeking. +In one of his notes Scott relates the story +of a retainer who when ordered to leave his master's +service replied: "In troth, and that will I +not; if your honour disna ken when ye hae a gude +servant, I ken when I hae a gude master, and go +away I will not." At another time, when his +master cried out in vexation: "John, you and I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +shall never sleep under the same roof again!" +the fellow calmly retorted, "Where the deil can +your honour be ganging?" In like manner the +mixture of devotion and self-seeking in that +quaintest of followers, Richie Moniplies, is worth +a thousand false idealisations. To read almost on +the same page his immovable loyalty to Nigel and +his brazen treachery in presenting his own petition +first to the King, is to gain at once an entrance +into a new region of psychology and to +acquire a truer understanding of Scotch history. +At another time, when catechised about the alleged +spirit in Master Heriot's house, the good +Moniplies gives an example of combined superstition, +scepticism, and cunning, which must be +read at length—and all the world has read it—to +be appreciated. Perhaps the most useful illustration +to be gained from this same Moniplies is the +strange contrast of solemnity and humour, of reverence +and familiarity, exhibited by him. I need +not repeat the description of that "half-pedant, +half-bully," nor quote the whole of his account +of meeting with the King; let it be enough to call +attention to the curious mingling of mirth and +solemnity in the way he apostrophises the royal +James: "My certie, lad, times are changed since +ye came fleeing down the backstairs of auld Holyrood +House, in grit fear, having your breeks in +your hand without time to put them on, and +Frank Stewart, the wild Earl of Bothwell, hard +at your haunches." There is in the temper of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +worthy Moniplies something wholly different +from the boisterous humour of England and from +the dry laughter of America; and this is due to +the continually upcropping substratum of imagination +and romance in his character. He +would resemble the grotesque seriousness of Don +Quixote, were it not for a strain of sourness and +suspicion that are quite foreign to the generous +Hidalgo.</p> + +<p>So we might follow the paradox of Scotch character +through its union of gloomy moroseness +with homely affections, of unrestrained emotionalism +with cold calculation, of awesome second-sight +with the cheapest charlatanry. In the end, perhaps, +all these contradictions would resolve themselves +into the one peculiar anomaly of seeing the +free romance of enthusiasm rising like a flower—a +flower often enough of sinister aspect—out of the +most prosaic grossness. Certainly it is the chief +interest of Scotch history—by showing that these +contradictions actually exist in the national temperament +and by explaining so far as may be their +origin—to confirm for us our belief in what may +be called the realism of Scott's romance. This is +that guiding thread which leads the weary voyager +through the mists and chaotic confusions of +Caledonian annals up to light. And in that region +of light what wonderful cheer for the soul! Here, +if anywhere in prose, the illusions of the imagination +may take pleasant possession of our heart, +for they come with the authority of a great na<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>tional +experience and walk hand in hand with the +soberest realities. Even the wild enthusiasm of +a Meg Merrilies barely awakens the voice of slumbering +scepticism in the midst of our secure conviction. +And sojourning for a while in that world +of strange enchantment we seem to feel the limitations +that vex our larger hopes and hem in our +wills broken down at the command of a magic +voice. It is as if that incompleteness of our nature, +which the schoolmen called in their fantastic +jargon the <i>principium individuationis</i> and ascribed +to the bondage of these material bodies, were for +a time forgotten, while we form a part of that free +and complex existence so faithfully portrayed in +the Scotch novels.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SWINBURNE" id="SWINBURNE"></a>SWINBURNE</h2> + + +<p>It is no more than fair to confess at the outset +that my knowledge of Swinburne's work until recently +was of the scantiest. The patent faults of +his style were of a kind to warn me away, and it +might be equally true that I was not sufficiently +open to his peculiar excellences. Gladly, therefore, +I accepted the occasion offered by the new +edition of his Collected Poems<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> to enlarge my acquaintance +with one of the much-bruited names +of the age. Nor did it seem right to trust to a +hasty impression. The six volumes of his poems, +together with the plays and critical essays, have +lain on my table for several months, the companions +of many a long day of leisure and the +relish thrown in between other readings of pleasure +and necessity. Yet even now I must admit +something alien to me in the man and his work; +I am not sure that I always distinguish between +what is spoken with the lips only and what springs +from the poet's heart. Possibly the lack of biographical +information is the partial cause of this +uncertainty, for by a curious anomaly Swinburne, +one of the most egotistical writers of the century, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>has shown a fine reticence in keeping the details +of his life from the public. He was, we know, +born in London, in 1837, of an ancient and noble +family, his father, as befitted one whose son was +to sing of the sea so lustily, being an admiral in +the navy. His early years were passed either at +his grandfather's estate in Northumbria or at the +home of his parents in the Isle of Wight. From +Eton he went, after an interval of two years, to +Balliol College, Oxford, leaving in 1860 without +a degree. The story runs that he knew more +Greek than his examiners, but failed to show a +proper knowledge of Scripture. If the tale is +true, he made up well in after years for the deficiency, +for few of our poets have been more +steeped in the language of the Bible. In London +he came under the influence of many of the currents +moving below the surface; the spell of that +master of souls, Rossetti, touched him, and the +dominance of the ardent Mazzini. Since 1879 he +has lived at "The Pines," on the edge of Wimbledon +Common, with Mr. Watts-Dunton, in +what appears to be an ideal atmosphere of sympathetic +friendship. Mr. Douglas's recent indiscretion +on <i>Theodore Watts-Dunton</i> tells nothing of +the life in this scholarly retreat, but it does contain +many photogravures of the works of art, the +handicraft of Rossetti largely, which adorn the +dwelling with beautiful memories.</p> + +<p>Such is the meagre outline of Swinburne's life, +nor do the few other events recorded or the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>authentic anecdotes help us much to a more intimate +knowledge of the man. Yet he has the ambiguous +gift of awakening curiosity. Probably +the first question most people ask on laying down +his <i>Poems and Ballads</i> (that <i>péché de jeunesse</i>, as he +afterwards called it) is to know how much of the +book is "true." Mr. Swinburne has expressed a +becoming contempt for "the scornful or mournful +censors who insisted on regarding all the studies +of passion or sensation attempted or achieved in +it as either confessions of positive fact or excursions +of absolute fancy." One does not like to be +classed among the <i>scornful or mournful</i>, and yet I +should feel much easier in my appreciation of the +<i>Poems and Ballads</i> if I knew how far they were +based on the actual experience of the author. The +reader of Swinburne feels constantly as if his feet +were swept from the earth and he were carried +into a misty mid-region where blind currents of +air beat hither and thither; he longs for some +anchor to reality. In the later books this sensation +becomes almost painful, and it is because the +earlier publications, the <i>Atalanta</i> and the first +<i>Poems and Ballads</i>, contain more of definable human +emotion, whatever their relation to fact may +be, that they are likely to remain the most popular +and significant of Swinburne's works.</p> + +<p>The publication of <i>Atalanta</i> at the age of +twenty-eight made him famous, <i>Poems and Ballads</i> +the next year made him almost infamous. The +alarm aroused in England by <i>Dolores</i> and <i>Faustine</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +still vibrates in our ears as we repeat the wonderful +rhythms. The impression is deepened by the +remarkable unity of feeling that runs through +these voluble songs—the feeling of infinite satiety. +The satiety of the flesh hangs like a fatal web +about the <i>Laus Veneris</i>; the satiety of disappointment +clings "with sullen savour of poisonous +pain" to <i>The Triumph of Time</i>; satiety speaks in +the <i>Hymn to Proserpine</i>, with its regret for the +passing of the old heathen gods; it seeks relief in +the unnatural passion of <i>Anactoria</i>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Clothed with deep eyelids under and above—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">turns to the abominations of cruelty in <i>Faustine</i>; +sings enchantingly of rest in <i>The Garden of +Proserpine</i>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, where the world is quiet,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Here, where all trouble seems<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead winds' and spent waves' riot<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In doubtful dreams of dreams;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I watch the green field growing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For reaping folk and sowing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For harvest-time and mowing,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A sleepy world of streams.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am tired of tears and laughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And men that laugh and weep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of what may come hereafter<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For men that sow to reap:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am weary of days and hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blown buds of barren flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Desires and dreams and powers<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And everything but sleep.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> +<p>Now the acquiescence of weariness may have +its inner compensations, even its sacred joys; but +satiety with its torturing impotence and its +hungering for forbidden fruit, is perhaps the most +immoral word in the language; its unashamed +display causes a kind of physical revulsion in any +wholesome mind. My own feeling is that Swinburne, +when he wrote these poems, had little +knowledge or experience of the world, but, as +sometimes happens with unbalanced natures, had +sucked poison from his classical reading until his +brain was in a kind of ferment. While in this +state he fell under the spell of Baudelaire's deliberate +perversion of the passions, with results +which threw the innocent Philistines of England +into a fine bewilderment of horror. That the +poet's own heart was sound at core, and that his +satiety was of the imagination and not of the +body, would seem evident from the abruptness +with which he passed, under a more wholesome +stimulus, to a very different mood. Unfortunately, +his maturer productions are lacking in +the quality of human emotion which, however +derived, pulsates in every line of the <i>Poems and +Ballads</i>. There is a certain contagion in such a +song as <i>Dolores</i>. Taking all things into consideration, +and with all one's repulsion for its substance, +that poem is still the most effective of +Swinburne's works, a magnificent lyric of blended +emotion and music. It is a personification of the +mood which produced the whole book, a cry of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +the tormented heart to our Lady of Satiety. It is +filled with regret for a past of riotous pleasure; it +pants with the lust of blood; it is gorgeous and +heavily scented, and the rhythm of it is the swaying +of bodies drunken with voluptuousness:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou art fed with perpetual breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And alive after infinite changes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And fresh from the kisses of death;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of languors rekindled and rallied,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of barren delights and unclean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And poisonous queen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Men touch them, and change in a trice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lilies and languors of virtue<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For the raptures and roses of vice;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those lie where thy foot on the floor is,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">These crown and caress thee and chain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O splendid and sterile Dolores,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our Lady of Pain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>No doubt you will find here in germ all that +was to mar the poet's later work. The rhythm +lacks resistance; there is no definite vision evoked +out of the rapid flux of images; the thought has +no sure control over the words. Dolores is almost +in the same breath the queen of languors +and raptures; she is pallid and rosy, and a hostile +criticism might find in the stanzas a succession of +contradictions. Compare the poem with the few<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +lines in <i>Jenny</i> where Rossetti has expressed the +same idea of man's inveterate lust:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like a toad within a stone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seated while Time crumbles on;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which sits there since the earth was cursed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Man's transgression at the first—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">and the difference is immediately apparent between +that concentration of mind which sums up +a thought in a single definite image and the fluctuating, +impalpable vision of a poet carried away +by the intoxication of words. All that is true, +and yet, somehow, out of this poem of <i>Dolores</i> +there does arise in the end a very real and memorable +mood—real after the fashion of a mood +excited by music rather than by painting or +sculpture.</p> + +<p>The <i>Poems and Ballads</i> are splendid but <i>malsain</i>; +they are impressive and they have the strength, +ambiguous it may be, of springing, directly or +indirectly, from a genuine emotion of the body. +The change on passing to the <i>Songs Before Sunrise</i> +(published in 1871) is extraordinary. During +the five years that elapsed between these volumes +the two master passions of Swinburne's life laid +hold on him with devastating effect—the passion +of Liberty and the passion of the Sea. Henceforth +the influence of Mazzini and Victor Hugo +was to dominate him like an obsession. Now, +heaven forbid that one should say or think anything +in despite of Liberty! The mere name con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>jures +up recollections of glory and pride, and in it +the hopes of the future are involved. And yet +the very magnitude of its content renders it +peculiarly liable to misuse. To this man it means +one thing, and to another another, and many +might cry out in the end, as Brutus did over virtue: +"Thou art a naked word, and I followed +thee as though thou hadst been a substance!" +Certainly nothing is more dangerous for a poet +than to fall into the habit of mouthing those +great words of liberty, virtue, patriotism, and +the like, abstracted of very definite events and +very precise imagery. To Swinburne the sound +of liberty was a charm to cast him into a kind of +frothing mania. It is true that one or two of the +poems on this theme are lifted up with a superb +and genuine lyric enthusiasm. The <i>Eve of Revolution</i>, +for instance, with which the <i>Songs Before +Sunrise</i> open, rings with the stirring noise of +trumpets:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I hear the midnight on the mountains cry<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With many tongues of thunders, and I hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sound and resound the hollow shield of sky<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With trumpet-throated winds that charge and cheer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the roar of the hours that fighting fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through flight and fight and all the fluctuant fear. . . .<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">But even here the reverberation of the words begins +to conceal their meaning, and such abstractions +as "the roar of the hours" lead into the +worst of Swinburne's faults. Many of the longer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +hymns to liberty are nearly unreadable—at least +if any one can endure to the end of <i>A Song of +Italy</i>, it is not I. And as one goes through these +rhapsodies that came out year after year, one begins +to feel that Swinburne's notion of liberty, +when it is not empty of meaning, is something +even worse. Too often it is Kipling's gross +idolatry of England uttered in a kind of hysterical +falsetto. It was not pretty at a time of +estrangement between England and France to +speak of "French hounds whose necks are aching +Still from the chain they crave"; and one needed +not to sympathise with the Boers in the South +African war to feel something like disgust at +Swinburne's abuse:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">. . . the truth whose witness now draws near<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To scourge these dogs, agape with jaws afoam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down out of life.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Probably the poet thought he was giving voice to +a righteous and Miltonic indignation. The best +criticism of such a sonnet is to turn to Milton's +"Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints."</p> + +<p>I have read somewhere a story of Swinburne's +driving up late to a dinner and entering into a +violent altercation with the cabman, to the vast +amusement of the waiting guests within the +house. That incorrigible wag and hanger-on of +genius, Charles Augustus Howell, was of the party +and acted as chorus to the dialogue outside.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +"The poet's got the best of it, as usual," drawls +the chorus. "He lives at the British Hotel in +Cockspur Street, and never goes anywhere except +in hansoms, which, whatever the distance, he invariably +remunerates with one shilling. Consequently, +when, as to-day, it's a case of two miles +beyond the radius, there's the devil's own row; +but in the matter of imprecation the poet is more +than a match for cabby, who, after five minutes of +it, gallops off as though he had been rated by +Beelzebub himself." Really, 'tis a bit of gossip +which may be taken as a comment on not a few +of Swinburne's dithyrambs of liberty.</p> + +<p>Not less noble in significance is that other word, +the sea, which Swinburne now uses with endless +reiteration. In his reverence for the weltering +ocean ways, the bulwark of England's freedom, +he does of course only follow the best traditions +of English poetry from <i>Beowulf</i> to <i>The Seven Seas</i> +of Kipling, who is again in this his imitator. +Nor is it the world of water alone that dominates +his imagination, but with it the winds and the +panorama of the sky ever rolling above. Already +in the <i>Poems and Ballads</i> there is a hint of the +sympathy between the poet and this realm of +water and air. One of the finest passages in <i>The +Triumph of Time</i> is that which begins:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I will go back to the great sweet mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Mother and lover of men, the sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I will go down to her, I and none other,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> + +<p class="noidt">But for the most part the atmosphere of those +poems was too sultry for the salt spray of ocean, +and it is only with the <i>Songs Before Sunrise</i>, with +the obsession of the idea of liberty, that we are +carried to the wide sea "that makes immortal +motion to and fro," and to the "shrill, fierce +climes of inconsolable air." Thenceforth the +reader is like some wave-tossed mariner who +should take refuge in the cave of Æolus; at least +he is forced to admire the genius that presides +over the gusty concourse:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Hic vasto rex Æolus antro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Luctantis ventos tempestatesque sonoras<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Imperio premit ac vinclis et carcere frenat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Illi indignantes magno cum murmure montis<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Circum claustra fremunt.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The comparison is not so far-fetched as it might +seem. There is a picture of Swinburne in the +<i>Recollections</i> of the late Henry Treffry Dunn which +almost personifies him as the storm-king:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It had been a very sultry day, and with the advancing +twilight, heavy thunder-clouds were rolling up. The +door opened and Swinburne entered. He appeared in +an abstracted state, and for a few minutes sat silent. +Soon, something I had said anent his last poem set his +thoughts loose. Like the storm that had just broken, so +he began in low tones to utter lines of poetry. As the +storm increased, he got more and more excited and carried +away by the impulse of his thoughts, bursting into a +torrent of splendid verse that seemed like some grand air<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +with the distant peals of thunder as an intermittent accompaniment. +And still the storm waxed more violent, +and the vivid flashes of lightning became more frequent. +But Swinburne seemed unconscious of it all, and whilst +he paced up and down the room, pouring out bursts of +passionate declamation, faint electric sparks played +round the wavy masses of his luxuriant hair.... +Amidst the rattle of the thunder he still continued to +pour out his thoughts, his voice now sinking low and +sad, now waxing louder as the storm listed.</p></div> + +<p>The scattered poems in his later books that rise +above the <i>Poems and Ballads</i> with a kind of +grandiose suggestiveness are for the most part +filled with echoes of wind and water. That +haunting picture of crumbling desolation, <i>A +Forsaken Garden</i>, lies "at the sea-down's edge between +windward and lee." One of the few poems +that seem to contain the cry of a real experience, +<i>At a Month's End</i>, combines this aspect of nature +admirably with human emotion:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Silent we went an hour together,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Under grey skies by waters white.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Our hearts were full of windy weather,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Clouds and blown stars and broken light.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">And the sensation left from a reading of <i>Tristram +of Lyonesse</i> is of a vast phantasmagoria, in which +the beating of waves and the noise of winds, the +light of dawns breaking on the water, and the +floating web of stars, are jumbled together in +splendid but inextricable confusion. So the +coming of love upon Iseult, as she sails over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +the sea with Tristram, takes this magnificent +comparison:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as the august great blossom of the dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burst, and the full sun scarce from sea withdrawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed on the fiery water a flower afloat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So as a fire the mighty morning smote<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throughout her, and incensed with the influent hour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her whole soul's one great mystical red flower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burst. . . .<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Further on the long confession of her passion at +Tintagel, while Tristram has gone over-sea to that +other Iseult, will be broken by those thundering +couplets:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And swordlike was the sound of the iron wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as a breaking battle was the sea.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But even to allude to all the passages of this +kind in the poem—the swimming of Tristram, his +rowing, and the other scenes—would fill an essay. +In the end it must be confessed that this monotony +of tone grows fatiguing. The rhythmic grace of +the metre is like a bubble blown into the air, +floating before our eyes with gorgeous iridescence—but +when it touches earth, it bursts. There lies +the fatal weakness of all this frenzy over liberty +and this hymeneal chanting of sky and ocean; it +has no basis in the homely facts of the heart. +Read the account of Tristram and Iseult in the +wilderness bower; it is all very beautiful, but you +wonder why it leaves you so cold. There is not +a single detail to fix an image of the place in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +mind, not a word to denote that we are dealing +with the passion of individual human beings. +Then turn to the same episode in the old poem of +Gottfried von Strassburg; read the scene where +the forsaken King Mark, through a window of +their forest grotto, beholds the lovers lying asleep +with the sword of Tristram stretched between +them:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>He gazed on his heart's delight, Iseult, and deemed +that never before had he seen her so fair. She lay sleeping, +with a flush as of mingled roses on her cheek, and +her red and glowing lips apart; a little heated by her +morning wandering in the dewy meadow and by the +spring. On her head was a chaplet woven of clover. A +ray of sunlight from the little window fell upon her face, +and as Mark looked upon her he longed to kiss her, for +never had she seemed so fair and so lovable as now. +And when he saw how the sunlight fell upon her he +feared lest it harm her, or awaken her, so he took grass +and leaves and flowers, and covered the window therewith, +and spake a blessing on his love and commended +her to God, and went his way, weeping.</p></div> + +<p>It is good to walk with head lifted to the stars, +but it is good also to have the feet well planted on +earth. If another example of Swinburne's abstraction +from human interest were desired, one +might take that rhapsody of the wind-beaten +waters and "land that is lonelier than ruin," +called <i>By the North Sea</i>. The picture of desolate +and barren waste is one of the most powerful +creations in his later works (it was published in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +1880), yet there is still something wanting to +stamp the impression into the mind. You turn +from it, perhaps, to Browning's similar description +in <i>Childe Roland</i> and the reason is at once +clear. You come upon the line: "One stiff, blind +horse, his every bone a-stare," and pause. There +is in Swinburne's poem no single touch which arrests +the attention in this way, concentrating the +effect, as it were, to a burning point, and bringing +out the symbolic relation to human life. Yet I +cannot pass from this subject without noticing +what may appear a paradoxical phase of Swinburne's +character. Only when he lowers his gaze +from the furies and ecstasies of man's ambition to +the instinctive ways of little children does his art +become purely human. It would be easy to select +a full dozen of the poems dealing with child-life +and the tender love inspired by a child that touch +the heart with their pure and chastened beauty. +I should feel that an essential element of his art +were left unremarked if I failed to quote some such +examples as these two roundels on <i>First Footsteps</i> +and a <i>A Baby's Death</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A little way, more soft and sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than fields aflower with May,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A babe's feet, venturing, scarce complete<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A little way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Eyes full of dawning day<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Look up for mother's eyes to meet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too blithe for song to say.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Glad as the golden spring to greet<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Its first live leaflet's play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love, laughing, leads the little feet<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A little way.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class='half' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The little feet that never trod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Earth, never strayed in field or street,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What hand leads upward back to God<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The little feet?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A rose in June's most honied heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When life makes keen the kindling sod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was not more soft and warm and sweet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Their pilgrimage's period<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A few swift moons have seen complete<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since mother's hands first clasped and shod<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The little feet.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Despite the artificiality of the French form and a +kind of revolving dizziness of movement, one +catches in these child-lyrics a simplicity of feeling +not unlike Longfellow's cry, "O little feet! that +such long years." Swinburne himself might not +relish the comparison, which is none the less just.</p> + +<p>It is not often safe to attempt to sum up a large +body of work in a phrase, yet with Swinburne we +shall scarcely go astray if we seek such a characterisation +in the one word <i>motion</i>. Both the +beauty and the fault of his extraordinary rhythms +are exposed in that term, and certainly his first +claim to originality lies in his rhythmical innovations. +There had been nothing in English comparable +to the steady swell, like the waves of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +subsiding sea, in the lines of <i>Atalanta</i> and the +<i>Poems and Ballads</i>. They brought a new sensuous +pleasure into our poetry. But with time this +cadenced movement developed into a kind of +giddy race which too often left the reader belated +and breathless. Little tricks of composition, such +as a repeated cæsura after the seventh syllable +of the pentameter, were employed to heighten the +speed. Moreover, the longer lines in many of the +poems are not organic, but consist of two or more +short lines huddled together, the effect being to +eliminate the natural resting-places afforded by +the sense. And occasionally his metre is merely +wanton. He uses one verse, for example, which +with its combination of gliding motion and internal +jingles is uncommonly irritating:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hills and <i>valleys</i> where April <i>rallies</i> his radiant squadron of flowers and <i>birds</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steep strange <i>beaches</i> and lustrous <i>reaches</i> of fluctuant sea that the land <i>engirds</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fields and <i>downs</i> that the sunrise <i>crowns</i> with life diviner than lives in <i>words</i>,—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">a page of this sets the nerves all a-jangle.</p> + +<p>And if Swinburne is one of the obscurest of +English poets, it is due in large part to this same +element of motion. A poem may move swiftly +and still be perfectly easy to follow, so long as +the thought is simple and concrete; witness the +works of Longfellow. Or, on the other hand, the +thought may be tortuous and still invite reflection,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +so long as the metre forces a continual pause in +the reading; witness Browning. Now, no one +will accuse Swinburne of overloading his pages +with thought; it is not there the obscurity lies. +The difficulty is with the number and the peculiarly +vague quality of his metaphors. Let me illustrate +what I mean by this vagueness. I open +one of the volumes at random and my eye rests +on this line in <i>A Channel Passage</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As a tune that is played by the fingers of death on the keys of life or of sleep.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">If one were reading the poem and tried to evoke +this image before his mind, he would certainly +need to pause for a moment. Or I open to <i>Walter +Savage Landor</i> and find this passage marked:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">High from his throne in heaven Simonides,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Crowned with mild aureole of memorial tears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the everlasting sun of all time sees<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All golden, molten from the forge of years.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">The sentiment is simple enough, and it might be +sufficient to feel the force of this in a general way, +were it not that the metaphorical expression almost +compels one to pause and form an image of +the whole before proceeding. Such an image is, +no doubt, possible; but the mingling of abstract +and concrete terms makes the act of visualisation +slow and painful. At the same time the rhythm +is swift and continuous, so that any pause in the +reading demands a deliberate effort of the will.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +The result is a form of obscurity which in many +of the poems is almost prohibitive for an indolent +man—and are not the best readers always a little +indolent? And there is another habit—trick, one +might say—which increases this vagueness of +metaphor in a curious manner. Constantly he +uses a word in its ordinary, direct sense and then +repeats it as an abstract personification. I find +an example to hand in the stanzas written <i>At a +Dog's Grave</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The shadow shed round those we love shines bright<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As <i>love's</i> own face.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It is only a mannerism such as another, but it +recurs with sufficient frequency to have an appreciable +effect on the mind.</p> + +<p>Indeed, if this vagueness of imagery were only +an occasional appearance, the difficulty would be +slight. As a matter of fact, no inconsiderable +portion of Swinburne's work is made up of a +stream of half-visualised abstractions that crowd +upon one another with the motion of clouds +driven below the moon. He is more like Walt +Whitman in this respect than any other poet in +the language. Whitman is concrete and human +and very earthly, but, with this difference, there +is in both writers the same thronging procession +of images which flit by without allowing the +reader to concentrate his attention upon a single +impression; they are both poets of vast and confused +motion. Swinburne is notable for his want<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +of humour, yet he is keen enough to see how +close this flux of high-sounding words lies to the +absurd. In the present collected edition of his +poems he has included <i>The Heptalogia, or Seven +against Sense</i>, a series of parodies which does not +spare his own mannerisms. Some scandalised +Philistines, I doubt, might even need to be told +that <i>Nephelidia</i> was a parody:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Pretty much all the traits of Swinburne's style +are there—the long breathless lines with their +flowing dactyls or anapæsts, the unabashed alliteration, +the stream of half-visualised images, the +trick of following an epithet with its own abstract +substantive, the sense of motion, and above all the +accumulation of words. Of this last trait of verbosity +I have said nothing, for the reason that it +is too notorious to need mentioning. It may not, +however, be superfluous to point out a little more +precisely the special form his tautology assumes. +He is never more graphic and nearer to nature +than when he describes the ecstasy of swimming +at sea. He is himself passionately fond of the +exercise, and once at least was almost drowned in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +the Channel. Let us take, then, a stanza from +<i>A Swimmer's Dream</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the strength of the waves that perish<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Swells beneath me and laughs and sighs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sighs for love of the life they cherish,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Laughs to know that it lives and dies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dies for joy of its life, and lives<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrilled with joy that its brief death gives—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Death whose laugh or whose breath forgives<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Change that bids it subside and rise.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Pass the fault of beginning with the abstraction +"strength"—the first two lines are graphic and +reproduce a real sensation; the second two lines +are an explanatory repetition; the last four dissolve +both image and emotion into a flood of +words. It is the common procedure in the later +poems; it renders the regular dramas (with the +exception of the earlier <i>Chastelard</i>) almost intolerably +tedious.</p> + +<p>And what is the impression of the man himself +that remains after living with his works for +several months? The frankness with which he +parodies his own eccentricities might seem to +indicate a becoming modesty, and yet that is +scarcely the word that rises first to the lips. Indeed, +when I read in the very opening of the +Dedicatory Epistle that precedes the present edition +of his poems such a statement as that "he +finds nothing that he could wish to cancel, to +alter, or to unsay, in any page he has ever laid +before his reader," I was prepared for a character +quite the contrary of modest, and as I turned page<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +after page, there became fixed in my mind a feeling +that I should hesitate to call personal repulsion—a +feeling of annoyance at least, for which +no explanation was present. Only when I +reached <i>Atalanta in Calydon</i>, in the fourth volume, +did the reason of this become evident. That +poem, exquisite in many ways, is filled with talk +of time and gods, of love and hate, of life and +death, of all high-sounding words that lend gravity +to poetry, and yet in the end it is itself light and +not grave. The very needless reiteration of these +words, their bandying from verse to verse, deprives +them of impressiveness. No, a true poet +who respects the sacredness of noble ideas, who +cherishes some awe for the mysteries, does not +buffet them about as a shuttlecock; he uses them +sparingly and only when the thought rises of +necessity to those heights. There is a lack of +emotional breeding, almost an indecency, in Swinburne's +easy familiarity with these great things +of the spirit.</p> + +<p>And this judgment is confirmed by turning to +his prose. I trust it is not prejudice, but after a +while the vociferous and endless praise of Victor +Hugo in his essays had a curious effect upon me. +I began to ask: Is the critic really thinking of +Hugo alone, or is half of this frenzied adulation +meant for his own artistic methods? "Malignity +and meanness, platitude and perversity, decrepitude +of cankered intelligence and desperation of +universal rancor," he exclaims against Sainte-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>Beuve; +and over the other critics of his idol he +cries out, "The lazy malignity of envious dullness +is as false and fatuous as it is common and easy." +Can one avoid the surmise that he has more than +Hugo to avenge in such tirades? It is the same +with every one who is opposed to his own notions +of art. Of Walt Whitman it is: "The dirty, +clumsy paws of a harper whose plectrum is a +muckrake." Of a French classicist: "It is the +business of a Nisard to pass judgment and to +bray." And of those who intimate (he is ostensibly +defending Rossetti) that beauty and power +of expression can accord with emptiness or sterility +of matter: "This flattering unction the very +foolishest of malignants will hardly in this case be +able to lay upon the corrosive sore which he calls +his soul." Sometimes, I admit, this manner of +invective rises to a sublimity of fury that sounds +like nothing so much as a combination of Carlyle +and Shelley. For example: "The affection was +never so serious as to make it possible for the most +malignant imbecile to compare or to confound him +[Jowett] with such morally and spiritually typical +and unmistakable apes of the Dead Sea as Mark +Pattison, or such renascent blossoms of the +Italian renascence as the Platonic amorist of +blue-breeched gondoliers who is now in Aretino's +bosom." It's not criticism; it's not fair to Mark +Pattison or to John Addington Symonds, but it is +sublime. It is a storm of wind only, but it leaves +a devastated track.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p>Enough has been said to indicate the trait of +character that prevails through these pages of +eulogy and vituperation. It is not nice to apply +so crass a word as <i>conceit</i> to one who undoubtedly +belongs to the immortals of our pantheon, yet the +expression forces itself upon me. Listen to another +of his outbursts, this time against Matthew +Arnold: "His inveterate and invincible Philistinism, +his full community of spirit and faith, in certain +things of import, with the vulgarest English +mind!" Does not the quality begin to define +itself more exactly? There is a phrase they use +in France, <i>épater le bourgeois</i>, of those artistic +souls who contrast themselves by a kind of ineffable +contempt with commonplace humanity, +and who take pleasure in tweaking the nose, so +to speak, of the amiable plebeian. Have a care, +gentlemen! The Philistine has a curious trick of +revenging himself in the long run. For my own +part, when it comes to a breach between the poetical +and the prosaic, I take my place submissively +with the latter. There is at least a humble safety +in retaining one's pleasure in certain things of +import with the vulgarest English mind, and if it +were obligatory to choose between them (as, happily, +it is not) I would surrender the wind-swept +rhapsodies of Swinburne for the homely conversation +of Whittier.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHRISTINA_ROSSETTI" id="CHRISTINA_ROSSETTI"></a>CHRISTINA ROSSETTI</h2> + + +<p>Probably the first impression one gets from +reading the <i>Complete Poetical Works</i> of Christina +Rossetti, now collected and edited by her brother, +Mr. W. M. Rossetti,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> is that she wrote altogether +too much, and that it was a doubtful service to +her memory to preserve so many poems purely +private in their nature. The editor, one thinks, +might well have shown himself more "reverent +of her strange simplicity." For page after page +we are in the society of a spirit always refined +and exquisite in sentiment, but without any +guiding and restraining artistic impulse; she +never drew to the shutters of her soul, but lay +open to every wandering breath of heaven. In +comparison with the works of the more creative +poets her song is like the continuous lisping of an +æolian harp beside the music elicited by cunning +fingers. And then, suddenly, out of this sweet +monotony, moved by some stronger, clearer breeze +of inspiration, there sounds a strain of wonderful +beauty and flawless perfection, unmatched in its +own kind in English letters. An anonymous +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>purveyor of anecdotes has recently told how one +of these more exquisite songs called forth the +enthusiasm of Swinburne. It was just after the +publication of <i>Goblin Market and Other Poems</i>, +and in a little company of friends that erratic +poet and critic started to read aloud from the +volume. Turning first to the devotional paraphrase +which begins with "Passing away, saith +the World, passing away," he chanted the lines +in his own emphatic manner, then laid the book +down with a vehement gesture. Presently he +took it up again, and a second time read the poem +through, even more impressively. "By God!" +he exclaimed at the end, "that's one of the finest +things ever written!"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passing away, saith the World, passing away:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chances, beauty, and youth, sapped day by day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy life never continueth in one stay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That hath won neither laurel nor bay?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On my bosom for aye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then I answered: Yea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hearken what the past doth witness and say:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watch thou and pray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then I answered: Yea.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passing away, saith my God, passing away:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Winter passeth after the long delay:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then I answered: Yea.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And Swinburne, somewhat contrary to his +wont, was right. Purer inspiration, less troubled +by worldly motives, than these verses cannot be +found. Nor would it be difficult to discover in +their brief compass most of the qualities that lend +distinction to Christina Rossetti's work. Even +her monotone, which after long continuation becomes +monotony, affects one here as a subtle device +heightening the note of subdued fervour and +religious resignation; the repetition of the rhyming +vowel creates the feeling of a secret expectancy +cherished through the weariness of a +frustrate life. If there is any excuse for publishing +the many poems that express the mere +unlifted, unvaried prayer of her heart, it is because +their monotony may prepare the mind for +the strange artifice of this solemn chant. But +such a preparation demands more patience than +a poet may justly claim from the ordinary reader. +Better would be a volume of selections from her +works, including a number of poems of this character. +It would stand, in its own way, supreme +in English literature,—as pure and fine an ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>pression +of the feminine genius as the world has +yet heard.</p> + +<p>It is, indeed, as the flower of strictly feminine +genius that Christina Rossetti should be read and +judged. She is one of a group of women who +brought this new note into Victorian poetry,—Louisa +Shore, Jean Ingelow, rarely Mrs. Browning, +and, I may add, Mrs. Meynell. She is like +them, but of a higher, finer strain than they +(ϰαλαὶ δέ τε πᾶσαι), +and I always think of her +as of her brother's Blessed Damozel, circled with +a company of singers, yet holding herself aloof in +chosen loneliness of passion. She, too, has not +quite ceased to yearn toward earth:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And still she bowed herself and stooped<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Out of the circling charm;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until her bosom must have made<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The bar she leaned on warm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the lilies lay as if asleep<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Along her bended arm.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I have likened the artlessness of much of her +writing to the sweet monotony of an æolian harp; +the comparison returns as expressing also the +purely feminine spirit of her inspiration. There +is in her a passive surrender to the powers of life, +a religious acquiescence, which wavers between a +plaintive pathos and a sublime exultation of faith. +The great world, with its harsh indifference for +the weak, passes over her as a ruinous gale rushes +over a sequestered wood-flower; she bows her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +head, humbled but not broken, nor ever forgetful +of her gentle mission,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And strong in patient weakness till the end.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">She bends to the storm, yet no one, not the great +mystics nor the greater poets who cry out upon +the sound and fury of life, is more constantly impressed +by the vanity and fleeting insignificance of +the blustering power, or more persistently looks +for consolation and joy from another source. But +there is a difference. Read the masculine poets +who have heard this mystic call of the spirit, and +you feel yourself in the presence of a strong will +that has grasped the world, and, finding it insufficient, +deliberately casts it away; and there is +no room for pathetic regret in their ruthless determination +to renounce. But this womanly poet +does not properly renounce at all, she passively +allows the world to glide away from her. The +strength of her genius is endurance:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She stands there like a beacon through the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She stands alone, a wonder deathly-white:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Indomitable in her feebleness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her face and will athirst against the light.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is characteristic of her feminine disposition +that the loss of the world should have come to +her first of all in the personal relation of love. +And here we must signalise the chief service of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +editor toward his sister. It was generally known +in a vague way, indeed it was easy to surmise as +much from her published work, that Christina +Rossetti bore with her always the sadness of unfulfilled +affection. In the introductory Memoir +her brother has now given a sufficiently detailed +account of this matter to remove all ambiguity. +I am not one to wish that the reserves and secret +emotions of an author should be displayed for the +mere gratification of the curious; but in this case +the revelation would seem to be justified as a +needed explanation of poems which she herself +was willing to publish. Twice, it appears, she +gave her love, and both times drew back in a +kind of tremulous awe from the last step. The +first affair began in 1848, before she was eighteen, +and ran its course in about two years. The man +was one James Collinson, an artist of mediocre +talent who had connected himself with the Pre-raphaelite +Brotherhood. He was originally a +Protestant, but had become a Roman Catholic. +Then, as Christina refused to ally herself to one +of that faith, he compliantly abandoned Rome for +the Church of England. His conscience, however, +which seems from all accounts to have been +of a flabby consistency, troubled him in the new +faith, and he soon reverted to Catholicism. +Christina then drew back from him finally. It is +not so easy to understand why she refused the +second suitor, with whom she became intimately +acquainted about 1860, and whom she loved in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +her own retiring fashion until the day of her +death. This was Charles Bagot Cayley, a brother +of the famous Cambridge mathematician, himself +a scholar and in a small way a poet. Some idea +of the man may be obtained from a notice of him +written by Mr. W. M. Rossetti for the <i>Athenæum</i> +after his death. "A more complete specimen than +Mr. Charles Cayley," says Mr. Rossetti, "of the +abstracted scholar in appearance and manner—the +scholar who constantly lives an inward and +unmaterial life, faintly perceptive of external facts +and appearances—could hardly be conceived. He +united great sweetness to great simplicity of character, +and was not less polite than unworldly." +One might suppose that such a temperament was +peculiarly fitted to join with that of the secluded +poetess, and so, to judge from her many love +poems, it actually was. Of her own heart or of +his there seems to have been no doubt in her +mind. Even in her most rapturous visions of +heaven, like the yearning cry of the Blessed Damozel, +the memory of that stilled passion often +breaks out:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How should I rest in Paradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or sit on steps of heaven alone?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If Saints and Angels spoke of love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should I not answer from my throne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have pity upon me, ye my friends,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I have heard the sound thereof?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">She seems even not to have been unfamiliar with +the hope of joy, and I would persuade myself that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +her best-known lyric of gladness, "My heart is +like a singing-bird," was inspired by the early +dawning of this passion. But the hope and the +joy soon passed away and left her only the solemn +refrain of acquiescence: "Then I answered: Yea." +Her brother can give no sufficient explanation of +this refusal on her part to accept the happiness +almost within her hand, though he hints at lack +of religious sympathy between the two. Some +inner necessity of sorrow and resignation, one +almost thinks, drew her back in both cases, some +perception that the real treasure of her heart lay +not in this world:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A voice said, "Follow, follow": and I rose<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And followed far into the dreamy night,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Turning my back upon the pleasant light.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It led me where the bluest water flows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And would not let me drink: where the corn grows<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I dared not pause, but went uncheered by sight<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or touch: until at length in evil plight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It left me, wearied out with many woes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some time I sat as one bereft of sense:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But soon another voice from very far<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Called, "Follow, follow": and I rose again.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Now on my night has dawned a blessed star:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Kind steady hands my sinking steps sustain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And will not leave me till I go from hence.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It might seem that here was a spirit of renunciation +akin to that of the more masculine mystics; +indeed, a great many of her poems are, +unconsciously I presume, almost a paraphrase of +that recurring theme of the Imitation: "Nolle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +consolari ab aliqua creatura," and again: "Amore +igitur Creatoris, amorem hominis superavit; et +pro humano solatio, divinum beneplacitum magis +elegit." She, too, was unwilling to find consolation +in any creature, and turned from the love of +man to the love of the Creator; yet a little reading +of her exquisite hymns will show that this +renunciation has more the nature of surrender +than of deliberate choice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He broke my will from day to day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He read my yearnings unexprest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And said them nay.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">The world is withheld from her by a power above +her will, and always this power stands before her +in that peculiarly personal form which it is wont +to assume in the feminine mind. Her faith is a +mere transference to heaven of a love that terrifies +her in its ruthless earthly manifestation; and the +passion of her life is henceforth a yearning expectation +of the hour when the Bridegroom shall +come and she shall answer, Yea. Nor is the +earthly source of this love forgotten; it abides +with her as a dream which often is not easily +distinguished from its celestial transmutation:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where souls brimful of love abide and meet;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where thirsting longing eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Watch the slow door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That opening, letting in, lets out no more.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My very life again though cold in death:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come back to me in dreams, that I may give<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Speak low, lean low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As long ago, my love, how long ago.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is this perfectly passive attitude toward the +powers that command her heart and her soul—a +passivity which by its completeness assumes the +misguiding semblance of a deliberate determination +of life—that makes her to me the purest expression +in English of the feminine genius. I +know that many would think this pre-eminence +belongs to Mrs. Browning. They would point +out the narrowness of Christina Rossetti's range, +and the larger aspects of woman's nature, neglected +by her, which inspire some of her rival's +best-known poems. To me, on the contrary, it +is the very scope attempted by Mrs. Browning +that prevents her from holding the place I would +give to Christina Rossetti. So much of Mrs. +Browning—her political ideas, her passion for +reform, her scholarship—simply carries her into +the sphere of the masculine poets, where she suffers +by an unfair comparison. She would be a +better and less irritating writer without these +excursions into a field for which she was not +entirely fitted. The uncouthness that so often +mars her language is partly due to an unreconciled +feud between her intellect and her heart. +She had neither a woman's wise passivity nor a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +man's controlling will. Even within the range +of strictly feminine powers her genius is not +simple and typical. And here I must take refuge +in a paradox which is like enough to carry but +little conviction. Nevertheless, it is the truth. I +mean to say that probably most women will regard +Mrs. Browning as the better type of their +sex, whereas to men the honour will seem to belong +to Miss Rossetti; and that the judgment of a +man in this matter is more conclusive than a +woman's. This is a paradox, I admit, yet its +solution is simple. Women will judge a poetess +by her inclusion of the larger human nature, and +will resent the limiting of her range to the qualities +that we look upon as peculiarly feminine. +The passion of Mrs. Browning, her attempt to +control her inspiration to the demands of a shaping +intellect, her questioning and answering, her +larger aims, in a word her effort to create,—all +these will be set down to her credit by women +who are as appreciative of such qualities as men, +and who will not be annoyed by the false tone +running through them. Men, on the contrary, +are apt, in accepting a woman's work or in creating +a female character, to be interested more in +the traits and limitations which distinguish her +from her masculine complement. They care +more for the <i>idea</i> of woman, and less for woman +as merely a human being. Thus, for example, I +should not hesitate to say that in this ideal aspect +Thackeray's heroines are more womanly than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +George Eliot's,—though I am aware of the ridicule +to which such an opinion lays me open; and +for the same reason I hold that Christina Rossetti +is a more complete exemplar of feminine genius, +and, as being more perfect in her own sphere, a +better poet than Mrs. Browning. That disconcerting +sneer of Edward FitzGerald's, which so +enraged Robert Browning, would never have occurred +to him, I think, in the case of Miss Rossetti.</p> + +<p>There is a curious comment on this contrast in +the introduction to Christina Rossetti's <i>Monna +Innominata</i>, a sonnet-sequence in which she tells +her own story in the supposed person of an early +Italian lady. "Had the great poetess of our own +day and nation," she says, "only been unhappy +instead of happy, her circumstances would have +invited her to bequeath to us, in lieu of the <i>Portuguese +Sonnets</i>, an inimitable 'donna innominata' +drawn not from fancy, but from feeling, and +worthy to occupy, a niche beside Beatrice and +Laura." Now this sonnet-sequence of Miss Rossetti's +is far from her best work, and holds a lower +rank in every way than that passionate self-revelation +of Mrs. Browning's; yet to read these +confessions of the two poets together is a good +way to get at the division between their spirits. +In Miss Rossetti's sonnets all those feminine traits +I have dwelt on are present to a marked, almost +an exaggerated, degree. They are harmonious +within themselves, and filled with a quiet ease;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +only the higher inspiration is lacking to them in +comparison with her <i>Passing Away</i>, and other +great lyrics. In Mrs. Browning, on the contrary, +one cannot but feel a disturbing element. The +very tortuousness of her language, the straining +to render her emotion in terms of the intellect, +introduces a quality which is out of harmony with +the ground theme of feminine surrender. More +than that, this submission to love, if looked at +more closely, is itself in large part such as might +proceed from a man as well as from a woman, so +that there results an annoying confusion of masculine +and feminine passion. Take, for instance, +the twenty-second of the <i>Portuguese Sonnets</i>, one +of the most perfect in the series:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When our two souls stand up erect and strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Face to face, drawing nigher and nigher,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the lengthening wings break into fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At either curvèd point,—What bitter wrong<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can earth do to us, that we should not long<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The angels would press on us, and aspire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To drop some golden orb of perfect song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rather on earth, Beloved,—where the unfit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Contrarious moods of men recoil away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And isolate pure spirits, and permit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A place to stand and love in for a day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">That is noble verse, undoubtedly. The point is +that it might just as well have been written by a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +man to a woman as the contrary; it would, for +example, fit perfectly well into Dante Gabriel +Rossetti's <i>House of Life</i>. There is here no passivity +of soul; the passion is not that of acquiescence, +but of determination to press to the quick +of love. Only, perhaps, a certain falsetto in the +tone (if the meaning of that word may be so extended) +shows that, after all, it was written by a +woman, who in adopting the masculine pitch +loses something of fineness and exquisiteness.</p> + +<p>A single phrase of the sonnet, that "deep, +dear silence," links it in my mind with one of +Christina Rossetti's not found in the <i>Monna +Innominata</i>, but expressing the same spirit of +resignation. It is entitled simply <i>Rest</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She hath no questions, she hath no replies,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With stillness that is almost Paradise.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Silence more musical than any song;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even her very heart has ceased to stir:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the morning of Eternity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And when she wakes she will not think it long.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Am I misguided in thinking that in this stillness, +this silence more musical than any song, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +feminine heart speaks with a simplicity and consummate +purity such as I quite fail to hear in the +<i>Portuguese Sonnets</i>, admired as those sonnets are? +Nor could one, perhaps, find in all Christina Rossetti's +poems a single line that better expresses the +character of her genius than these magical words: +"With stillness that is almost Paradise." That +is the mood which, with the passing away of love, +never leaves her; that is her religion; her acquiescent +Yea, to the world and the soul and to God. +Into that region of rapt stillness it seems almost +a sacrilege to penetrate with inquisitive, critical +mind; it is like tearing away the veil of modesty. +I will not attempt to bring out the beauty of +her mood by comparing it with that of the more +masculine quietists, who reach out and take the +kingdom of Heaven by storm, and whose prayer +is, in the words of Tennyson:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our wills are ours, we know not how;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our wills are ours, to make them Thine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It will be better to quote one other poem, perhaps +her most perfect work artistically, and to pass on:</p> + +<p class="center">UP-HILL</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Does the road wind up-hill all the way?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Yes, to the very end.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will the day's journey take the whole long day?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From morn to night, my friend.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But is there for the night a resting-place?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May not the darkness hide it from my face?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">You cannot miss that inn.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Those who have gone before.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They will not keep you standing at that door.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of labour you shall find the sum.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will there be beds for me and all who seek?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Yea, beds for all who come.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The culmination of her pathetic weariness is +always this cry for rest, a cry for supreme acquiescence +in the will of Heaven, troubled by no +personal volition, no desire, no emotion, save +only love that waits for blessed absorption. Her +latter years became what St. Teresa called a long +"prayer of quiet"; and her brother's record of her +secluded life in the refuge of his home, and later +in her own house on Torrington Square, reads like +the saintly story of a cloistered nun. It might +be said of her, as of one of the fathers, that she +needed not to pray, for her life was an unbroken +communion with God. And yet that is not all. +It is a sign of her utter womanliness that envy for +the common affections of life was never quite +crushed in her heart. Now and then through +this monotony of resignation there wells up a sob +of complaint, a note not easy, indeed, to distinguish +from that <i>amari aliquid</i> of jealousy, which +Thackeray, cynically, as some think, always left +at the bottom of his gentlest feminine characters. +The fullest expression of this feeling is in one +of her longer poems, <i>The Lowest Room</i>, which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +contrasts the life of two sisters, one of whom +chooses the ordinary lot of woman with home +and husband and children, while the other learns, +year after tedious year, the consolation of lonely +patience. The spirit of the poem is not entirely +pleasant. The resurgence of personal envy is a +little disconcerting; and the only comfort to be +derived from it is the proof that under different +circumstances Christina Rossetti might have given +expression to the more ordinary lot of contented +womanhood as perfectly as she sings the pathos +and hope of the cloistered life. Had that first +voice, which led her "where the bluest water +flows," suffered her also to quench the thirst of +her heart, had not that second voice summoned +her to follow, this might have been. But literature, +I think, would have lost in her gain. As it +is, we must recognise that the vision of fulfilled +affection and of quiet home joys still troubled her, +in her darker hours, with a feeling of embittered +regret. Two or three of the stanzas of <i>The Lowest +Room</i> even evoke a reminiscence of that scene in +Thomson's <i>City of Dreadful Night</i>, where the +"shrill and lamentable cry" breaks through the +silence of the shadowy congregation:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In all eternity I had one chance,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">One few years' term of gracious human life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The splendours of the intellect's advance,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sweetness of the home with babes and wife.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But if occasionally this residue of bitterness in +Christina Rossetti recalls the more acrid genius<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +of James Thomson, yet a comparison of the two +poets (and such a comparison is not fantastic, +however unexpected it may appear) would set the +feminine character of our subject in a peculiarly +vivid light. Both were profoundly moved by the +evanescence of life, by the deceitfulness of pleasure, +while both at times, Thomson almost continually, +were troubled by the apparent content +of those who rested in these joys of the world. +Both looked forward longingly to the consummation +of peace. In his call to <i>Our Lady of Oblivion</i> +Thomson might seem to be speaking for both, +only in a more deliberately metaphorical style:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Take me, and lull me into perfect sleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Down, down, far hidden in thy duskiest cave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While all the clamorous years above me sweep<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Unheard, or, like the voice of seas that rave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On far-off coasts, but murmuring o'er my trance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dim vast monotone, that shall enhance<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The restful rapture of the inviolate grave.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">But the roads by which the two would reach this +"silence more musical than any song" were +utterly different. With an intellect at once +mathematical and constructive, Thomson built +out of his personal bitterness and despair a universe +corresponding to his own mood, a philosophy +of atheistic revolt. Like Lucretius, "he denied +divinely the divine." In that tremendous conversation +on the river-walk he represents one soul +as protesting to another that not for all his misery +would he carry the guilt of creating such a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +world; whereto the second replies, and it is the +poet himself who speaks:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The world rolls round forever as a mill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It grinds out death and life and good and ill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has no purpose, heart or mind or will. . . .<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Man might know one thing were his sight less dim;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That it whirls not to suit his petty whim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That it is quite indifferent to him.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">There is the voluntary ecstasy of the saints, there +is also this stern and self-willed rebellion, and, +contrasted with them both, as woman is contrasted +with man, there is the acquiescence of +Christina Rossetti and of the little group of writers +whom she leads in spirit:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passing away, saith the World, passing away. . . .<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then I answered: Yea.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="WHY_IS_BROWNING_POPULAR" id="WHY_IS_BROWNING_POPULAR"></a>WHY IS BROWNING POPULAR?</h2> + + +<p>It has come to be a matter of course that some +new book on Browning shall appear with every +season. Already the number of these manuals +has grown so large that any one interested in +critical literature finds he must devote a whole +corner of his library to them—where, the cynical +may add, they are better lodged than in his brain. +To name only a few of the more recent publications: +there was Stopford Brooke's volume, which +partitioned the poet's philosophy into convenient +compartments, labelled nature, human life, art, +love, etc. Then came Mr. Chesterton, with his +biting paradoxes and his bold justification of +Browning's work, not as it ought to be, but as it +is. Professor Dowden followed with what is, on +the whole, the best <i>vade mecum</i> for those who wish +to preserve their enthusiasm with a little salt of +common sense; and, latest of all, we have now a +critical study<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> by Prof. C. H. Herford, of the +University of Manchester, which once more unrolls +in all its gleaming aspects the poet's "joy in +soul." Two things would seem to be clear from +this succession of commentaries: Browning must +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>need a deal of exegesis, and he must be a subject +of wide curiosity. Now obscurity and popularity +do not commonly go together, and I fail to remember +that any of the critics named has paused +long enough in his own admiration to explain +just why Browning has caught the breath of +favour; in a word, to answer the question: Why +is Browning popular?</p> + + +<p>There is, indeed, one response to such a question, +so obvious and so simple that it might well +be taken for granted. It would hardly seem +worth while to say that despite his difficulty +Browning is esteemed because he has written +great poetry; and in the most primitive and unequivocal +manner this is to a certain extent true. +At intervals the staccato of his lines, like the +drilling of a woodpecker, is interrupted by a burst +of pure and liquid music, as if that vigorous and +exploring bird were suddenly gifted with the +melodious throat of the lark. It is not necessary +to hunt curiously for examples of this power; +they are fairly frequent and the best known are +the most striking. Consider the first lines that +sing themselves in the memory:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O lyric Love, half-angel and half-bird,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all a wonder and a wild desire—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">there needs no cunning exegete to point out the +beauty of these. Their rhythm is of the singing, +traditional kind that is familiar to us in all the +true poets of the language; the harmony of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +vowel sounds and of the consonants, the very +trick of alliteration, are obvious to the least critical; +yet withal there is that miraculous suggestion +in their charm which may be felt but cannot be +converted into a prosaic equivalent. They stand +out from the lines that precede and follow them +in <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, as differing not so +much in degree as in kind; they are lyrical, poetical, +in the midst of a passage which is neither +lyrical nor, precisely speaking, poetical. Elsewhere +the surprise may be on the lower plane of +mere description. So, throughout the peroration +of <i>Paracelsus</i>, despite the glory and eloquence of +the dying scholar's vision, one feels continually +an alien element which just prevents a complete +acquiescence in their magic, some residue of clogging +analysis which has not quite been subdued +to poetry—and then suddenly, as if some discordant +instrument were silenced in an orchestra +and unvexed music floated to the ear, the manner +changes, thus:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A secret they assemble to discuss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like grates of hell.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And, take his works throughout, there is a +good deal of this writing which has the ordinary, +direct appeal to the emotions. Yet it is scattered, +accidental so to speak; nor is it any pabulum of +the soul as simple as this which converts the lover<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +of poetry into the Browningite. Even his common-sense +admirers are probably held by something +more recondite than this occasional charm.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him you must watch—he's sure to fall, yet stands!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our interest 's on the dangerous edge of things—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">says Bishop Blougram, and the attraction of +Browning to many is just watching what may +be called his acrobatic psychology. Consider this +same <i>Bishop Blougram's Apology</i>, in some respects +the most characteristic, as it is certainly not the +least prodigious, of his poems. "Over his wine +so smiled and talked his hour Sylvester Blougram"—talked +and smiled to a silent listener +concerning the strange mixture of doubt and +faith which lie snugly side by side in the mind of +an ecclesiastic who is at once a hypocrite and a +sincere believer in the Church. The mental attitude +of the speaker is subtile enough in itself to +be fascinating, but the real suspense does not lie +there. The very balancing of the priest's argument +may at first work a kind of deception, but +read more attentively and it begins to grow clear +that no man in the wily bishop's predicament +ever talked in this way over his wine or anywhere +else. And here lies the real piquancy of the situation. +His words are something more than a +confession; they are this and at the same time the +poet's, or if you will the bishop's own, comment +to himself on that confession. He who talks is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +never quite in the privacy of solitude, nor is he +ever quite conscious of his listener, who as a matter +of fact is not so much a person as some half-personified +opinion of the world or abstract notion +set against the character of the speaker. And +this is Browning's regular procedure not only in +those wonderful dramatic monologues, <i>Men and +Women</i>, that form the heart of his work, but in +<i>Paracelsus</i>, in <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, even in the +songs and the formal dramas.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the most remarkable and most obvious +example of this suspended psychology is to be +found in <i>The Ring and the Book</i>. Take the canto +in which Giuseppe Caponsacchi relates to the +judges his share in the tangled story. It is clear +that the interest here is not primarily in the event +itself, nor does it lie in that phase of the speaker's +character which would be revealed by his confession +before such a court as he is supposed to confront. +The fact is, that Caponsacchi's language +is not such as under the circumstances he could +possibly be conceived to use. As the situation +forms itself in my mind, he might be in his cell +awaiting the summons to appear. In that solitude +and uncertainty he goes over in memory the +days in Arezzo, when the temptation first came to +him, and once more takes the perilous ride with +Pompilia to Rome. He lives again through the +great crisis, dissecting all his motives, balancing +the pros and cons of each step; yet all the time +he has in mind the opinion of the world as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +personified in the judges he is to face. The +psychology is suspended dexterously between +self-examination and open confession, and the +reader who accepts the actual dramatic situation +as suggested by Browning loses the finest and +subtlest savour of the speech. In many places it +would be simply preposterous to suppose we are +listening to words really uttered by the priest.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We did go on all night; but at its close<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was troubled, restless, moaned low, talked at whiles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To herself, her brow on quiver with the dream:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once, wide awake, she menaced, at arms' length<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waved away something—"Never again with you!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My soul is mine, my body is my soul's:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You and I are divided ever more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In soul and body: get you gone!" Then I—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Why, in my whole life I have never prayed!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, if the God, that only can, would help!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Am I his priest with power to cast out fiends?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let God arise and all his enemies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be scattered!" By morn, there was peace, no sigh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the deep sleep—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">no, those words were never spoken in the ears of +a sceptical, worldly tribunal; they belong to the +most sacred recesses of memory; yet at the same +time that memory is coloured by a consciousness +of the world's clumsy judgment.</p> + +<p>It would be exaggeration to say that all Browning's +greater poems proceed in this involved manner, +yet the method is so constant as to be the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +most significant feature of his work. And it +bestows on him the honour of having created a +new genre which follows neither the fashion of +lyric on the one hand nor that of drama or narrative +on the other, but is a curious and illusive +hybrid of the two. The passions are not uttered +directly as having validity and meaning in the +heart of the speaker alone, nor are they revealed +through action and reaction upon the emotions +of another. His dramas, if read attentively, will +be found really to fall into the same mixed genre +as his monologues. And a comparison of his +<i>Sordello</i> with such a poem as Goethe's <i>Tasso</i> +(which is more the dialogue of a narrative poem +than a true drama) will show how far he fails to +make a character move visibly amid opposing +circumstances. In both poems we have a contrast +of the poetical temperament with the practical +world. In Browning it is difficult to distinguish +the poet's own thought from the words +of the hero; the narrative is in reality a long +confession of Sordello to himself who is conscious +of a hostile power without. In Goethe this +hostile power stands out as distinctly as Tasso +himself, and they act side by side each to his +own end.</p> + +<p>There is even a certain significance in what is +perhaps the most immediately personal poem +Browning ever wrote, that <i>One Word More</i> which +he appended to his <i>Men and Women</i>. Did he +himself quite understand this lament for Raphael's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +lost sonnets and Dante's interrupted angel, this +desire to find his love a language,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fit and fair and simple and sufficient—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Using nature that's an art to others,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It would seem rather the uneasiness of his own +mind when brought face to face with strong feeling +where no escape remains into his oblique mode +of expression. And the man Browning of real +life, with his training in a dissenting Camberwell +home and later his somewhat dapper acceptance +of the London social season, accords with such a +view of the writer. It is, too, worthy of note that +almost invariably he impressed those who first +met him as being a successful merchant, a banker, +a diplomat—anything but a poet. There was +passion enough below the surface, as his outburst +of rage against FitzGerald and other incidents of +the kind declare; but the direct exhibition of it +was painful if not grotesque.</p> + +<p>Yet in this matter, as in everything that touches +Browning's psychology, it is well to proceed +cautiously. Because he approached the emotions +thus obliquely, as it were in a style hybrid between +the lyric and the drama, it does not follow +that his work is void of emotion or that he questioned +the validity of human passion. The very +contrary is true. I remember, indeed, once hearing +a lady, whose taste was as frank as it was +modern, say that she liked Browning better than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +Shakespeare because he was more emotional and +less intellectual than the older dramatist. Her +distinction was somewhat confused, but it leads +to an important consideration; I do not know but +it points to the very heart of the question of +Browning's popularity. He is not in reality more +emotional than Shakespeare, but his emotion is +of a kind more readily felt by the reader of to-day; +nor does he require less use of the intellect, +but he does demand less of that peculiar translation +of the intellect from the particular to the +general point of view which is necessary to raise +the reader into what may be called the poetical +mood. In one sense Browning is nearly the most +intellectual poet in the language. The action of +his brain was so nimble, his seizure of every associated +idea was so quick and subtile, his elliptical +style is so supercilious of the reader's needs, +that often to understand him is like following a +long mathematical demonstration in which many +of the intermediate equations are omitted. And +then his very trick of approaching the emotions +indirectly, his suspended psychology as I have +called it, requires a peculiar flexibility of the +reader's mind. But in a way these roughnesses +of the shell possess an attraction for the +educated public which has been sated with what +lies too accessibly on the surface. They hold out +the flattering promise of an initiation into mysteries +not open to all the world. Our wits have +become pretty well sharpened by the complexities<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +of modern life, and we are ready enough to prove +our analytical powers on any riddle of poetry or +economics. And once we have penetrated to the +heart of these enigmas we are quite at our ease. +His emotional content is of a sort that requires no +further adjustment; it demands none of that +poetical displacement of the person which is so +uncomfortable to the keen but prosaic intelligence.</p> + +<p>And here that tenth Muse, who has been added +to the Pantheon for the guidance of the critical +writer, trembles and starts back. She beholds to +the right and the left a quaking bog of abstractions +and metaphysical definitions, whereon if a critic +so much as set his foot he is sucked down into the +bottomless mire. She plucks me by the ear and +bids me keep to the strait and beaten path, +whispering the self-admonition of one who was +the darling of her sisters:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I <i>won't</i> philosophise, and <i>will</i> be read.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Indeed, the question that arises is no less than +the ultimate distinction between poetry and prose, +and "ultimates" may well have an ugly sound +to one who is content if he can comprehend what +is concrete and very near at hand. And, as for +that, those who would care to hear the matter debated +in terms of <i>Idee</i> and <i>Begriff</i>, <i>Objektivität</i> and +<i>Subjektivität</i>, must already be familiar with those +extraordinary chapters in Schopenhauer wherein +philosophy and literature are married as they +have seldom been elsewhere since the days of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +Plato. And yet without any such formidable apparatus +as that, it is not difficult to see that the +peculiar procedure of Browning's mind offers to +the reader a pleasure different more in kind than +in degree from what is commonly associated with +the word poetry. His very manner of approaching +the passions obliquely, his habit of holding +his portrayal of character in suspense between +direct exposition and dramatic reaction, tends to +keep the attention riveted on the individual +speaker or problem, and prevents that escape into +the larger and more general vision which marks +just the transition from prose to poetry.</p> + +<p>It is not always so. Into that cry "O lyric +Love" there breaks the note which from the beginning +has made lovers forget themselves in their +song—the note that passes so easily from the lips +of Persian Omar to the mouth of British FitzGerald:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Would not we shatter it to bits—and then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Is it not clear how, in these direct and lyrical +expressions, the passion of the individual is carried +up into some region where it is blended with +currents of emotion broader than any one man's +loss or gain? and how, reading these words, we, +too, feel that sudden enlargement of the heart +which it is the special office of the poet to bestow? +But it is equally true that Browning's treatment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +of love, as in <i>James Lee's Wife</i> and <i>In a Balcony</i>, +to name the poems nearest at hand, is for the +most part so involved in his peculiar psychological +method that we cannot for a moment forget ourselves +in this freer emotion.</p> + +<p>And in his attitude towards nature it is the +same thing. I have not read Schopenhauer for +many years, but I remember as if it were yesterday +my sensation of joy as in the course of his +argument I came upon these two lines quoted +from Horace:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nox erat et cælo fulgebat luna sereno<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Inter minora sidera.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">How perfectly simple the words, and yet it was +as if the splendour of the heavens had broken +upon me—rather, in some strange way, within +me. And that, I suppose, is the real function of +descriptive poetry—not to present a detailed scene +to the eye, but in its mysterious manner to sink +our sense of individual life in this larger sympathy +with the world. Now and then, no doubt, Browning, +too, strikes this universal note, as, for instance, +in those lines from <i>Paracelsus</i> already +quoted. But for the most part, his description, +like his lyrical passion, is adapted with remarkable +skill towards individualising still further the +problem or character that he is analysing. Take +that famous passage in <i>Easter-Day</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">And as I said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This nonsense, throwing back my head<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With light complacent laugh, I found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suddenly all the midnight round<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One fire. The dome of heaven had stood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As made up of a multitude<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rack<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of ripples infinite and black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From sky to sky. Sudden there went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like horror and astonishment,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fierce vindictive scribble of red<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quick flame across, as if one said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(The angry scribe of Judgment), "There—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burn it!" And straight I was aware<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the whole ribwork round, minute<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cloud touching cloud beyond compute,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was tinted, each with its own spot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of burning at the core, till clot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jammed against clot, and spilt its fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over all heaven. . . .<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">We are far enough from the "Nox erat" of +Horace or even the "trunks that glare like grates +of hell"; we are seeing the world with the eye +of a man whose mind is perplexed and whose +imagination is narrowed down by terror to a +single question: "How hard it is to be A +Christian!"</p> + +<p>And nothing, perhaps, confirms this impression +of a body of writing which is neither quite prose +nor quite poetry more than the rhythm of Browning's +verse. Lady Burne-Jones in the Memorials +of her husband tells of meeting the poet at Denmark +Hill, when some talk went on about the +rate at which the pulse of different people beat. +Browning suddenly leaned toward her, saying,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +"Do me the honour to feel my pulse"—but to +her surprise there was none to feel. His pulse +was, in fact, never perceptible to touch. The notion +may seem fantastic, but, in view of certain recent +investigations of psychology into the relation +between our pulse and our sense of rhythm, I have +wondered whether the lack of any regular systole +and diastole in Browning's verse may not rest on +a physical basis. There is undoubtedly a kind of +proper motion in his language, but it is neither +the regular rise and fall of verse nor the more +loosely balanced cadences of prose; or, rather, it +vacillates from one movement to the other, in a +way which keeps the rhythmically trained ear in +a state of acute tension. But it has at least the +interest of corresponding curiously to the writer's +trick of steering between the elevation of poetry +and the analysis of prose. It rounds out completely +our impression of watching the most expert +funambulist in English letters. Nor is there +anything strange in this intimate relation between +the content of his writing and the mechanism of +his metre. "The purpose of rhythm," says Mr. +Yeats in a striking passage of one of his essays, +"it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the +moment of contemplation, the moment when we +are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment +of creation, by hushing us with an alluring +monotony, while it holds us waking by variety." +That is the neo-Celt's mystical way of putting a +truth that all have felt—the fact that the regular<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +sing-song of verse exerts a species of enchantment +on the senses, lulling to sleep the individual within +us and translating our thoughts and emotions into +something significant of the larger experience of +mankind.</p> + +<p>But I would not leave this aspect of Browning's +work without making a reservation which may +seem to some (though wrongly, I think) to invalidate +all that has been said. For it does happen +now and again that he somehow produces the +unmistakable exaltation of poetry through the +very exaggeration of his unpoetical method. +Nothing could be more indirect, more oblique, +than his way of approaching the climax in +<i>Cleon</i>. The ancient Greek poet, writing "from +the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the +sea," answers certain queries of Protus the Tyrant. +He contrasts the insufficiency of the artistic +life with that of his master, and laments bitterly +the vanity of pursuing ideal beauty when the goal +at the end is only death:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">It is so horrible,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I dare at times imagine to my need<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unlimited in capability<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For joy, as this is in desire for joy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . But no!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He must have done so, were it possible!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The poem, one begins to suspect, is a specimen +of Browning's peculiar manner of indirection; in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +reality, through this monologue, suspended delicately +between self-examination and dramatic +confession, he is focussing in one individual heart +the doom of the great civilisation that is passing +away and the splendid triumph of the new. And +then follows the climax, as it were an accidental +afterthought:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">And for the rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I cannot tell thy messenger aright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where to deliver what he bears of thine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I know not, nor am troubled much to know.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hath access to a secret shut from us?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou wrongest our philosophy, O King,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In stooping to inquire of such an one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if his answer could impose at all!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And (as I gathered from a bystander)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It is not revoking what has been said to admit +that the superb audacity of the indirection in +these underscored lines touches on the sublime; +the individual is involuntarily rapt into communion +with the great currents that sweep +through human affairs, and the interest of psychology +is lost in the elevation of poetry. At the +same time it ought to be added that this effect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +would scarcely have been possible were not the +rhythm and the mechanism of the verse unusually +free of Browning's prosaic mannerism.</p> + +<p>It might seem that enough had been said to +explain why Browning is popular. The attitude +of the ordinary intelligent reader toward him is, I +presume, easily stated. A good many of Browning's +mystifications, <i>Sordello</i>, for one, he simply +refuses to bother himself with. <i>Le jeu</i>, he says +candidly, <i>ne vaut pas les chandelles</i>. Other works +he goes through with some impatience, but with +an amount of exhilarating surprise sufficient to +compensate for the annoyances. If he is trained +in literary distinctions, he will be likely to lay +down the book with the exclamation: <i>C'est magnifique, +mais ce n'est pas la poésie!</i> And probably +such a distinction will not lessen his admiration; +for it cannot be asserted too often that the reading +public to-day is ready to accede to any legitimate +demand on its analytical understanding, but that +it responds sluggishly, or only spasmodically, to +that readjustment of the emotions necessary for +the sustained enjoyment of such a poem as <i>Paradise +Lost</i>. But I suspect that we have not yet +touched the real heart of the problem. All this +does not explain that other phase of Browning's +popularity, which depends upon anything but +the common sense of the average reader; and, +least of all, does it account for the library of +books, of which Professor Herford's is the latest +example. There is another public which craves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +a different food from the mere display of human +nature; it is recruited largely by the women's +clubs and by men who are unwilling or afraid to +hold their minds in a state of self-centred expectancy +toward the meaning of a civilisation shot +through by threads of many ages and confused +colours; it is kept in a state of excitation by +critics who write lengthily and systematically of +"joy in soul." Now there is a certain philosophy +which is in a particular way adapted to such +readers and writers. Its beginnings, no doubt, +are rooted in the naturalism of Rousseau and +the eighteenth century, but the flower of it belongs +wholly to our own age. It is the philosophy +whose purest essence may be found distilled in +Browning's magical alembic, and a single drop +of it will affect the brain of some people with +a strange giddiness.</p> + +<p>And here again I am tempted to abscond behind +those blessed words <i>Platonische Ideen</i> and +<i>Begriffe, universalia ante rem</i> and <i>universalia post +rem</i>, which offer so convenient an escape from the +difficulty of meaning what one says. It would +be so easy with those counters of German metaphysicians +and the schoolmen to explain how it +is that Browning has a philosophy of generalised +notions, and yet so often misses the form of generalisation +special to the poet. The fact is his +philosophy is not so much inherent in his writing +as imposed on it from the outside. His theory +of love does not expand like Dante's into a great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +vision of life wherein symbol and reality are fused +together, but is added as a commentary on the +action or situation. And on the other hand he +does not accept the simple and pathetic incompleteness +of life as a humbler poet might, but +must try with his reason to reconcile it with an +ideal system:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the ball of it,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Peering and prying,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How I see all of it,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Life there, outlying!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Roughness and smoothness,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shine and defilement,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grace and uncouthness:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">One reconcilement.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Yet "ideal" and "reconcilement" are scarcely +the words; for Browning's philosophy, when detached, +as it may be, from its context, teaches +just the acceptance of life in itself as needing no +conversion into something beyond its own impulsive +desires:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let us not always say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Spite of this flesh to-day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the bird wings and sings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us cry, "All good things<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Passion to Shakespeare was the source of tragedy; +there is no tragedy, properly speaking, in +Browning, for the reason that passion is to him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +essentially good. By sheer bravado of human +emotion we justify our existence, nay—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We have to live alone to set forth well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God's praise.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">His notion of "moral strength," as Professor Santayana +so forcibly says, "is a blind and miscellaneous +vehemence."</p> + +<p>But if all the passions have their own validity, +one of them in particular is the power that moves +through all and renders them all good:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In my own heart love had not been made wise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To know even hate is but a mask of love's.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It is the power that reaches up from earth to +heaven, and the divine nature is no more than a +higher, more vehement manifestation of its energy:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the loving worm within its clod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were diviner than a loveless god.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">And in the closing vision of <i>Saul</i> this thought of +the identity of man's love and God's love is uttered +by David in a kind of delirious ecstasy:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'T is the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> + +<p>But there is no need to multiply quotations. +The point is that in all Browning's rhapsody +there is nowhere a hint of any break between the +lower and the higher nature of man, or between +the human and the celestial character. Not that +his philosophy is pantheistic, for it is Hebraic in +its vivid sense of God's distinct personality; but +that man's love is itself divine, only lesser in degree. +There is nothing that corresponds to the +tremendous words of Beatrice to Dante when he +meets her face to face in the Terrestrial Paradise:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">Guardami ben: ben son, ben son Beatrice.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Come degnasti d' accedere al monte?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Non sapei to the qui è l'uom felice?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(Behold me well: lo, Beatrice am I.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou, how daredst thou to this mount draw nigh?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Knew'st thou not here was man's felicity?)—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">nothing that corresponds to the "scot of penitence," +the tears, and the plunge into the river of +Lethe before the new, transcendent love begins. +Indeed, the point of the matter is not that Browning +magnifies human love in its own sphere of +beauty, but that he speaks of it with the voice of +a prophet of spiritual things and proclaims it as a +complete doctrine of salvation. Often, as I read +the books on Browning's gospel of human passion, +my mind recurs to that scene in the Gospel +of St. John, wherein it is told how a certain Nicodemus +of the Pharisees came to Jesus by night and +was puzzled by the hard saying: "Except a man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of +God." There is no lack of confessions from that +day to this of men to whom it has seemed that +they were born again, and always, I believe, the +new birth, like the birth of the body, was consummated +with wailing and anguish, and afterwards +the great peace. This is a mystery into +which it is no business of mine to enter, but with +the singularly uniform record of these confessions +in my memory, I cannot but wonder at the light +message of the new prophet: "If you desire faith—then +you've faith enough," and "For God is +glorified in man." I am even sceptical enough +to believe that the vaunted conclusion of <i>Fifine at +the Fair</i>, "I end with—Love is all and Death is +naught," sounds like the wisdom of a schoolgirl. +There is an element in Browning's popularity +which springs from those readers who are content +to look upon the world as it is; they feel the +power of his lyric song when at rare intervals it +flows in pure and untroubled grace, and they enjoy +the intellectual legerdemain of his suspended +psychology. But there is another element in that +popularity (and this, unhappily, is the inspiration +of the clubs and of the formulating critics) which +is concerned too much with this flattering substitute +for spirituality. Undoubtedly, a good deal +of restiveness exists under what is called the +materialism of modern life, and many are looking +in this way and that for an escape into the purer +joy which they hear has passed from the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +It used to be believed that Calderon was a bearer +of the message, Calderon who expressed the doctrine +of the saints and the poets:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pues el delito mayor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Del hombre es haber nacido—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">(since the greatest transgression of man is to +have been born). It was believed that the spiritual +life was bought with a price, and that the +desires of this world must first suffer permutation +into something not themselves. I am not +holding a brief for that austere doctrine; I am not +even sure that I quite understand it, although it +is written at large in many books. But I do +know that those who think they have found its +equivalent in the poetry of Browning are misled +by wandering and futile lights. The secret of his +more esoteric fame is just this, that he dresses a +worldly and easy philosophy in the forms of spiritual +faith and so deceives the troubled seekers after +the higher life.</p> + +<p>It is not pleasant to be convicted of throwing +stones at the prophets, as I shall appear to many +to have done. My only consolation is that, if the +prophet is a true teacher, these stones of the casual +passer-by merely raise a more conspicuous monument +to his honour; but if he turns out in the end +to be a false prophet (as I believe Browning to +have been)—why, then, let his disciples look to it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_NOTE_ON_BYRONS_DON_JUAN" id="A_NOTE_ON_BYRONS_DON_JUAN"></a>A NOTE ON BYRON'S "DON JUAN"</h2> + + +<p>It has often been a source of wonder to me that +I was able to read and enjoy Byron's <i>Don Juan</i> +under the peculiar circumstances attending my +introduction to that poem. I had been walking +in the Alps, and after a day of unusual exertion +found myself in the village of Chamouni, fatigued +and craving rest. A copy of the Tauchnitz edition +fell into my hands, and there, in a little room, +through a summer's day, by a window which +looked full upon the unshadowed splendour of +Mont Blanc, I sat and read, and only arose when +Juan faded out of sight with "the phantom of her +frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke." I have often wondered, +I say, why the incongruity of that solemn +Alpine scene with the mockery of Byron's wit did +not cause me to shut the book and thrust it away, +for in general I am highly sensitive to the nature +of my surroundings while reading. Only recently, +on taking up the poem again for the purpose of +editing it, did the answer to that riddle occur to +me, and with it a better understanding of the +place of <i>Don Juan</i> among the great epics which +might have seemed in finer accord with the sublimity +and peace of that memorable day.</p> + +<p>In one respect, at least, it needed no return to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +Byron's work to show how closely it is related in +spirit to the accepted canons of the past. These +poets, who have filled the world with their +rumour, all looked upon life with some curious +obliquity of vision. We, who have approached +the consummation of the world's hope, know that +happiness and peace and the fulfilment of desires +are about to settle down and brood for ever more +over the lot of mankind, but with them it seems +to have been otherwise. Who can forget the recurring +<i>minynthadion</i> of Homer, in which he +summed up for the men of his day the vanity of +long aspirations? So if we were asked to point +out the lines of Shakespeare that express most +completely his attitude toward life, we should +probably quote that soliloquy of Hamlet wherein +he catalogues the evils of existence, and only in +the fear of future dreams finds a reason for continuance; +or we should cite that sonnet of disillusion: +"Tired with all these for restful death I +cry." And as for the lyric poets, sooner or later +the lament of Shelley was wrung from the lips of +each:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the day and night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A joy has taken flight:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight<br /></span> +<span class="i1">No more—oh, never more!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This, I repeat, is a strange fact, for it appears +that these poets, prophets who spoke in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +language of beauty and who have held the world's +reverence so long—it appears now that these interpreters +of the fates were all misled. Possibly, +as Aristotle intimated, genius is allied to some +vice of the secretions which produces a melancholia +of the brain; something like this, indeed, +only expressed in more recondite terms, may be +found in the most modern theory of science. But +more probably they wrote merely from insufficient +experience, not having perceived how the human +race with increase of knowledge grows in happiness. +Thus, at least, it seems to one who observes +the tides of thought. Next year, or the +next, some divine invention shall come which will +prove this melancholy of the poets to have been +only a childish ignorance of man's sublimer destiny; +some discovery of a new element more +wonderful than radium will render the ancient +brooding over human feebleness a matter of +laughter and astonishment; some acceptance of +the larger brotherhood of the race will wipe away +all tears and bring down upon earth the fair +dream of heaven, a reality and a possession for +ever; some new philosophy of the soul will convert +the old poems of conflict into meaningless +fables, stale and unprofitable. Already we see +the change at hand. To how many persons to-day +does Browning appeal—though they would +not always confess it—more powerfully than +Homer or Milton or any other of the great names +of antiquity? And the reason of this closer appeal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +of Browning is chiefly the unflagging optimism of +his philosophy, his full-blooded knowledge and +sympathy which make the wailings of the past +somewhat silly in our ears, if truth must be told. +I never read Browning but those extraordinary +lines of Euripides recur to my mind: "Not +now for the first time do I regard mortal things +as a shadow, nor would I fear to charge with +supreme folly those artificers of words who are +reckoned the sages of mankind, for no man among +mortals is happy." +Θνητῶν γὰρ οὐδείς +ἐστιν εὐδαίμων, +indeed!—would any one be shameless +enough to utter such words under the new dispensation +of official optimism?</p> + +<p>It is necessary to think of these things before +we attempt to criticise Byron, for <i>Don Juan</i>, too, +despite its marvellous vivacity, looks upon life +from the old point of view. Already, for this +reason in part, it seems a little antiquated to us, +and in a few years it may be read only as a curiosity. +Meanwhile for the few who lag behind in +the urgent march of progress the poem will possess +a special interest just because it presents the +ancient thesis of the poets and prophets in a novel +form. Of course, in many lesser matters it makes +a wider and more lasting appeal. Part of the +Haidée episode, for instance, is so exquisitely +lovely, so radiant with the golden haze of youth, +that even in the wiser happiness of our maturity +we may still turn to it with a kind of complacent +delight. Briefer passages scattered here and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +there, such as the "'T is sweet to hear," and the +"Ave Maria," need only a little abridgment at +the close to fit them perfectly for any future +anthology devoted to the satisfaction and the +ultimate significance of human emotions. But, +strangely enough, these disturbing climaxes, +which will demand to be forgotten, or to be rearranged +as we restore old mutilated statues, do, +indeed, point to those very qualities which render +the poem so extraordinary a complement to the +great and accepted epics of the past. For the +present it may yet be sufficient to consider <i>Don +Juan</i> as it is—with all its enormities upon it.</p> + +<p>And, first of all, we shall make a sad mistake +if we regard the poem as a mere work of satire. +Occasionally Byron pretends to lash himself into +a righteous fury over the vices of the age, but we +know that this is all put on, and that the real +savageness of his nature comes out only when he +thinks of his own personal wrongs. Now this is +a very different thing from the deliberate and +sustained denunciation of a vicious age such as +we find in Juvenal, a different thing utterly from +the <i>sæva indignatio</i> that devoured the heart and +brain of poor Swift. There is in <i>Don Juan</i> something +of the personal satire of Pope, and something +of the whimsical mockery of Lucilius and +his imitators. But it needs but a little discernment +to see that Byron's poem has vastly greater +scope and significance than the <i>Epistle to Dr. +Arbuthnot</i>, or the spasmodic gaiety of the Menip<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>pean +satire. It does in its own way present a +view of life as a whole, with the good and the evil, +and so passes beyond the category of the merely +satirical. The very scope of its subject, if nothing +more, classes it with the more universal +epics of literature rather than with the poems that +portray only a single aspect of life.</p> + +<p>Byron himself was conscious of this, and more +than once alludes to the larger aspect of his work. +"If you must have an epic," he once said to +Medwin, "there's <i>Don Juan</i> for you; it is an +epic as much in the spirit of our day as the <i>Iliad</i> +was in that of Homer." And in one of the asides +in the poem itself he avows the same design:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">A panoramic view of Hell's in training,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After the style of Virgil and of Homer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So that my name of Epic's no misnomer.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Hardly the style of those stately writers, to be +sure, but an epic after its own fashion the poem +certainly is. That Byron's way is not the way of +the older poets requires no emphasis; they</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">reveled in the fancies of the time,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">True Knights, chaste Dames, huge Giants, Kings despotic;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But all these, save the last, being obsolete,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I chose a modern subject as more meet.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Being cut off from the heroic subjects of the +established school, he still sought to obtain something +of the same large and liberating effect +through the use of a frankly modern theme.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +The task was not less difficult than his success +was singular and marked; and that is why it +seemed in no way inappropriate, despite its occasional +lapse of licentiousness, to read <i>Don Juan</i> +with the white reflection of Mont Blanc streaming +through the window. Homer might have been +so read, or Virgil, or any of those poets who presented +life solemnly and magniloquently; I do not +think I could have held my mind to Juvenal or +Pope or even Horace beneath the calm radiance +of that Alpine light.</p> + +<p>I have said that the great poets all took a +sombre view of the world. Man is but <i>the dream +of a shadow</i>, said Pindar, speaking for the race of +genius, and Byron is conscious of the same insight +into the illusive spectacle. He has looked +with like vision upon</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">this scene of all-confessed inanity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Saint, by Sage, by Preacher, and by Poet,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">and will not in his turn refrain "from holding +up the nothingness of life." So in the introduction +to the seventh canto he runs through the list +of those who have preached and sung this solemn, +but happily to us outworn, theme:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I say no more than hath been said in Dante's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">It must not be supposed, however, because the +heroic poems of old were touched with the pettiness +and sadness of human destiny, that their +influence on the reader was supposed to be narrow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>ing +or depressing; the name "heroic" implies +the contrary of that. Indeed their very inspiration +was derived from the fortitude of a spirit +struggling to rise above the league of little things +and foiling despairs. It may seem paradoxical to +us, yet it is true that these morbid poets believed +in the association of men with gods and in the +grandeur of mortal passions. So Achilles and +Hector, both with the knowledge of their brief +destiny upon them, both filled with foreboding of +frustrate hopes, strive nobly to the end of magnanimous +defeat. There lay the greatness of the +heroic epos for readers of old,—the sense of human +littleness, the melancholy of broken aspirations, +swallowed up in the transcending sublimity of +man's endurance and daring. And men of lesser +mould, who knew so well the limitations of their +sphere, took courage and were taught to look +down unmoved upon their harassed fate.</p> + +<p>Now Byron came at a time of transition from +the old to the new. The triumphs of material +discovery, "<i>Le magnifiche sorti e progressive</i>," +had not yet cast a reproach on the earlier sense +of life's futility, while at the same time the faith +in heroic passions had passed away. An attempt +to create an epic in the old spirit would have +been doomed, was indeed doomed in the hands of +those who undertook it. The very language in +which Byron presents the ancient universal belief +of Plato and those others</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who knew this life was not worth a potato,—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> +<p class="noidt">shows how far he was from the loftier mode of +imagination. In place of heroic passion he must +seek another outlet of relief, another mode of +purging away melancholy; and the spirit of the +burlesque came lightly to his use as the only +available <i>vis medica</i>. The feeling was common +to his age, but he alone was able to adapt the +motive to epic needs. How often the melancholy +sentimentality of Heine corrects itself by a burlesque +conclusion! Or, if we regard the novel, +how often does Thackeray in like manner replace +the old heroic relief of passion by a kindly smile +at the brief and busy cares of men. But neither +Heine nor Thackeray carries the principle of the +burlesque to its artistic completion, or makes it +the avowed motive of a complicated action, as +Byron does in <i>Don Juan</i>. That poem is indeed +"prolific of melancholy merriment." It is not +necessary to point out at length the persistence of +this mock-heroic spirit. Love, ambition, home-attachments, +are all burlesqued; battle ardour, +the special theme of epic sublimity, is subjected +to the same quizzical mockery:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was not now a luggage boy, but sought<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Danger and spoil with ardour much increased;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And why? because a little—odd—old man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stripped to his shirt, was come to lead the van.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">In the gruesome shipwreck scene the tale of suffering +which leads to cannibalism is interrupted thus:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At length they caught two Boobies, and a Noddy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then they left off eating the dead body.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> +<p class="noidt">The description of London town as seen from +Shooter's Hill ends with this absurd metaphor:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A huge, dun Cupola, like a foolscap crown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On a fool's head—and there is London Town!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Even Death laughs,—death that "<i>hiatus maxime +defiendus</i>," "the dunnest of all duns," etc. And, +last of all, the poet turns the same weapon against +his own art. Do the lines for a little while grow +serious, he suddenly pulls himself up with a +sneer:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I trust, however, it has been made sufficiently +clear that <i>Don Juan</i> is something quite different +from the mere mock-heroic—from Pulci, for instance, +"sire of the half-serious rhyme," whom +Byron professed to imitate. The poem is in a +sense not half but wholly serious, for the very +reason that it takes so broad a view of human +activity, and because of its persistent moral sense. +(Which is nowise contradicted by the immoral +scenes in several of the cantos.) It is not, for +example, possible to think of finding in Pulci +such a couplet as this:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But almost sanctify the sweet excess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the immortal wish and power to bless.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">He who could write such lines as those was not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +merely indulging his humour. <i>Don Juan</i> is +something more than</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A versified Aurora Borealis,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Out of the bitterness of his soul, out of the wreck +of his passions which, though heroic in intensity, +had ended in quailing of the heart, he sought +what the great makers of epic had sought,—a +solace and a sense of uplifted freedom. The +heroic ideal was gone, the refuge of religion was +gone; but, passing to the opposite extreme, by +showing the power of the human heart to mock at +all things, he would still set forth the possibility +of standing above and apart from all things. +He, too, went beyond the limitations of destiny +by laughter, as Homer and Virgil and Milton +had risen by the imagination. And, in doing +this, he wrote the modern epic.</p> + +<p>We are learning a new significance of human +life, as I said; and the sublime audacities of the +elder poets in attempting to transcend the melancholia +of their day are growing antiquated, just as +Byron's heroic mockery is turning stale. In a +few years we shall have come so much closer to +the mysteries over which the poets bungled helplessly, +that we can afford to forget their rhapsodies. +Meanwhile it may not be amiss to make +clear to ourselves the purpose and character of one +of the few, the very few, great poems in our +literature.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="LAURENCE_STERNE" id="LAURENCE_STERNE"></a>LAURENCE STERNE</h2> + + +<p>A number of excellent editions of our standard +authors have been put forth during the last two +or three years, but none of them, perhaps, has +been of such real service to letters as the new +Sterne edited by Professor Wilbur L. Cross.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p>Ordinarily the fresh material advertised in +these editions is in large measure rubbish which +had been deliberately discarded by the author and +whose resuscitation is an impertinence to his +memory. Certainly this is true of Murray's new +Byron; it is in part true of the great editions of +Hazlitt and Lamb recently published, to go no +further afield. But with Sterne the case is different. +The <i>Journal to Eliza</i> and the letters now +first printed in full from the "Gibbs manuscript" +are a genuine aid in getting at the heart of Sterne's +elusive character. Even more important is the +readjustment of dates for the older correspondence, +which the present editor has accomplished +at the cost of considerable pains, for the setting +back of a letter two years may make all the differ<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>ence +between a lying knave and an unstable +sentimentalist. In the spring of 1767, just a +year before his death, Sterne was inditing those +rather sickly letters and the newly published +<i>Journal</i> to Eliza, a susceptible young woman who +was about to sail for India. "The coward," says +Thackeray, "was writing gay letters to his friends +this while, with sneering allusions to his poor +foolish <i>Brahmine</i>. Her ship was not out of +the Downs, and the charming Sterne was at +the 'Mount Coffee-House,' with a sheet of gilt-edged +paper before him, offering that precious +treasure, his heart, to Lady P——." It is an +ugly charge, and indeed Thackeray's whole portrait +of the humourist is harshly painted. But +Sterne was not sneering in other letters at his +"Brahmine," as he called the rather spoiled East +India lady, and it turns out from some very pretty +calculations of Professor Cross that the particular +note to Lady P[ercy] must have been written at +the Mount Coffee-House two years before he ever +knew Eliza. "Coward," "wicked," "false," +"wretched worn-out old scamp," "mountebank," +"foul Satyr," "the last words the famous author +wrote were bad and wicked, the last lines the poor +stricken wretch penned were for pity and pardon"—for +shame, Mr. Thackeray! Sterne was a weak +man, one may admit; wretched and worn-out he +was when the final blow struck him in his lonely +hired room; but is there no pity and pardon on +your pen for the wayward penitent? You had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +sympathy enough and facile tears enough for the +genial Costigans and the others who followed +their hearts too readily; have you no <i>Alas, poor +Yorick!</i> for the author who gave you these characters? +You could smile at Pendennis when he +used the old songs for a second love; was it a +terrible thing that Yorick should have taken passages +from his early letters (copies of which were +thriftily preserved after the fashion of the day) +and sent them as the bubblings of fresh emotion +at the end of his life? "One solitary plate, one +knife, one fork, one glass!—I gave a thousand +pensive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst +so often graced, in those quiet and sentimental +repasts—then laid down my knife and fork, and +took out my handkerchief, and clapped it across +my face, and wept like a child"—he wrote to +Miss Lumley who afterwards became Mrs. Sterne; +and in the <i>Journal</i> kept for Eliza when he was +broken in spirit and near to death, you may read +the same words, as Thackeray read them in +manuscript, and you may call them false and +lying; but I am inclined to believe they were +quite as genuine as most of the pathos of that +lachrymose age. The want of sympathy in +Thackeray's case is the harder to understand for +the reason that to Sterne more than to any other +of the eighteenth-century wits he would seem to +owe his style and his turn of thought. On many +a page his peculiar sentiment reads like a direct +imitation of <i>Tristram Shandy</i>; add but a touch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +of caprice to Colonel Newcome and you might +almost imagine my Uncle Toby parading in the +nineteenth century; and I think it is just the lack +of this whimsical touch that makes the good +colonel a little mawkish to many readers. And +if one is to look for an antetype of Thackeray's +exquisite English, whither shall one turn unless +to the <i>Sermons</i> of Mr. Yorick? There is a taint +of ingratitude in his affectation of being shocked at +the irregularities of one to whom he was so much +indebted, and I fear Mr. Thackeray was too consciously +appealing to the Philistine prejudices of +the good folk who were listening to his lectures. +Afterwards, when the mischief was done, he suffered +what looks like a qualm of conscience. In +one of the <i>Roundabout Papers</i> he tells how he +slept in Sterne's old hotel at Calais: "When I +went to bed in the room, in <i>his</i> room, when I +think how I admire, dislike, and have abused +him, a certain dim feeling of apprehension filled +my mind at the midnight hour. What if I should +see his lean figure in the black-satin breeches, his +sinister smile, his long thin finger pointing to me +in the moonlight!" Unfortunately the popular +notion of Sterne is still based almost exclusively +on the picture of him in the <i>English Humourists</i>.</p> + +<p>It is to be hoped that at last this carefully prepared +edition will do something toward dispelling +that false impression. Certainly, the various introductions +furnished by Professor Cross are admirable +for their fairness and insight. He does<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +not attempt a panegyric of Sterne, as did Mr. +Fitzgerald in the first edition of the <i>Life</i>, nor does +he awkwardly overlay panegyric with censure, as +these are found in the present revised form of that +narrative; he recognises the errors of the sentimentalist, +but he does not call them by exaggerated +names. And he sees, too, the fundamental +sincerity of the man, knowing that no great book +was ever penned without that quality, whatever +else might be missing. I think he will account it +for service in a good cause if, as an essayist taking +my material where it may be found, I try to draw +a little closer still to the sly follower of Rabelais +whom he has honoured by so elaborate a study.</p> + +<p>Possibly Professor Cross does not recognise +fully enough the influence of Sterne's early years +on his character. It is indeed a vagrant and +Shandean childhood to which the Rev. Mr. +Laurence Sterne introduces us in the <i>Memoir</i> +written late in life for the benefit of his daughter +Lydia. The father, a lieutenant in Handaside's +regiment, passed from engagement to idleness, +and from barrack to barrack, more than was the +custom even in those unsettled days. At Clonmel, +in the south of Ireland, November 24, 1713, +Laurence was born, a few days after the arrival of +his mother from Dunkirk. Other children had +been given to the luckless couple, and were yet to +be added, but here and there they were dropped +on the wayside in pathetic graves, leaving in the +end only two, the future novelist and his sister<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +Catherine, who married a publican in London +and became estranged from her brother by her +"uncle's wickedness and her own folly"—says +Laurence. Of the mother it is not necessary to +say much. The difficulties of her life as a hanger-on +in camps seem to have hardened her, and her +temper ("clamorous and rapacious," he called it) +was in all points unlike her son's. That Sterne +neglected her brutally is a charge as old as Walpole's +scandalous tongue, and Byron, taking his +cue from thence, gave piquancy to the accusation +by saying that "he preferred whining over a dead +ass to relieving a living mother." Sterne's minute +refutation of the slander may now be read at full +length in a letter to the very uncle who set the +tale agoing. The boy would seem to have taken +the father's mercurial temperament, though not +his physique:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The regiment [he writes] was sent to defend Gibraltar, +at the siege, where my father was run through the body +by Capt. Phillips, in a duel (the quarrel began about a +goose!): with much difficulty he survived, though with +an impaired constitution, which was not able to withstand +the hardships it was put to; for he was sent to +Jamaica, where he soon fell by the country fever, which +took away his senses first, and made a child of him; and +then, in a month or two, walking about continually +without complaining, till the moment he sat down in an +armchair, and breathed his last, which was at Port Antonio, +on the north of the island. My father was a little +smart man, active to the last degree in all exercises, +most patient of fatigue and disappointments, of which it +pleased God to give him full measure. He was, in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +temper, somewhat rapid and hasty, but of a kindly, +sweet disposition, void of all design; and so innocent in +his own intentions, that he suspected no one; so that +you might have cheated him ten times in a day, if nine +had not been sufficient for your purpose.</p></div> + +<p>Lieutenant Sterne died in 1731, and it would +require but a few changes in the son's record to +make it read like a page from <i>Henry Esmond</i>; +the very texture of the language, the turn of the +quizzical pathos, are Thackeray's.</p> + +<p>Laurence at this time was at school near Halifax, +where he got into a characteristic scrape. +The ceiling of the schoolroom had been newly +whitewashed; the ladder was standing, and the +boy mounted it and wrote in large letters, <span class="smcap">Lau. +Sterne</span>. The usher whipped him severely, but, +says the <i>Memoir</i>, "my master was very much +hurt at this, and said, before me, that never +should that name be effaced, for I was a boy of +genius, and he was sure I should come to preferment." +From Halifax Sterne went to Jesus College, +Cambridge, at the expense of a cousin. An +uncle at York next took charge of him and got +him the living of Sutton, and afterwards the +Prebendary of York. Just how he came to +quarrel with this patron we shall probably never +know. Sterne himself declares that his uncle +wished him to write political paragraphs for the +Whigs, that he detested such "dirty work," and +got his uncle's hatred in return for his independence. +According to the writer of the <i>Yorkshire<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +Anecdotes</i>, the two fell out over a woman—which +sounds more like the truth. Meanwhile, Laurence +had been successfully courting Miss Elizabeth +Lumley at York, and, during her absence, +had been writing those love-letters which his +daughter published after the death of her parents, +to the immense increase of sentimentalism +throughout the United Kingdom. They are, in +sooth, but a sickly, hothouse production, though +honestly enough meant, no doubt. The writer, +too, kept a copy of them, and thriftily made use +of select passages at a later date, as we have seen. +Miss Lumley became Mrs. Sterne in due time, +and brought to her husband a modest jointure, +and another living at Stillington, so that he was +now a pluralist, although far from rich. The +marriage was not particularly happy. Madam, +one gathers, was pragmatic and contentious and +unreasonable, her reverend spouse was volatile +and pleasure-loving; and when, in the years of +Yorick's fame, they went over to France, she decided +to stay there with her daughter. Sterne +seems to have been fond of her always, in a way, +and in money matters was never anything but +generous and tactfully considerate. A bad-hearted +man is not so thoughtful of his wife's +comfort after she has left him, as Sterne's letters +show him to have been; and even Thackeray admits +that his affection for the girl was "artless, +kind, affectionate, and <i>not</i> sentimental."</p> + +<p>But the lawful Mrs. Sterne was not the only<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +woman at whose feet the parson of Sutton and +Stillington was sighing. There was that Mlle. +de Fourmantelle, a Huguenot refugee, the "dear, +dear Kitty" (or "Jenny" as she becomes in <i>Tristram +Shandy</i>), to whom he sends presents of wine +and honey (with notes asking, "What is honey +to the sweetness of thee?"), and who followed +him to London in the heyday of his fame, where +somehow she fades mysteriously out of view. "I +myself must ever have some Dulcinea in my +head," he said; "it harmonises the soul." And, +in truth, the soul of Yorick was mewed in the +cage of his breast very near his heart, and never +stretched her wings out of that close atmosphere. +Charity was his creed in the pulpit, and his love +of woman had a curious and childlike way of +fortifying the Christian love of his neighbour. +Most famous of all was his passion—it seems almost +to have been a passion in this case—for the +famous "Eliza." Towards the end of his life he +had become warmly attached to a certain William +James, a retired Indian commodore, and his wife, +who were the best and most wholesome of his +friends. At their London home he met Mrs. +Elizabeth Draper, and soon became romantically +attached to her. When the time drew near for +her to sail to India to rejoin her husband, he +wrote a succession of notes in a kind of paroxysm +of grief for himself and anxiety for her, and for +several months afterwards he kept a journal of his +emotions for her benefit some day. He was dead<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +in less than a year. The letters she kept, and in +due time printed, because it was rumoured that +Lydia was to publish them from copies—a pretty +bit of wrangling among all these women there +was, over the sentimental relics of poor Yorick! +The <i>Journal</i> is now for the first time included in +the author's works—a singular document, as eccentric +in spelling and grammar as the sentiment +is hard to define, a wild and hysterical record. +But it rings true on the whole, and confirms the +belief that Sterne's feelings were genuine, however +short-lived they may have been. The last +letter to Eliza is pitiful with its tale of a broken +body and a sick heart: "In ten minutes after I +dispatched my letter, this poor, fine-spun frame +of Yorick's gave way, and I broke a vessel in my +breast, and could not stop the loss of blood till +four this morning. I have filled all thy India +handkerchiefs with it.—It came, I think, from +my heart! I fell asleep through weakness. At +six I awoke, with the bosom of my shirt steeped +in tears." All through the <i>Journal</i> that follows +are indications of wasted health and of the perplexities +of life that were closing in upon him. +Only at rare intervals the worries are forgotten, +and we get a picture of serener moments. One +day, July 2nd, he grows genuinely idyllic, and it +may not be amiss to copy out his note just as he +penned it:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>But I am in the Vale of Coxwould & wish You saw in +how princely a manner I live in it—tis a Land of Plenty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>—I +sit down alone to Venison, fish or wild fowl—or a +couple of fowls—with curds, and strawberrys & cream, +(and all the simple clean plenty w<sup>cḥ</sup> a rich Vally can +produce)—with a Bottle of wine on my right hand (as in +Bond street) to drink y<sup>ṛ</sup> health—I have a hundred hens +& chickens [he sometimes spelt it <i>chickings</i>] ab<sup>ṭ</sup> my +yard—and not a parishoner catches a hare a rabbit or a +Trout—but he brings it as an offering—In short tis a +golden Vally—& will be the golden Age when You +govern the rural feast, my Bramine, & are the Mistress +of my table & spread it with elegancy and that natural +grace & bounty w<sup>tḥ</sup> w<sup>cḥ</sup> heaven has distinguish'd You...</p> + +<p>—Time goes on slowly—every thing stands still—hours +seem days & days seem Years whilst you lengthen +the Distance between us—from Madras to Bombay—I +shall think it shortening—and then desire & expectation +will be upon the rack again—come—come—</p></div> + +<p>But Eliza never came until Yorick had gone on +a longer journey than Bombay. In England once +more, she traded on her relation to the famous +writer, and then reviled him. She associated +with John Wilkes, and afterwards with the Abbé +Raynal, who writ an absurd, pompous eulogy on +"the Lady who has been so celebrated as the +Correspondent of Mr. Sterne." It is engraved on +her tomb in Bristol Cathedral that "genius and benevolence +were united in her"; but the long letter +composed in the vein of Mrs. Montagu and now +printed from her manuscript belies the first, and +her behaviour after Sterne's death makes a +mockery of the second.</p> + +<p>All this new material throws light on a phase +of this matter which cannot be avoided in any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +discussion of Sterne's character: How far did his +immorality actually extend? To Thackeray he +was a "foul Satyr"; Bagehot thought he was +merely an "old flirt," and others have seen various +degrees of guilt in his philanderings. Now +his relation to Eliza would seem to be pretty decisive +of his character in this respect, and fortunately +the evidence here published in full by +Professor Cross leaves little room for doubt. +There is, for one thing, an extraordinary letter +which is given in facsimile from the rough draft, +with all its erasures and corrections. It was +addressed to Daniel Draper, but was never sent, +apparently never completed. The substance of it +is, to say the least, unusual:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I own it, Sir, that the writing a letter to a gentleman I +have not the honour to be known to—a letter likewise +upon no kind of business (in the ideas of the world) is a +little out of the common course of things—but I'm so +myself, and the impulse which makes me take up my +pen is out of the common way too, for it arises from the +honest pain I should feel in having so great esteem and +friendship as I bear for Mrs. Draper—if I did not wish to +hope and extend it to Mr. Draper also. I am really, +dear sir, in love with your wife; but 'tis a love you +would honour me for, for 'tis so like that I bear my own +daughter, who is a good creature, that I scarce distinguish +a difference betwixt it—that moment I had +would have been the last.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">Follows a polite offer of services, which is nothing +to our purpose.</p> + +<p>Now it is easy to say that such a letter was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +written with the hypocritical intention of allaying +Mr. Draper's possible suspicions, and certainly +the last sentence overshoots the mark. Against +the general innocence of Sterne's life there exist, +in particular, two damaging bits of evidence—that +infamous thing in dog-Latin addressed to the +master of the "Demoniacs," whose meaning must +have been quite lost upon the daughter who published +it, and a pair of brief notes to a woman +named Hannah. Of the Latin letter one may say +that it was probably written in the exaggerated +tone of bravado suitable to its recipient; of both +this and the notes one may add that they do not +incriminate the later years of Sterne's life. As +an offset we now have that extraordinary memorandum +in the <i>Journal to Eliza</i>, dated April 24, +1767, which states explicitly, and convincingly, +that he had led an entirely chaste life for the past +fifteen years. It is not requisite, or indeed possible, +to enter into the evidence further in this place, +but the general inference may be stated with +something like assurance: Sterne's relation to +Eliza was purely sentimental, as was the case +with most of his philandering; at the same time +in his earlier years he had probably indulged in a +life of pleasure such as was by no means uncommon +among the clergy of his day. He was neither +quite the lying scoundrel of Thackeray nor the +"old flirt" of Bagehot, but a man led into many +follies, and many kindnesses also, by an impulsive +heart and a worldly philosophy. It is not his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +immorality that one has to complain of, and the +talk in the books on that score is mostly foolishness; +it is rather his bad taste. He cannot be much +blamed for his estrangement from his wife, and +his care for her comfort is not a little to his credit; +but he might have refrained from writing to Eliza +on the happiness they were to enjoy when the +poor woman was dead—as he had already done +to Mlle. Fourmantelle, and others, too, it may be. +Mrs. Sterne, not long after the departure of Eliza, +had written that she was coming over to England, +and the <i>Journal</i> for a time is filled with forebodings +of the confusion she was to bring with her. +One hardly knows whether to smile or drop a +tear over the Postscript added after the last regular +entry:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Nov: 1<sup>sṭ</sup> All my dearest Eliza has turnd out more +favourable than my hopes—M<sup>rṣ</sup> S.—& my dear Girl have +been 2 Months with me and they have this day left me +to go to spend the Winter at York, after having settled +every thing to their hearts content—M<sup>rṣ</sup> Sterne retires +into france, whence she purposes not to stir, till her +death.—& never, has she vow'd, will give me another +sorrowful or discontented hour—I have conquerd her, +as I w<sup>ḍ</sup> every one else, by humanity & Generosity—& +she leaves me, more than half in Love w<sup>tḥ</sup> me—She goes +into the South of france, her health being insupportable +in England—& her age, as she now confesses ten Years +more, than I thought being on the edge of sixty—so God +bless—& make the remainder of her Life happy—in +order to w<sup>cḥ</sup> I am to remit her three hundred guineas a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>year—& give +my dear Girl two thousand p<sup>dṣ</sup>—w<sup>tḥ</sup> w<sup>cḥ</sup> all +Joy, I agree to,—but tis to be sunk into an annuity in +the french Loans—</p> + +<p>—And now Eliza! Let me talk to thee—But What +can I say, What can I write—But the Yearnings of heart +wasted with looking & wishing for thy Return—Return—Return! +my dear Eliza! May heaven smooth the +Way for thee to send thee safely to us, & joy for Ever.</p></div> + +<p>So ends the famous <i>Journal</i>, which at last we +are permitted to read with all its sins upon it. +And I think the first observation that will occur +to every reader is surprise that a master of style +could write such slipshod, almost illiterate, English. +The fact is a good many of the writers of +the day were content to leave all minor matters +of grammar and orthography to their printer, +whom it was then the fashion to abuse. More +than one page of stately English out of that formal +age would look as queer as Sterne's hectic scribblings, +could we see the original manuscript. But +the ill taste of it all is quite as apparent, and unfortunately +no printer could expunge that fault, +along with his haphazard punctuation, from +Sterne's published works. In another way +his incongruous calling as a priest may be responsible +for a note that particularly jars upon us +to-day. Too often in the midst of very earthly +sentiments he breaks forth with a bit of religious +claptrap, as when in the <i>Journal</i> he cries +out, "Great God of Mercy! shorten the Space betwixt +us—Shorten the space of our miseries!"—or +as when, in that letter to Lady Percy which so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +disgusted Thackeray, he dandles his temptations, +and in the same breath tells how he has repeated +the Lord's Prayer for the sake of deliverance from +them. Again, I say, it is a matter of taste, for +there is no reason to believe that Yorick's religious +feelings were not just as sincere, and as volatile, +too, as his love-making. They sometimes came +to him at an inopportune moment.</p> + +<p>"Un prêtre corrumpu ne l'est jamais à demi"—a +priest is never only half corrupt—said Massillon, +and there are times when such a saying is +true. It is also true, and Sterne's life is witness +thereof, that in certain ages, when compassion +and tenderness of heart have taken the place of +religion's austerer virtues, a man may preach with +conviction on Sunday, and on Monday join without +much disquiet of conscience in the revelries +of a "Crazy" Castle. There is not a great deal +for the moralist to say on such a life; it is a matter +for the historian to explain. At Cambridge +Sterne had made the acquaintance of John Hall +Stevenson, the owner of Skelton, or "Crazy," +Castle, which lay at Guisborough, within convenient +reach of Sterne's Yorkshire homes. An +excellent engraving in the present edition gives a +fair notion of this fantastic dwelling before its +restoration. On a fringe of land between the +edge of what seems a stagnant pool and the foot +of some barren hills, the old pile of stone sits dull +and lowering. First comes a double terrace rising +sheer from the water, and above that a rambling,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> +comfortless-looking structure, pierced in the upper +story by a few solemn windows. Terraces and +building alike are braced with outstanding buttresses, +as if, like the House of Usher, the ancient +edifice might some day split and crumble away +into the lake. At one end of the pile is a heavy +square tower erected long ago for defence; at the +other stands a slender octagonal turret with its +famous weathercock, by whose direction the owner +regulated his mood for the day. The whole bears +an aspect of bleakness and solitude, in startling +contrast with the wild doings of host and guests. +A study yet to be made is a history of the clubs +or associations of the eighteenth century, which, +in imitation, no doubt, of the newly instituted +Masonic rites, were formed for the purpose of +adding the sting of a fraternal secrecy to the +commonplace pleasures of dissipation. Famous +among these were the "Monks of Medmenham +Abbey," and the "Hell-Fire Club," and to a less +degree the "Demoniacs" whom Hall Stevenson +gathered into his notorious abode. If Sterne +found his amusement in this boisterous assembly, +it is charitable (and the evidence points this way) +to suppose that he enjoyed the jovial wit and grotesque +pranks of such a company rather than its +viciousness. It is at least remarkable that Hall +Stevenson, or "Eugenius," as Sterne called him, +seems to have tried to steady the eccentric divine +by more than one piece of practical advice. Above +all, there lay at Skelton a great collection of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +Rabelaisian books, brought together by the +owner during his tours on the Continent; and to +this Sterne owed his eccentric reading and that acquaintance +with the world's humours and whimsicalities +which were to make his fortune.</p> + +<p>Here, then, in the library of his compromising +friend, he gathered the material for his great +work, <i>Tristram Shandy</i>; and, indeed, if we credit +some scholars, he gathered so successfully that +little was left for his own creative talents. It is +demonstrably true that he made extraordinary +use of certain old French books, including Rabelais, +whom he counted with Cervantes as his +master; and from Burton's <i>Anatomy of Melancholy</i> +he borrowed unblushingly, not to mention other +English authors. We are shocked at first to +learn that some of his choicest passages are stolen +goods; the recording angel's tear was shed, it +appears, and my Uncle Toby's fly was released +long before that gentleman was born to sweeten +the world; so too the wind was tempered to the +shorn lamb in proverb before Sterne ever added +that text to the stock of biblical quotations. But +after all, there is little to be gained by unearthing +these plagiarisms. <i>Tristram Shandy</i> and the +<i>Sentimental Journey</i> still remain among the most +original productions in the language, and we are +only taught once more that genius has a high-handed +way of taking its own where it finds it.</p> + +<p>The fact is that this trick of borrowing scarcely +does more than affect a few of those set pieces or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +purple patches by which an author like Sterne +gradually comes to be known and judged. These +are admirably adapted for use in anthologies, for +they may be severed from their context without +cutting a single artery or nerve; but let no one +suppose that from reading them he gets anything +but a distorted view of Sterne's work. They are +all marked by a peculiar kind of artificial pathos—the +recording angel's tear, Uncle Toby's fly, +the dead ass, the caged starling, Maria of +Moulines (I name them as they occur to me)—and +they give a very imperfect notion of the +true Shandean flavour. In their own genre +they are no doubt masterpieces, but it is a genre +which gives pleasure from the perception of the +art, and not from the kindling touch of nature, +in their execution. They are ostensibly pathetic, +yet they make no appeal to the heart, and I +doubt if a tear was ever shed over any of them—even +by the lachrymose Yorick himself. To enjoy +them properly one must key his mind to that +state in which the emotions cease to have validity +in themselves, and are changed into a kind of exquisite +convention. Now, it is easier by far to +detect the inherent insubstantiality of such a convention +than to appreciate its delicately balanced +beauty, and thus it happens that we hear so much +of Sterne's false sentiment from those who base +their criticism primarily on these famous episodes. +For my part I am almost inclined to place the +story of Le Fevre in this class, and to wonder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +if those who call it pathetic really mean that it +has touched their heart; I am sure it never cost +me a sigh.</p> + +<p>No, the highest mastery of Sterne does not lie +in these anthological patches, but first of all in +his power of creating characters. There are not +many persons engaged in the little drama of +Shandy Hall, and their range of action is narrow, +but they are drawn with a skill and a memorable +distinctness which have never been surpassed. +Not the bustling people of Shakespeare's stage +are more real and individual than Mr. Shandy, +my Uncle Toby, Corporal Trim, and Dr. Slop. +Even the minor characters of the servants' hall +are sketched in with wonderful vividness; and if +there is a single failure in all that gallery of portraits, +it is Yorick himself, who was drawn from +the author and is foisted upon the company somewhat +unceremoniously, if truth be told. Nor is +the secret of their lifelikeness hard to discern. +One of the constant creeds of the age, handed +down from the old comedy of humours, was the +belief in the "ruling passion" as the source of all +a man's acts. The persons who figure in most +of the contemporary letters and novels are a succession +of originals or grotesques, moved by a +single motive. They are all mad in England, +said Hamlet, and Walpole enforces the sentence +with a thousand burlesque anecdotes. Now in +Sterne this ruling passion, both in his own character +and in that of his creations, was softened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +down to what may be called a whimsical egotism, +which does not repel by its exaggeration, yet bestows +a marvellous unity and relief. It is his +<i>hobbyhorsical</i> philosophy, as he calls it. At the +head of all are Tristram's father and uncle, with +their cunningly contrasted humours—Mr. Shandy, +who would regulate all the affairs of life by abstract +theorems of the mind, and my Uncle Toby, +who is guided solely by the impulses of the heart. +Between them Sterne would seem to have set over +against each other the two divided sources of human +activity; and the minor characters, each with +his cherished hobby, are ranged under them in +proper subordination. The art of the narrative—and +in this Sterne is without master or rival—is +to bring these characters into a group by some +common motive, and then to show how each of +them is thinking all the while of his own dear +crotchet. Take, for example, the tremendous +curse of Ernulphus in the third book. Mr. +Shandy had "the greatest veneration in the +world for that gentleman, who, in distrust of his +own discretion in this point, sat down and composed +(that is, at his leisure) fit forms of swearing +suitable to all cases, from the lowest to the highest +provocation which could possibly happen to him." +That is Mr. Shandy's theorising hobby, and accordingly, +when his man Obadiah is the cause of +an annoying mishap, Mr. Shandy reaches down +the formal curse of Bishop Ernulphus and hands +it to Dr. Slop to read. It might seem tedious to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +have seven pages of excommunicative wrath +thrust upon you, with the Latin text duly written +out on the opposite page. On the contrary, this +is one of the more entertaining scenes of the book, +for at every step one or another of the listeners +throws in an exclamation which intimates how +the words are falling in with his own peculiar +train of thought. The result is a delightful cross-section +of human nature, as it actually exists. +"Our armies swore terribly in <i>Flanders</i>, cried my +Uncle <i>Toby</i>—but nothing to this.—For my own +part, I could not have a heart to curse my dog +so."</p> + +<p>But it is not this persistent and very human +egotism alone which makes the good people of +Shandy Hall so real to us. Sterne is the originator +and master of the gesture and the attitude. Like +a skilful player of puppets, he both puts words +into the mouths of his creatures and pulls the +wires that move them. No one has ever approached +him in the art with which he carries +out every mood of the heart and every fancy of the +brain into the most minute and precise posturing. +Before Corporal Trim reads the sermon his exact +attitude is described so that, as the author says, +"a statuary might have modelled from it." +Throughout all the dialogue between the two +contrasted brothers we follow every movement of +the speakers, as if we sat with them in the flesh, +and when Mr. Shandy breaks his pipe the moment +is tense with expectation. But the supreme ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>hibition +of this art occurs at the announcement of +Bobby's death. Let us leave Mr. Shandy and my +Uncle Toby discoursing over this sad event, and +turn to the kitchen. Those who know the scene +may pass on:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>——My young master in <i>London</i> is dead! said Obadiah.—</p> + +<p>——A green sattin night-gown of my mother's, which +had been twice scoured, was the first idea which <i>Obadiah's</i> +exclamation brought into <i>Susannah's</i> head....</p> + +<p>—O! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried +<i>Susannah</i>.—My mother's whole wardrobe followed.—What +a procession! her red damask,—her orange tawney,—her +white and yellow lutestrings,—her brown taffata,—her +bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable +under-petticoats.—Not a rag was left behind.—"<i>No,—she +will never look up again</i>," said <i>Susannah</i>.</p> + +<p>We had a fat, foolish scullion—my father, I think, +kept her for her simplicity;—she had been all autumn +struggling with a dropsy.—He is dead, said <i>Obadiah</i>,—he +is certainly dead!—So am not I, said the foolish +scullion.</p> + +<p>——Here is sad news, <i>Trim</i>, cried <i>Susannah</i>, wiping +her eyes as <i>Trim</i> stepp'd into the kitchen,—master +<i>Bobby</i> is dead and <i>buried</i>—the funeral was an interpolation +of <i>Susannah's</i>—we shall have all to go into mourning, +said <i>Susannah</i>.</p> + +<p>I hope not, said <i>Trim</i>.—You hope not! cried <i>Susannah</i> +earnestly.—The mourning ran not in <i>Trim's</i> head, whatever +it did in <i>Susannah's</i>.—I hope—said <i>Trim</i>, explaining +himself, I hope in God the news is not true—I heard +the letter read with my own ears, answered <i>Obadiah</i>; +and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in +stubbing the Ox-moor.—Oh! he's dead, said <i>Susannah</i>.—As +sure, said the scullion, as I'm alive.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> +<p>I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said +<i>Trim</i>, fetching a sigh.—Poor creature!—poor boy!—poor +gentleman!</p> + +<p>—He was alive last <i>Whitsontide</i>! said the coachman.—<i>Whitsontide!</i> +alas! cried <i>Trim</i>, extending his right +arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which +he read the sermon,—what is <i>Whitsontide</i>, <i>Jonathan</i> (for +that was the coachman's name), or <i>Shrovetide</i>, or any +tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued +the corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly +upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health +and stability)—and are we not—(dropping his hat upon +the ground) gone! in a moment!—'T was infinitely +striking! <i>Susannah</i> burst into a flood of tears.—We are +not stocks and stones.—<i>Jonathan, Obadiah</i>, the cookmaid, +all melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who +was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous'd +with it.—The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.</p></div> + +<p>There is the true Sterne. A common happening +unites a half-dozen people in a sympathetic +group, yet all the while each of them is living his +individual life. You may look far and wide, but +you will find nothing quite comparable to that fat, +foolish scullion. And withal there is no touch of +cynical satire in this display of egotism, but a +kindly, quizzical sense of the way in which our +human personalities are jumbled together in this +strange world. And in the end the feeling that +lies covered up in the heart of each, the feeling +that all of us carry dumbly in the inevitable presence +of death, is conveyed in that supreme gesture +of Corporal Trim's, whose force in the book is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +magnified by the author's fantastic disquisition on +its precise nature and significance.</p> + +<p>It begins to grow clear, I think, that we have +here something more than an ordinary tale in +which a few individuals are set apart to enact their +rôles. Somehow, this quaint household in the +country, where nothing more important is happening +than the birth of a child, becomes a symbol +of the great world with all its tangle of cross-purposes. +There is a philosophy, a new and distinct +vision of the meaning of life, in these scenes, +which makes of Sterne something larger than a +mere novelist. He was not indulging his author's +vanity when he thought of himself as a follower +of Rabelais and Cervantes and Swift, for he belongs +with them rather than with his great contemporaries, +Fielding and Smollet, or his greater +successors, Thackeray and Dickens. Nor is his +exact parentage hard to discover. In Rabelais I +seem to see the embryonic humour of a world +coming to the birth and not yet fully formed. +Through the crust of the old mediæval ideals the +new humanism was struggling to emerge, and in +its first lusty liberty mankind, with the clog of the +old civilisation still hanging upon it, was like +those monsters that Nature threw off when she +was preparing her hand for a higher creation. +There is something unshaped, as of Milton's +beast wallowing unwieldy, in the creatures of +Rabelais's brain; yet withal one perceives the +pride of the design that is foreshadowed and will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +some day come to its own. Cervantes arose in the +full tide of humanism, and there is about his +humour the pathetic regret for an ideal that has +been swept aside by the new forms. For this +young civilisation, which spurned so haughtily +the ancient law of humiliation and which was to +be satisfied with the full and unconfined development +of pure human nature, had a pitiful incompleteness +to all but a few of Fortune's minions, +and the memory of the past haunted the brain of +Cervantes like a ghost vanquished and made +ridiculous, but unwilling to depart. He found +therein the tragic humour of man's ideal life. +Then came Swift. Into his heart he sucked the +bitterness of a thousand disappointments. Even +the semblance of the old ideals had passed away, +and for the fair promise of the new world he saw +only corruption and folly and a gigantic egotism +stalking in the disguise of liberty. Savage indignation +laid hold of him and he vented his rage +in that mocking laughter which stings the ears +like a buffet. His was the sardonic humour. +But time that takes away brings also its compensation. +To Sterne, living among smaller men, +these passionate egotisms are dwindled to mere +caprices, and a jest becomes more appropriate +than a sneer. And after all, one good thing is +left. There is the kindly heart and the humble +acknowledgment that we too are seeking our own +petty ends. It is a world of homely chance into +which Sterne introduces us, and there is no room<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +in it for the boisterous mirth or the tragedy or +wrath of his predecessors. His humour is merely +whimsical; his smile is almost a caress.</p> + +<p>I can never look at that portrait of Sterne by +Sir Joshua Reynolds, with the head thrown forward +and the index finger of the right hand laid +upon the forehead, but an extraordinary fantasy +enters my mind. I seem to see one of those pictures +of the Renaissance, in which the face of the +Almighty beams benevolently out of the sky, but +as I gaze, the features gradually change into those +of Yorick. The mouth assumes the sly smile, +and the eyes twinkle with conscious merriment, +as if they were saying, "We know, you and +I, but we won't tell!" Possibly it is something in +the pose of Sir Joshua's picture which lends itself +to this transformation, helped by a feeling that the +Shandean world, over which Sterne presides, is at +times as real as the actualities that surround us. +That portrait at the head of his works is, so to +speak, an image of His Sacred Majesty, Chance, +whom a witty Frenchman reverenced as the genius +of this world.</p> + +<p>It may be that we do not always in our impatience +recognise how artfully the caprices of +Sterne's manner are adapted to creating this atmosphere +of illusion. Now and then his trick of +reaching a point by the longest way round, his +wanton interruptions, the absurdity of his blank +pages, and other cheap devices to appear original, +grow a trifle wearisome, and we call the author a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +mountebank for his pains. Yet was there ever a +great book without its tedious flats? They would +seem to be necessary to procure the proper perspective. +Certainly all these whimsicalities of +Sterne's manner fall in admirably with the central +theme of <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, which is nothing else +but an exposition of the way in which the blind +goddess Chance, whose hobby-horse is this world +itself, makes her plaything of the lesser caprices +of mankind. "I have been the continual sport +of what the world calls Fortune," cries Tristram +at the beginning of his narrative, and indeed that +deity laid her designs early against our hero, +whose troubles date from the very day of conception. +"I see it plainly," says Mr. Shandy, in his +chapter of Lamentation, when calamity had succeeded +calamity—"I see it plainly, that either for +my own sins, brother <i>Toby</i>, or the sins and follies +of the <i>Shandy</i> family, Heaven has thought fit to +draw forth the heaviest of its artillery against me; +and the prosperity of my child is the point upon +which the whole force of it is directed to play."—"Such +a thing would batter the whole universe +about our ears," replies my Uncle Toby, thinking +no doubt of the terrible work of the artillery in +Flanders. Mr. Shandy was a man of ideas, and +Tristram was to be the embodiment of a theory. +But alas,—"with all my precautions how was my +system turned topside-turvy in the womb with my +child!" There is something inimitably droll in +this combat between the solemn, pedantic notions<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +of Mr. Shandy and the blunders of Chance. The +interrupted conception of poor Tristram, his unfortunate +birth, the crushing of his nose, the grotesque +mistake in naming him,—all are scenes in +this ludicrous and prolonged warfare. Nor is my +Uncle Toby any the less a subject of Fortune's +sport. There is, to begin with, a comical inconsistency +between the feminine tenderness of his +heart and his absorption in the memories of war. +His hobby of living through in miniature the +campaign of the army in Flanders is one of the +kindliest satires on human ambition ever penned. +And it was inevitable that my Uncle Toby, with +his "most extreme and unparalleled modesty of +nature," should in the end have fallen a victim +to the designs of a woman like the Widow Wadman. +It is, as I have said, this underlying philosophy +worked out in every detail of the book which +makes of <i>Tristram Shandy</i> something more than +a mere comedy of manners. It shatters the whole +world of convention before our eyes and rebuilds +it according to the humour of a mad Yorkshire +parson. And all of us at times, I think, may +find our pleasure and a lesson of human frailty, +too, by entering for a while into the concerns of +that Shandean society.</p> + +<p>Sterne, on one side of his character, was a sentimentalist. +That, and little more than that, we +see in his letters and <i>Journal</i>. And in a form, +subtilised no doubt to a kind of exquisite felicity, +that is the essence of his <i>Sentimental Journey</i>, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> +the name implies. He was indeed the first author +to use the word "sentimental" in its modern significance, +and for one reason and another this was +the trait of his writing that was able, as the +French would say, to <i>faire école</i>. It flooded English +literature with tearful trash like Mackenzie's +<i>Man of Feeling</i>, and, in a happier manner, it influenced +even Thackeray more than he would +have been willing to admit. It is present in +<i>Tristram Shandy</i>, but only as a milder and half-concealed +flavour, subduing the satire of that +travesty to the uses of a genial and sympathetic +humour.</p> + +<p>Probably, however, the imputation of sentimentalism +repels fewer readers from Sterne to-day +than that of immorality. It is a charge easily +flung, and in part deserved. And yet, in all +honesty, are we not prone to fall into cant whenever +this topic is broached? I was reading in a +family edition of Rabelais the other day and came +across this sentence in the introduction: "After +wading through the worst of Rabelais's work, one +needs a thorough bath and a change of raiment, +but after Sterne one needs strychnine and iron +and a complete change of blood." It does not +seem to me that the case with Sterne is quite so +bad as that. Rabelais wrote when the human +passions were emerging from restraint, and it was +part of his humour to paint the lusty youth of the +world in colours of grotesque exaggeration. +Sterne, coming in an age of conventional man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>ners, +pointed slyly to the gross and untamed +thoughts that lurked in the minds of men beneath +all their stiffened decorum. It was the purpose +of his "topside-turvydom," as it was of Rabelais's, +to turn the under side of human nature up +to the light, and to show how Fortune smiles at +the social proprieties; but his instrument was +necessarily innuendo instead of boisterous ribaldry, +Shandeism in place of Pantagruelism. Deliberately +he employed this art of insinuation in +such a way as to draw the reader on to look for +hidden meanings where none really exists. We +are made an unwilling accomplice in his obscenity, +and this perhaps, though a legitimate device, +is the most objectionable feature of his suggestive +style.</p> + +<p>One may concede so much and yet dislike such +broad accusations of immorality as are sometimes +laid against him. I cannot see what harm can +come to a mature mind from either Rabelais or +Sterne. And if the <i>pueris reverentia</i> be taken as +the criterion (the effect actually produced on those +who are as yet unformed, for good or ill, by the +experience of life) I am inclined to think that the +really dangerous books are those like the <i>Venus +and Adonis</i>, which throw the colours of a glowing +imagination over what is in itself perfectly natural +and wholesome; I am inclined to think that +Shakespeare has debauched more immature minds +than ever Sterne could do, and that even Pantagruelism +is more inflammatory than Shandeism.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +So far as morals alone are concerned there is a +touch of what may be called inverted cant in this +discrimination between the wholesome and the +unwholesome. Sir Walter Scott, in his straight-forward, +manly way, put the matter right once for +all: "It cannot be said that the licentious humour +of <i>Tristram Shandy</i> is of the kind which applies +itself to the passions, or is calculated to corrupt +society. But it is a sin against taste if allowed +to be harmless as to morals." The question with +Sterne's writings, as with his life, is not so much +one of morality as of taste. And if we admit that +he occasionally sinned against these inexorable +laws, this does not mean that his book as a whole +was ill or foully conceived. He merely erred at +times by excess of his method.</p> + +<p>The first two volumes of <i>Tristram Shandy</i> were +written in 1759, when Sterne was forty-six, and +were advertised for sale in London on the first +day of the year following. Like many another +too original work, it had first to go a-begging for +a publisher, but the effect of it on the great world, +when once it became known, was prodigious. +The author soon followed his book to the city to +reap his reward, and the story of his fame in +London during his annual visits and of his reception +in Paris reads like enchantment. "My +Lodging," he writes to his dear Kitty in the first +flush of triumph, "is euery hour full of your +Great People of the first Rank, who striue who +shall most honor me;—euen all the Bishops have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> +sent their Complim<sup>tṣ</sup> to me, & I set out on Monday +Morning to pay my Visits to them all. I am +to dine w<sup>ḥ</sup> Lord Chesterfield this Week, &c. &c., +and next Sunday L<sup>ḍ</sup> Rockingham takes me to +Court." Nor was his reward confined to the +empty plaudits of society. Lord Falconberg presented +him with the perpetual curacy of Coxwold, +a comfortable charge not twenty miles from Sutton. +The "proud priest" Warburton sent him +a purse of gold, because (so the story ran, but it +may well have been idle slander) he had heard +that Sterne contemplated introducing him into a +later volume as the tutor of Tristram.</p> + +<p>Sterne planned to bring out two successive +volumes each year for the remainder of his life, +and the number did actually run to nine without +getting Tristram much beyond his childhood's +misadventures. At different times, also, he published +two volumes of <i>Sermons by Mr. Yorick</i>, +which, in their own way, and considered as moral +essays rather than as theological discourses, are +worthy of a study in themselves. They are for +one thing almost the finest example in English +of that style which follows the sinuosities and +subtle transitions of the spoken word.</p> + +<p>But soon his health, always delicate, began to +give way under the strain of reckless living. +Long vacations in Paris and the South of France +restored his strength temporarily, and at the same +time gave him material for the travel scenes in +<i>Tristram Shandy</i> and for the <i>Sentimental Journey</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> +But that "vile asthma" was never long absent, +and there is something pitiable in the quips +and jests with which he covers his dread of the +spectre that was pursuing him. We have seen +how the travail of his broken body wails in +the <i>Journal to Eliza</i>; and his last letter, written +from his lodging in London to his truest +and least equivocal friend, was, as Thackeray +says, a plea for pity and pardon: "Do, dear Mrs. +J[ames], entreat him to come to-morrow, or next +day, for perhaps I have not many days, or hours +to live—I want to ask a favour of him, if I find +myself worse—that I shall beg of you, if in this +wrestling I come off conqueror—my spirits are +fled—'tis a bad omen—do not weep my dear Lady—your +tears are too precious to shed for me—bottle +them up, and may the cork never be drawn.—Dearest, +kindest, gentlest, and best of women! +may health, peace, and happiness prove your +handmaids.—If I die, cherish the remembrance of +me, and forget the follies which you so often condemn'd—which +my heart, not my head, betray'd +me into. Should my child, my Lydia want a +mother, may I hope you will (if she is left parentless) +take her to your bosom?"—I cannot but feel +that the man who wrote that note was kind and +good at heart, and that through all his wayward +tricks and sham sentiment, as through the incoherence +of his untrimmed language, there ran a +vein of genuine sweetness.</p> + +<p>He sent this appeal from Bond Street, on Tues<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>day, +the 15th of March, 1768. On Friday, the +18th, a party of his roistering friends, nobles and +actors and gay livers, were having a grand dinner +in a street near by, when some one in the midst +of their frolic mentioned that Sterne was lying ill +in his chamber. They dispatched a footman to +inquire of their old merry-maker, and this is the +report that he wrote in later years; it is unique in +its terrible simplicity:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>About this time, Mr. Sterne, the celebrated author, +was taken ill at the silk-bag shop in Old Bond Street. +He was sometimes called "Tristram Shandy," and sometime +"Yorick"; a very great favourite of the gentlemen's. +One day my master had company to dinner, +who were speaking about him; the Duke of Roxburgh, +the Earl of March, the Earl of Ossory, the Duke of +Grafton, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Hume, and Mr. James. +"John," said my master, "go and inquire how Mr. +Sterne is to-day." I went, returned, and said: I went to +Mr. Sterne's lodging; the mistress opened the door; I +inquired how he did. She told me to go up to the nurse; +I went into the room, and he was just a-dying. I waited +ten minutes; but in five he said, "Now it is come!" +He put up his hand as if to stop a blow, and died in +a minute. The gentlemen were all very sorry, and +lamented him very much.</p></div> + +<p>We have seen Corporal Trim in the kitchen +dropping his hat as a symbol of man's quick and +humiliating collapse, but I think the attitude of +poor Yorick himself lying in his hired chamber, +with hand upraised to stop the invisible blow, a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +work of greater and still more astounding genius. +It was devised by the Master of gesture indeed, +by him whose puppets move on a wider stage +than that of Shandy Hall.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="J_HENRY_SHORTHOUSE" id="J_HENRY_SHORTHOUSE"></a>J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE</h2> + + +<p>Probably few people expected a work of more +than mediocre interest when they heard that Mrs. +Shorthouse was preparing her husband's <i>Letters +and Literary Remains</i> for the the press.<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> The life +of a Birmingham merchant, who in the course of +his evenings elaborated one rather mystical novel +and then a few paler and abbreviated shadows of +it, did not, indeed, promise a great deal, and there +is something to make one shudder in the very +sound of "literary remains." Nor would it have +been reassuring to know that these remains were +for the most part short essays and stories read at +the social meetings of the Friends' Essay Society +of Birmingham. The manuscript records of such +a club are not a source to which one would naturally +look for exhilarating literature, yet from +them, let me say at once, the editor has drawn a +volume both interesting and valuable. Mr. Shorthouse +contributed to these meetings for some +twenty years, from the age of eighteen until he +withdrew to concentrate his energies upon <i>John +Inglesant</i>, and it is worthy of notice that his early +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>sketches are, on the whole, better work than the +more elaborate essays, such as that on <i>The Platonism +of Wordsworth</i>, which followed the production +of his masterpiece. He was to an extraordinary +degree <i>homo unius libri</i>, almost of a single thought, +and there is a certain freshness in his immature +presentation of that idea which was lost after it +once received the stamp of definitive expression. +Hawthorne, we already knew, furnished the +model for his later method, but we feel a pleasant +shock, such as always accompanies the perception +of some innate consistency, on opening to the very +first sentence in his volume of Remains, and finding +the master's name: "I have been all my life +what Nathaniel Hawthorne calls 'a devoted epicure +of my own emotions.'" That, I suppose, +was written about 1854, when Hawthorne's first +long romance had been published scarcely four +years, and shows a remarkable power in the +young disciple of finding his literary kinship. +Indeed, not the least of his resemblances to Hawthorne +is the fact that he seems from the first to +have possessed a native sense of style; what other +men toil for was theirs by right of birth. In the +earliest of these sketches the cadenced rhythms +of <i>John Inglesant</i> are already present, lacking a +little, perhaps, in the perfect assurance that came +later, but still unmistakable. And at times—in +<i>The Autumn Walk</i>, for instance, with its "attempt +to find language for nameless sights and voices," +in <i>Sundays at the Seaside</i>, with their benediction +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>of outpoured light upon the waters, offering to +the beholder as it were the sacrament of beauty, +or in the <i>Recollections of a London Church</i>,—at +times, I say, we seem almost to be reading some +lost or discarded chapter of the finished romance. +This closing paragraph of the <i>Recollections</i>, written +apparently when Shorthouse was not much more +than a boy—might it not be a memory of King +Charles's cavalier himself?—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Certes, it was very strange that the story of this young +girl whom I have never seen, whom I knew so little of, +should haunt me thus. Yet for her sake I loved the +church and the trees and even the dark and dingy houses +round about; and as with the small congregation I listened +to the refrain of that sublime litany which sounded +forth, word for word, as she had heard it, I thought it all +the more divine because I knew so certainly that in her +days of trouble and affliction it had supported and comforted +her:</p> + +<p>By Thine agony and bloody sweat; by Thy cross and +passion; by Thy precious death and burial; by Thy +glorious resurrection and ascension; and by the coming +of the Holy Ghost, Good Lord deliver us.</p></div> + +<p>And the Life, too, in an unpretentious way, is +decidedly more interesting than might have been +expected. The narrative is simply told, and the +letters are for the most part quiet expositions of +the idea that dominated the writer's mind. Here +and there comes the gracious record of some day +of shimmering lights among the Welsh hills;—"a +wonderful vision of sea and great mountains in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +pale white mist trembling into blue," as he writes +to Mr. Gosse from Llandudno, and we know we +are with the author of <i>John Inglesant</i>. Joseph +Henry Shorthouse was born in Birmingham on +September 9th, 1834. His parents belonged to the +Society of Friends, and the boy's first schooling +was at the house of a lady who belonged to the +same body. He was, however, of an extremely +sensitive and timid disposition, and even the excitement +of this homelike school affected him deplorably. +"I have now," says his wife, "the old +copy of Lindley Murray's spelling book which he +used there. His mother saw, to her dismay, +when she heard him repeat the few small words +of his lesson, that his face worked painfully, and +his little nervous fingers had worn away the bottom +edges of his book, and that he was beginning +to stammer." He was immediately taken from +school, but the affection of stammering remained +with him through life and cut him off from much +active intercourse with the world. He acknowledged +that without it he would probably never +have found time for his studies and productive +work, and the eloquence of his pen was due in +part to the lameness of his tongue. At a later +date he went for a while to Tottenham College, +but his real education he got from tutors and still +more from his own insatiable love of books.</p> + +<p>It appears that all his family associations were +of a kind to foster the peculiar talents that were to +bring him fame. His father while dressing used<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +to tell the boy of his travels in Italy, and so imbued +him with a love for that wonderful country +which he himself was never to see. In after +years, when the elder Shorthouse came to read +his son's novel, he was surprised and delighted +to find the scenes he had described all written out +with extraordinary accuracy. Even more beneficial +was the influence of his grandmother, Rebecca +Shorthouse, and her home at Moseley, +where every Thursday young Henry and his four +girl cousins, the Southalls, used to foregather and +spend the day. One of the cousins has left a +record of this garden estate and of these weekly +visits which might have been written by Shorthouse +himself, so illuminated is it with that subdued +radiance which rests upon all his works. I +could wish it were permissible to quote at even +greater length from these pages, for they are the +best possible preparation for an understanding of +<i>John Inglesant</i>:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The old house at Moseley ... was surrounded by +a large extent of garden ground and ample lawns. The +gardens were on different levels—the upper was the +flower garden. No gardener with his dozens of bedding +plants molested that fragrant solitude, but there, unhindered, +the narcissus multiplied into sheets of bloom, the +little yellow rose embodied the summer sunshine, the +white roses climbed into the old apple trees, or looked +out from the depths of the ivy, and we knew the sweet-briar +was there, though we saw it not.</p> + +<p>Below, but accessible by stone steps, lay the low garden, +surrounded by brick lichen-covered walls, beyond<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +which rose banks of trees. [The "blue door" in this +garden wall is introduced in the <i>Countess Eve</i>, and another +part of the garden in <i>Sir Percival</i>.] On these old +walls nectarines, peaches, and apricots ripened in the +August sun. In the upper part of this walled garden +stretched a winding lawn, made in the shape of a letter +S, and surrounded on all sides by laurels. This was a +complete seclusion. In the broad light of noon, when +the lilacs and laburnums and guelder-roses were full of +bees, and each laurel leaf, as if newly burnished, reflected +the glorious sunshine, it was a delicious solitude, where +we read, or talked, or thought, to our hearts' content. +But as night fell, when "the laurels' pattering talk was +over," there was a deep solemnity in its dark shadows, +and in its stillness and loneliness.</p></div> + +<p><i>Qualis ab incepto!</i> Are we not in fancy carried +straightway to that scene where the boy Inglesant +goes back to his first schoolmaster, whom he finds +sitting amid his flowers, and who tells him marvellous +things concerning the search for the Divine +Light? or to that other scene, where he talks with +Dr. Henry More in the garden of Oulton, and +hears that rare Platonist discourse on the glories +of the visible world, saying: "I am in fact '<i>Incola +cœli in terrâ</i>,' an inhabitant of paradise and heaven +upon earth; and I may soberly confess that sometimes, +walking abroad after my studies, I have +been almost mad with pleasure,—the effect of +nature upon my soul having been inexpressibly +ravishing, and beyond what I can convey to +you." Indeed, not only <i>John Inglesant</i>, but all +of Mr. Shorthouse's stories could not be better<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> +described than as a writing out at large of the +wistful memory of that time when men heard the +voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in +the cool of the day—and were still not afraid. +But we must not pass on without observing the +more individual traits of the boy noted down in +the record:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>That which strikes one most in recalling our intercourse +with our cousin at this time is that our conversation +did not consist of commonplaces; we talked for +hours on literary subjects, or, if persons were under discussion, +they were such as had a real interest; the books +we were reading were the chief theme. The low garden +was generally the scene of these conversations, and it +was here we read and talked all through the long summer +afternoons ... Nathaniel Hawthorne had a +perennial charm,—his influence on our cousin was permanent,—and +we turned from all other books to Hawthorne's +with fresh delight. There is in existence a +well-worn copy of the <i>Twice-Told Tales</i> that was seldom +out of our hands. [It is in the Preface to this book that +Hawthorne boasts of being "the obscurest man of letters +in America."]....</p> + +<p>Our cousin was at this and all other times very particular +about his dress and appearance; it seemed to +us then that he assumed a certain exaggeration with regard +to them; we did not understand how consistent it +all was with his idea of life....</p> + +<p>He was not at all fond of walking, and it is doubtful if +he cared for mountain scenery for its own sake. He responded +to the moods of Nature with a sensitiveness that +was natural to him, but it was her quiet aspects which +most affected him. He was a native of "the land where +it is always afternoon."</p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p> + +<p>But life was not all play with young Shorthouse. +At the age of sixteen his father took him +into the chemical works which had been founded +by the great-grandfather, and, although his father +and later his brother were indulgent to him in +many ways, the best of his energies went to this +business until within a few years of his death. +There is something incongruous, as has been remarked, +in the manufacture of vitriol and the +writing of mystical novels. In 1857 he married +Sarah Scott, whom he had known for a number +of years, and the young couple took a house in +Edgbaston, the suburb of Birmingham in which +they had both grown up and where they continued +to live until the end. Mrs. Shorthouse +tells of the disposition of his hours. He went +regularly to business at nine, came home to dinner +in the middle of the day, and returned to town +till nearly seven. The evenings, after the first +hour of relaxation, were mostly devoted to studying +Greek, reading classics and divinity, and the +seventeenth-century literature, which had always +possessed a peculiar fascination for him. During +the years from 1866 to 1876 he was slowly putting +together his story of <i>John Inglesant</i>, and with +the exception of his wife, no one saw the writing, +or, indeed, knew that he had a work of any such +magnitude on hand. For four years he kept the +completed manuscript, which was rejected by one +or two publishers, and then, in 1880, he printed +an edition of a hundred copies for private distri<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>bution. +One of these fell into the hands of Mrs. +Humphry Ward, and through her the Macmillans +became interested in the book, and requested +to publish it. No one was more amazed at the +reception of the story than was the author himself. +He was immediately a man of mark, and +the doors of the world were thrown open to him. +Other stories followed, beautiful in thought and +expression, but too manifestly little more in substance +than pale reflections of his one great book; +his message needed no repetition. He died in +1903, beloved and honoured by all who knew him, +and it is characteristic of the man that during his +last years of suffering one or another of the volumes +of <i>John Inglesant</i> was always at his side, a +comfort and a consoling voice to the author as it +had been to so many other readers.</p> + +<p>Religion was the supreme reality for him as a +boy, and as a man nearing the hidden goal. His +family were Quakers, but in 1861 he and his wife +became members of the Church of England, and +it was under the influence of that faith his books +were written. Naturally his letters and the record +of his life have much to say of religious matters, +but in one respect they are disappointing. It +would have been interesting to know a little more +precisely the nature of his views and the steps by +which he passed from one form of belief to the +other. That the anxiety attendant on the change +cost him heavily and for a while broke down his +health, we know, and from his published writings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +it is easy to conjecture the underlying cause of +the change, but the more human aspect of the +struggle he underwent is still left obscure.</p> + +<p>Nor is his relation to the three-cornered embroglio +within the Church itself anywhere set +forth in detail. Almost it would seem as if he +dwelt in some charmed corner of the fold into +which the reverberations of those terrific words +<i>Broad</i> and <i>High</i> and <i>Low</i> penetrated only as a +subdued muttering. To supplement this defect I +have myself been reading some of the literature +of that contest, and among other things a series +of able papers on <i>Le Mouvement Ritualiste dans +l'Église Anglicane</i>, which M. Paul Thureau-Dangin +has just published in the <i>Revue des Deux +Mondes</i>. The impression left on my own mind +has been in the highest degree contradictory and +exasperating. One labours incessantly to know +what all this tumult is about, and I should suppose +that no more inveterate and vicious display +of parochialism was ever enacted in this world. +To pass from these disputes to the religious conflict +that was going on in France at the same time +is to learn in a striking way the difference between +words and ideas; and even our own pet transcendental +hubbub in Concord is in comparison with +the Oxford debate vast and cosmopolitan in significance. +The intrusion of a single idea into +that mad logomachy would have been a phenomenon +more appalling than the appearance of a +naked body in a London drawing-room, and it is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +not without its amusing side that one of Newman's +associates is said to have dreaded "the +preponderance of intellect among the elements of +character and as a guide of life" in that perplexed +apologist. Ideas are not conspicuous anywhere +in English literature, least of all in its religious +books, and often one is inclined to extend Bagehot's +cynical pleasantry as a cloak for deficiencies +here, too: the stupidity of the English is the salvation +of their literature as well as of their politics. +For it is only fair to add that this ecclesiastical +battle, if paltry in abstract thought, was rich in +human character and in a certain obstinate perception +of the validity of traditional forms; it was +at bottom a contest over the position of the Church +in the intricate hierarchy of society, and pure +religion was the least important factor under +consideration.</p> + +<p>Two impulses, which were in reality one, were +at the origin of the movement. Religion had +lagged behind the rest of life in that impetuous +awakening of the imagination which had come +with the opening of the nineteenth century; it retained +all the dryness and lifeless cant of the +preceding generation, which had marked about +the lowest stage of British formalism. Enthusiasm +of any sort was more feared than sin. Perhaps +the first widely recognized sign of change +was the publication, in 1827, of Keble's <i>Christian +Year</i>, although the "Advertisement" to that +famous book showed no promise of a startling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +revolution. "Next to a sound rule of faith," +said the author, "there is nothing of so much +consequence as a sober standard of feeling in matters +of practical religion"; and certainly, to one +who reads those peaceful hymns to-day, sobriety +seems to have marked them for her own. Yet +their effect was undoubtedly to import into the +Church and into the contemplation of churchmen +something of that enthusiasm, trained now and +subdued to authority, which had been the possession +of infidels and sectaries.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What sudden blaze of song<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Spreads o'er the expanse of Heaven?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In waves of light it thrills along,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The angelic signal given—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Glory to God!" from yonder central fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir;—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">such words men read in the hymn for <i>Christmas +Day</i>, and they were thrilled to think that the +imaginative glow, which for a score of years had +burned in the secular poets, was at last impressed +into the service of the sanctuary.</p> + +<p>Another impulse, more definite in its nature, +was the shock of the reform bill. In his <i>Apologia</i>, +Cardinal Newman, looking back to the early days +of the Tractarian Movement, declared that "the +vital question was, How were we to keep the +Church from being Liberalised?" and in his eyes +the sermon preached by Keble, July 14, 1833, on +the subject of <i>National Apostasy</i>, was the first<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +sounding of the battle cry. Impelled by the fear +of the new democratic tendencies, which threatened +to lay hold of the Church and to use it for +utilitarian ends, the leaders of the opposition +sought to go back beyond the ordinances of the +Reformation, and to emphasise the close relation +of the present forms of worship with those of the +first Christian centuries; against the invasions of +the civil government they raised the notion of the +Church universal and one. The first of the +famous Tracts, dated September 9, 1833, puts the +question frankly:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Should the Government and the Country so far forget +their God as to cast off the Church, to deprive it of its +temporal honours and substance, <i>on what</i> will you rest +the claim of respect and attention which you make upon +your flocks? Hitherto you have been upheld by your +birth, your education, your wealth, your connexions; +should these secular advantages cease, on what must +Christ's ministers depend?</p></div> + +<p>A layman might reply simply, <i>On the truth</i>, +and Shorthouse, as we shall see, had such an +answer to make, though couched in more circuitous +language. But not so the Tract:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I fear we have neglected the real ground on which our +authority is built—<small>OUR APOSTOLICAL DESCENT</small>.</p></div> + +<p>That was the Tractarian, or Oxford, Movement, +which united the claims of the imagination +with the claims of priestcraft, and by a logical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +development led the way to Rome. In the Church +at large, the new leaven worked its way slowly and +confusedly, but in the end it created a tripartite +division, which threatened for a while to bring +the whole establishment down in ruins. The +first of these, the High Church, is indeed essentially +a continuation, and to a certain extent a +vulgarisation, of the Oxford Movement. What +had been a kind of epicurean vision of holy things, +reserved for a few chosen souls, was now made +the vehicle of a wide propaganda. The beautiful +rites of the ancient worship were a powerful seduction +to wean the rich from worldly living and +no less a tangible compensation for the poor and +outcast. At a later date, under the stress of persecution, +the leaders of the party formulated the +so-called Six Points on which they made a final +stand: (1) The eastward position; (2) the eucharistic +vestments; (3) altar candles; (4) water mingled +with the wine in the chalice; (5) unleavened +bread; (6) incense—without these there was no +worship; barely, if at all, salvation. The Low +Church was, in large part, a state of pure hostility +to these followers of the Scarlet Woman; it was +loudly Protestant, confining the virtue of religion +to an acceptance of the dogmas of the Reformation, +distrusting the symbolical appeal to the +imagination, and finding the truth too often in +what was merely opposition to Rome. Contrary +to both, and despised by both, was the Broad +Church, which held the sacraments so lightly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +that, with the Dean of Westminster, it joined in +communion with Unitarians, and which treated +dogma so cavalierly that, with Maurice, it thought +a subscription to the Thirty-nine Articles the +quickest way to liberty of belief. Yet I cannot +see that this boasted freedom did much more than +introduce a kind of license in the interpretation +of words; it transferred the field of battle from +forms to formulæ.</p> + +<p>From this unpromising soil (intellectually, for +in character it possessed its giants) was to spring +the one great religious novel of the English language. +I have thought it worth while to recall +thus briefly, yet I fear tediously, the chief aspects +of the controversy, because only as the result of a +profound and, in many respects, violent national +upheaval can the force and the inner veracity of +<i>John Inglesant</i> be comprehended. Mrs. Shorthouse +fails to dwell on this point; indeed, it would +appear from her record that the noise of the dispute +reached her husband only from afar off. Yet +during the years of composition he was dwelling +in a house at Edgbaston within a stone's throw +of the Oratory, where, at that time and to the +end of his life, Cardinal Newman resided, having +found peace at last in the surrender of his doubts +to authority. The thought of that venerable man +and of the agony through which he had come +must have been often in the novelist's mind. +And it was during these same ten years of composition +that the forces of Low and High were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +lined up against each other like two hostile +armies, under the banners of the English Church +Union and the Church Association. The activity +of this latter body, which was founded in 1865 +for the express purpose of "putting down" the +heresy of ritualism, may be gathered from the fact +that at a single meeting it voted to raise a fund of +some $250,000 for the sake of attacking High +Church clergymen through the processes of law. +Not without reason was it dubbed the Persecution +Company limited.</p> + +<p>Now it may be possible with some ingenuity of +argument—Laud himself had aforetime made such +an attempt—to regard the Battle of the Churches +as a contest of the reason; in practice its provincialism +is due to the fact that it was concerned, +not with the truth, but with what men had held +to be the truth. That Mr. Shorthouse was able +to write a book which is in a way the direct fruit +of this conflict, and which still contains so much +of the universal aspect of religion, came, I think, +from his early Quaker training and from his +Greek philosophy. It would be a mistake to +suppose that, on entering the Church of England, +he closed in his own breast the door to +that inner sanctuary of listening silence, the +<i>innocuæ silentia vitæ</i>, where he had been taught +to worship as a child. At the time of the change +he could still write to one who was distressed at +his decision: "I grant that Friends, at their commencement, +held with a strong hand perhaps the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +most important truth of this system, the indwelling +of the Divine Word." In reality, there was +no "perhaps" in Mr. Shorthouse's own adherence +to this principle, both before and after his conversion; +only he would place a new emphasis on +the word "indwelling." The step signified to +him, as I read his life, a transition from the religion +of the conscience to that of the imagination, +from morality to spiritual vision. This voice, +which the Quakers heard in their own hearts +alone, and which was an admonition to separate +themselves from all the false splendours of the +world, he now heard from stream and flowering +meadow and from the decorum of courtly society, +bidding him make beautiful his life, as well as +holy. Henceforth he could say that "all history +is nothing but the relation of this great effort—the +struggle of the divine principle to enter into +human life." And in the same letter in which +these words occur—an extraordinary epistle to +Matthew Arnold, asking him to embody the +writer's ideas in an essay—he extends his Quaker +inheritance so far as to make it a cloak for humour, +a humour, as he says, in "a sense beyond, perhaps, +that in which it ever has been understood, +but which, it may be, it is reserved to <i>you</i> to reveal +to men." One would like to have Mr. +Arnold's reply to this divagation on <i>Don Quixote</i>. +Mr. Shorthouse had, characteristically, adapted +the book to his own spiritual needs as a representation +"of the struggles of the divine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +principle to enter into the everyday details of +human life."</p> + +<p>It was, I say, his unforgotten discipleship to +George Fox and to Plato which preserved Mr. +Shorthouse from the narrowness of the movement +while permitting him to be faithful to the Church. +In the Introduction to the Life an ecclesiastical +friend distinguishes him from the partisan schools +as a "Broad Church Sacramentarian." I confess +in general to a strong dislike for these technical +phrases, which always savour a little of an evasion +of realities, and bear about the same relation to +actual human experience as do the pigeonholes of +a lawyer's desk; but in this case the words have a +useful brevity. They show how he had been able +to take the best from all sides of the controversy +and to weld these elements into harmony with the +philosophy of his inheritance and education. The +position of Mr. Shorthouse was akin to that of the +Low-Churchmen in his hostility to the Romanising +tendencies and his distrust of priestcraft, but +he differed from them still more essentially in his +recognition of the imagination as equally potent +with the moral sense in the upbuilding of character. +To the Broad-Churchman he was united +chiefly in his abhorrence of dogmatic tests. One +of his few published papers (reprinted in the Life) +is a plea for <i>The Agnostic at Church</i>,—a plea +which may still be taken to heart by those +troubled doubters who are held aloof by the +dogmas of Christianity, yet regret their lonely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +isolation from the religious aspirations of the +community:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>There is, however, one principle which underlies all +church worship with which he [the agnostic] cannot fail +to sympathise, with which he cannot fail to be in harmony—the +sacramental principle. For this is the great +underlying principle of life, by which the commonest +and dullest incidents, the most unattractive sights, the +crowded streets and unlovely masses of people, become +instinct with a delicate purity, a radiant beauty, become +the "outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual +grace." Everything may be a sacrament to the pure in +heart.... Kneeling in company with his fellows, +even if all recollection of a far-away past, with its childhood's +faith and fancies, has faded from his mind, it is +impossible but that some effect of sympathy, some magic +chord and thrill of sweetness, should mollify and refresh +his heart, blessing with a sweet humility that consciousness +of intellect which, natural and laudable in itself, +may perhaps be felt by him at moments to be his greatest +snare.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">But he separated himself from the Broad Church +in making religion a culture of individual holiness +rather than a message for the "unlovely masses +of people," in caring more for the guidance of the +Inner Voice than for the brotherhood of charity +or the association of men in good works. In his +idea of worship he was near to the High Church, +but he differed from that body in ranking sacerdotalism +and dissent together as the equal foes +of religion. The efficacy of the sacrament came +from its historic symbolism and its national<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> +acceptance, and needed not, or scarcely needed, the +ministration of the priest. He thus extended the +meaning of the word far beyond the narrow range +of ecclesiasticism. "This sunshine upon the +grass," he wrote, "is a sacrament of remembrance +and of love." When, in his early days, Newman +visited Hurrell Froude's lovely Devonshire home, +there arose in his mind a poignant strife between +his loyalty to created and to uncreated beauty. +In a stanza composed for a lady's autograph +album he gave this expression to his hesitancy:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">There strayed awhile, amid the woods of Dart,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">One who could love them, but who durst not love;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A vow had bound him ne'er to give his heart<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To streamlet bright, or soft secluded grove.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">'T was a hard humbling task, onward to move<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His easy-captured eye from each fair spot,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With unattached and lonely step to rove<br /></span> +<span class="i1">O'er happy meads which soon its print forgot.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">No such note is to be found in the letters written +by Mr. Shorthouse during his holidays among +the Welsh hills; he looked upon the inherited +Church as the instrument chosen by many generations +of men for their approach to God, but he +was not afraid to see the communion service on +the ocean waters when the heavenly light poured +upon them, even as he saw it at the altar table.</p> + +<p>If he differed from the Broad Church mainly in +his loyalty to Quaker mysticism, it was Platonism +which made the bounds of the High Church too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +narrow for his faith. He did not hesitate at one +time to say that Plato possessed a truer spiritual +insight than St. Paul, and it was in reality a mere +extension of the sphere of Platonism when, in +what appears to be the last letter he ever wrote +(or dictated rather, for his hands were already +clasped in those of beneficent Death), he avowed +his creed: "That Image after which we were +created—the Divine Intellect—must surely be +able to respond to the Divine call. The greatest +advance which has ever been made was the teaching, +originally by Aristotle, of the receptivity of +matter.... I should be very glad to see +this idea of <i>John Inglesant</i> worked out by an intelligent +critic." Beauty was for him a kind of +transfiguration in which the world, in its response +to the indwelling Power, was lifted into something +no longer worldly, but divine; and he could +speak of our existence on this earth as lighted by +"the immeasurable glory of the drama of God in +which we are actors." It was not that he, like +certain poets of the past century, attempted to +give to the crude passions of men or the transient +pomp of earth a power intrinsically equivalent to +the spirit; but he believed that these might be +made by faith to become as it were an illusory +and transparent veil through which the visionary +eye could penetrate to the mystic reality.</p> + +<p>For the particular act in this drama, which he +was to write out in his religious novel, he went +back to the seventeenth century, when, as it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +seemed to him, the same problem as that of the +nineteenth arose to trouble the hearts of Englishmen, +but in nobler and more romantic forms. +There was, in fact, a certain note of reality about +the earlier struggle of Puritan, Churchman, and +Roman Catholic, which was lacking to the quarrel +of his own day. John Inglesant is the younger +of twin sons born in a family of Catholic sympathies. +A Jesuit, Father Hall, who reminds one +not a little of Father Holt in <i>Henry Esmond</i>, is +put in charge of the boy and trains him up to be +an intermediary between the Church of England +and the Church of Rome. To this end his Mentor +keeps his mind in a state of suspense between the +faiths, and the inner and real drama of the book +is the contest in Inglesant's own mind, after his +immediate debt to Rome has been fulfilled, between +the two forms of worship.</p> + +<p>In part the actual narrative is well conducted. +Johnnie's relations to Charles I., and especially +his share in that strange adventure when the King +was terrified by a vision of the dead Strafford, are +told with a good deal of dramatic skill. So, too, +his own trial, the murder of his brother by the +Italian, his visits to the household of the Ferrars +at Little Gidding, and some of the events in Italy—these +in themselves are sufficient to make a +novel of unusual interest. On the human side, +where the emotions are of a dreamy, half-mystical +sort, the work is equally successful; in its own +kind the love of Inglesant and Mary Collet is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +beautiful beyond the common love of man and +woman. But the novel fails, it must be acknowledged, +in the expression of the more ordinary +motives of human activity. Johnnie's ingrained +obedience to the Jesuit is one of the mainsprings +of the plot, yet there is nothing in the story to +make this exaggerated devotion seem natural. +In the same way Johnnie's attachment to his +worldly brother is unexplained by the author, +and sounds fantastic. A considerable portion of +the book is taken up with Inglesant's search for +his brother's murderer, and here again the vacillating +desire of vengeance is a false note which no +amount of exposition on the part of the author +makes convincing. Mr. Shorthouse's hero burns +for revenge one day, and on the next is oblivious +of his passion, in a way that simply leaves the +reader in a state of bewilderment. Curiously +enough, it was one of the incidents in this hide-and-seek +portion of the story, found by Mr. +Shorthouse in "a well-known guide-book," that +actually suggested the novel to him. For my own +part, the sustained charm of the language, a style +midway, as it were, between that of Thackeray +and that of Hawthorne, not quite so negligently +graceful as the former nor quite so deliberate as +the latter, yet mingling the elements of both in a +happy compound—the language alone, I say, +would be sufficient to carry me through these inadequately +conceived parts of the story. But I +can understand, nevertheless, how in the course<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +of time this feebleness of the purely human motives +may gradually deprive the book of readers, for it +is the human that abides unchanged, after all, +and the divine that alters in form with the passing +ages. Hawthorne, in this respect, is better +equipped for the future; his novels are not concerned +with phases of religion, but with the moral +consciousness and the feeling of guilt, which are +eternally the same.</p> + +<p>And yet it will be a real loss to letters if this +nearest approach in English to a religious novel +of universal significance should lose its vitality +and be forgotten. Almost, but not quite, Mr. +Shorthouse has gone below the shifting of forms +and formulæ to the instinct that lies buried in the +heart of each man, seeking and awaiting the +light. I have already referred to those early +chapters, the most perfect in the book I think, +wherein is told how Johnnie, a grown boy now, +visits his childhood's masters and questions them +about the Divine Light which he would behold +and follow amid the wandering lights of this +world. Mr. Shorthouse believed, as he had been +taught at his mother's knee, that such a Guide +dwelt in the breasts of all men, and that we need +only to hearken to its admonition to attain holiness +and peace. He thought that it had spoken +more clearly to certain of the poets and philosophers +of Greece than to any others, and that "the +ideal of the Greeks—the godlike and the beautiful +in one"—was still the lesson to be practised to-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>day. +"What we want," he said, "is to apply it +to real life. We all understand that art should +be religious, but it is more difficult to understand +how religion may be an art." And this, as he +avows again and again in his letters, was the +purpose of his book; "one of many failures to +reconcile the artistic with the spiritual aspect of +life," he once calls it.</p> + +<p>But if, intellectually, the vision of the Divine +Light was vouchsafed to Plato more than to any +other man, historically it had been presented to +the gross, unpurged eyes of the world in the life +and death of Jesus. The precision of dogma, +even the Bible, meant relatively little to Mr. +Shorthouse. "I do not advocate belief in +the Bible," he wrote; "I advocate belief in +Christ." Somehow, in some way beyond the +scope of logic, the idea which Plato had beheld, +the divine ideal which all men know and doubt, +became a personality that one time, and henceforth +the sacraments that recalled the drama of +that holy life were the surest means of obtaining +the silence of the world through which the Inner +Voice speaks and is heard.</p> + +<p>To some, of course, this will appear the one +flaw in the author's logic—this step from the +vague notion of the Platonic ideas dwelling in +the world of matter, and shaping it to their own +beautiful forms, to the belief in the actual Christian +drama as the realisation of the Divine Nature +in human life. Yet the step was easy, was almost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +necessary, for one who held at the same time the +doctrines of the Friends and of Plato; their union +might be called the wedding of pure religion and +pure philosophy, wherein the more bigoted and +inhuman character of the former was surrendered, +while to the latter was added the power to touch +the universal heart of man. As Mr. Shorthouse +held them, and as Inglesant came to view them, +the sacraments might be called a memorial of that +mystic wedding. They brought to it the historic +consciousness and the traditional brotherhood of +mankind; they were the symbolism through which +men sought to introduce the light into their own +lives as a religious art. Now an art is a matter +to be perceived and to be felt, whereas a science, +as Newman and others held religion to be, is a +subject for demonstration and argument. How +much religion in England suffered from the attempt +to prove what could not be caught in the +mesh of logic, and from the endeavour to make +words take the place of ideas, we have already +seen. You may reason about abstract truth, you +cannot reason about a symbolism or a form of +worship. The strength of <i>John Inglesant</i> lies in +its avoidance of rationalism or the appeal to +precedent, and in its frank search for the human +and the artistic.</p> + +<p>It was in this sense that Mr. Shorthouse could +speak of his book as above all an attempt "to +promote culture at the expense of fanaticism, including +the fanaticism of work": but we shall<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +miss the full meaning of his intention if we omit +the corollary of those words, viz.: "to exalt the +unpopular doctrine that the end of existence is +not the good of one's neighbour, but one's own +culture." I do not know, indeed, but this exaltation +of the old theory that the chief purpose of +religion is the worship and beatitude of the individual +soul, in opposition to the humanitarian +notions which were even then springing into +prominence, is the central theme of the story. +Certainly with many readers the scene that remains +most deeply impressed in their memory is +that which shows Inglesant coming to Serenus +de Cressy at the House of the Benedictines in +Paris, and, like the young man who came to +Jesus, asking what he shall do to make clear the +guidance of the Inner Light. There, in those +marvellous pages, Cressy points out the divergence +of the ways before him: "On the one hand, you +have the delights of reason and of intellect, the +beauty of that wonderful creation which God +made, yet did not keep; the charms of Divine +philosophy, and the enticements of the poet's art; +on the other side, Jesus." And then as the old +man, who had himself turned from the gardens +of Oxford to the discipline of a monastery, sees +the hesitation of his listener, he breaks forth into +this eloquent appeal:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I put before you your life, with no false colouring, no +tampering with the truth. Come with me to Douay; you +shall enter our house according to the strictest rule; you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +shall engage in no study that is any delight or effort to +the intellect; but you shall teach the smallest children +in the schools, and visit the poorest people, and perform +the duties of the household—and all for Christ. I promise +you on the faith of a gentleman and a priest—I +promise you, for I have no shade of doubt—that in this +path you shall find the satisfaction of the heavenly walk; +you shall walk with Jesus day by day, growing ever more +and more like to Him; and your path, without the least +fall or deviation, shall lead more and more into the light, +until you come unto the perfect day; and on your death-bed—the +death-bed of a saint—the vision of the smile of +God shall sustain you, and Jesus Himself shall meet you +at the gates of eternal life.</p></div> + +<p>We are told that every word went straight to +Inglesant's conviction, and that no single note +jarred upon his taste. He implicitly believed that +what the Benedictine offered him he should find. +But he also knew that this was not the only way +of service—nor even, perhaps, the highest. He +turned away from the monastery sadly, but firmly, +and continued his search for the light in that +direction whither the culture of his own nature +led him; he showed—though this neither he nor +Mr. Shorthouse, perhaps, would acknowledge—that +at the bottom of his heart Plato and not +Christ was his master, and that to him practical +Christianity was only one of the many historic +forms which the so-called Platonic insight assumes +among men. To some, no doubt, this attempt +to make of religion an art will savour of that +peculiar form of hedonism, or bastard Platonism,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +which Walter Pater introduced into England, and +<i>John Inglesant</i> will be classed with <i>Marius the +Epicurean</i> as a blossom of æsthetic romanticism. +There is a certain show of justification in the +comparison, and the work of Mr. Shorthouse +quite possibly grants too much to the enervating +acquiescence in the lovely and the decorous; it +lacks a little in virility. But the difference between +the two books is still more radical than the +likeness. Though absolute truth may not be +within the reach of man, nevertheless the life of +John Inglesant is a discipline and a growth toward +a verity that emanates from acknowledged +powers and calls him out of himself. The senses +have no validity in themselves. He aims to make +an art of religion, not a religion of art; the distinction +is deeper than words. The true parentage +of the work goes back, in some ways, to +Shaftesbury, with whom an interesting parallel +might be drawn.</p> + +<p>In the end Inglesant returns to England, after +years spent in France and Italy among Roman +Catholics, and accepts frankly the religious forms +of his own land. His character had been strengthened +by experience, and in following the higher +instincts of his own nature he had attained the +assurance and the sanctity of one who has not +quailed before a great sacrifice. The last scene +in the book, the letter which relates the conversation +with Inglesant in the Cathedral Church at +Worcester, should be read as a complement to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +earlier chapters which describe his boyish search +for what he was not to find save through the lesson +of years; the whole book may be regarded as +a link between these two presentations of the +hero's life. It would require too many words to +repeat Inglesant's confession even in outline. +"The Church of England," says the writer of the +letter, "is no doubt a compromise, and is powerless +to exert its discipline.... If there be +absolute truth revealed, there must be an inspired +exponent of it, else from age to age it could not +get itself revealed to mankind." And Inglesant +replies: "This is the Papist argument, there is +only one answer to it—Absolute truth is not revealed. +There were certain dangers which Christianity +could not, as it would seem, escape. As +it brought down the sublimest teaching of Platonism +to the humblest understanding, so it was +compelled, by this very action, to reduce spiritual +and abstract truth to hard and inadequate dogma. +As it inculcated a sublime indifference to the +things of this life, and a steadfast gaze upon the +future, so, by this very means, it encouraged +the growth of a wild unreasoning superstition."</p> + +<p>It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that those +words, taken with the plea which follows, express +the finest wisdom struck out of the long and for +the most part futile Battle of the Churches; they +were the creed of Mr. Shorthouse, as they were +the experience of the hero of his book. I would +end with that image of life as a sacred game with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +which Inglesant himself closed his confession of +faith at the Cathedral door:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The ways are dark and foul, and the grey years bring a +mysterious future which we cannot see. We are like +children, or men in a tennis court, and before our conquest +is half won the dim twilight comes and stops the +game; nevertheless, let us keep our places, and above +all things hold fast by the law of life we feel within. This +was the method which Christ followed, and He won the +world by placing Himself in harmony with that law of +gradual development which the Divine Wisdom has +planned. Let us follow in His steps and we shall attain +to the ideal life; and, without waiting for our "mortal +passage," tread the free and spacious streets of that Jerusalem +which is above.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_QUEST_OF_A_CENTURY" id="THE_QUEST_OF_A_CENTURY"></a>THE QUEST OF A CENTURY</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The scientific part of this essay, indeed the central +idea which makes it anything more than a philosophic +vagary, is borrowed from an unpublished lecture of my +brother, Prof. Louis T. More, who holds the chair of +Physics in the University of Cincinnati. If I have +printed the paper under my name rather than his, this is +because he, as a scientist, might not wish to be held responsible +for the general drift of the thought.]</p></div> + + +<p>The story is told of Dante that in one of his +peregrinations through Italy he stopped at a certain +convent, moved either by the religion of the +place or by some other feeling, and was there +questioned by the monks concerning what he +came to seek. At first the poet did not reply, +but stood silently contemplating the columns and +arches of the cloister. Again they asked him +what he desired; and then slowly turning his +head and looking at the friars, he answered, +"Peace!" The anecdote is altogether too significant +to escape suspicion; yet as <i>The Divine +Comedy</i> is supposed to contain symbolically the +history of the human spirit in its upward growth +and striving, so this fable of the divine poet +may be held to sum up in a single word the +aim and desire of the spirit's endless quest. +So clearly is the object of our inner search this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +"peace" which Dante is said to have sought, +and so close has the spirit come again and +again to attaining this goal, that it should seem +as if some warring principle within ourselves +turned us back ever when the hoped-for consummation +was just within reach. As Vaughan says +in his quaint way:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And passage through these looms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God ordered motion, but ordained no rest.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is possible, I believe, to view the ceaseless +intellectual fluctuations of mankind backward and +forward as the varying fortunes of the contest between +these two hostile members of our being,—between +the deep-lying principle that impels us to +seek rest and the principle that drags us back into +the region of change and motion and forever forbids +us to acquiesce in what is found. And I +believe further that the moral disposition of a +nation or of an individual may be best characterised +by the predominance of the one or the other +of these two elements. We may find a people, +such as the ancient Hindus, in whom the longing +after peace was so intense as to make insignificant +every other concern of life, and among whom the +aim of saint and philosopher alike was to close +the eyes upon the theatre of this world's shifting +scenes and to look only upon that changeless +vision of</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">central peace subsisting at the heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of endless agitation.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> +<p class="noidt">The spectacle of division and mutation became to +them at last a mere phantasmagoria, like the +morning mists that melt away beneath the upspringing +day-star.</p> + +<p>Again, we may find a race, like the Greeks, in +whom the imperturbable stillness of the Orient +and the restless activity of the Occident meet together +in intimate union and produce that peculiar +repose in action, that unity in variety, which we +call harmony or beauty and which is the special +field of art. But if this harmonious union was a +source of the artistic sense among the Greeks, +their logicians, like logicians everywhere, were +not content until the divergent tendencies were +drawn out to the extreme; and nowhere is the +conflict between the two principles more vividly +displayed than in that battle between the followers +of Xenophanes, who sought to adapt the world +of change to their haunting desire for peace by +denying motion altogether, and the disciples of +Heraclitus, who saw only motion and mutation in +all things and nowhere rest. "All things flow +and nothing abides," said the Ephesian, and +looked upon man in the midst of the universe as +upon one who stands in the current of a ceaselessly +gliding river. The brood of Sophists, +carrying this law into human consciousness, disclaimed +the possibility of truth altogether; and it +is no wonder that Plato, while avoiding the other +extreme of motionless pantheism, regarded the +sophistic acceptance of this law of universal flux<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +as the last irreconcilable enemy of philosophy and +morality alike. "The war over this point is indeed +no trivial matter and many are concerned +therein," said he, not without bitterness.</p> + +<p>It is, when rightly considered, this same question +that lends dramatic unity and human value to +the long debate of the mediæval schoolmen. Their +dispute may be regarded from more than one point +of view,—as a struggle of the reason against the +bondage of authority, as an attempt to lay bare +the foundation of philosophy, as a contest between +science and mysticism; but above all it seems to +me a long conflict in words between these two +warring members within us. The desire of infinite +peace was the impulse, I think, which drove +on the realists to that "abyss of pantheism," from +the brink of which the vision of most men recoils +as from the horror of shoreless vacuity. In this +way Erigena, the greatest of realists, spoke of +God as that which neither acts nor is acted upon, +neither loves nor is loved; and then, as if frightened +by these blank words, avowed that God +though he does not love is in a way Love itself, +defining love as the <i>finis quietaque statio</i> of the +natural motion of all things that move. On the +other hand it was the impulse toward unresting +activity which led the nominalists to deny reality +to the stationary ideas of genera and species, and +to fix the mind upon the shifting combinations of +individual objects. In this direction lay the +labour of accurate observation and experimental<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +classification, and it is with prefect justice that +Hauréau, the historian of scholastic philosophy, +closes his chapter on William of Occam, the last +of the schoolmen, with these words: "It is then +in truth on this soil so well prepared by the prince +of the nominalists that Francis Bacon founded his +eternal monument,"—and that monument is the +scientific method as we see it developed in the +nineteenth century.</p> + +<p>The justification of scholastic philosophy, as I +understand it, was the hope of finding in the dictates +of pure reason an immovable resting-place +for the human spirit; the recoil from the abyss of +pantheism and absolute quietism was the work of +the nominalists who in William of Occam finally +won the day; and with him scholastic philosophy +brought an end to its own activity. But a greater +champion than William was needed to wipe away +what seems to the world the cobwebs of mediæval +logomachy. Kant's <i>Critique of Pure Reason</i> accomplished +what the nominalistic schoolmen failed +to achieve: it showed the impossibility of establishing +by means of logic the dogma of God or +any absolute conception of the universe. Henceforth +the real support of metaphysics was taken +away, and the study fell more and more into disrepute +as the nineteenth century waxed old. +Not many men to-day look to the pure reason for +aid in attaining the consummation of faith. That +consummation, if it be derived at all from external +aid, must come henceforth by way of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +imagination and of the moral sense. We say +with Kant: "Two things fill the mind with ever-new +and increasing admiration and reverence, the +oftener and the more persistently they are reflected +on: the starry heaven above me, and the moral +law within me."</p> + +<p>But neither the imagination nor the conscience +alone, any more than reason, can create faith. +They may prepare the soil for the growth of that +perfect flower of joy, but they cannot plant the +seed or give the increase; for they, both the imagination +and the conscience, are concerned in the +end with the light of this life, and faith looks for +guidance to a different and rarer illumination. +Faith is a power of itself; <i>fidem rem esse, non +scientiam, non opinionem vel imaginationem</i>, said +Zwingle. It is that faculty of the will, mysterious +in its source and inexplicable in its operation, +which turns the desire of a man away from contemplating +the fitful changes of the world toward +an ideal, an empty dream it may be, or a shadow, +or a mere name, of peace in absolute changelessness. +Reason and logic may have no words to +express the object of this desire, but experience +is rich with the influence of such an aspiration on +human character. To the saints it was that peace +of God which passeth all understanding; to the +mystics it was figured as the raptures of a celestial +love, as the yearning for that</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p> + +<p class="noidt">To the ignorant it was the unquestioning trust in +those who seemed to them endowed with a grace +beyond their untutored comprehension.</p> + +<p>Even if the imagination or the conscience could +lift us to this blissful height, they would avail us +little to-day; for we have put away the imagination +as one of the pleasant but unfruitful play-things +of youth, and the conscience in this age of +humanitarian pity has become less than ever a +sense of man's responsibility to the supermundane +powers and more than ever a feeling of brotherhood +among men. Of faith, speaking generally, +the past century had no recking, for it turned +deliberately to observe and study the phenomena +of change. We call that time, which is still our +own time, the age of reason, but scarcely with +justice. The Middle Ages, despite the obscurantism +of the Church, had far better claim to that +title. One needs but to turn the pages of the +doctors, even before the day of Abelard who is +supposed first to have been the champion of reason +against authority, to see how profound was their +conviction that in reason might be discovered a +justification of the faith they held. And indeed +Abelard is styled the champion of reason because +only with him do men begin to perceive the inability +of reason to establish faith. Better we +should call ours an age of observation, for never +before have men given themselves with such complete +abandon to observing and recording systematically. +By long and intent observation of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +the phenomenal world the eye has discovered a +seeming order in disorder, the shifting visions of +time have assumed a specious regularity which +we call law, and the mind has made for itself a +home on this earth which to the wise of old +seemed but a house of bondage.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For life is but a dream whose shapes return,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Some frequently, some seldom, some by night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some by day, some night and day: we learn,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The while all change and many vanish quite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In their recurrence with recurrent changes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A certain seeming order; where this ranges<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We count things real; such is memory's might.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>From this wealth of observation and record the +modern age, and especially the century just past, +has developed two fields of intellectual activity to +such an extent as almost to claim the creation of +them. Gradually through accumulated observation +the nineteenth century came to look on human +affairs in a new light; like everything else they +were seen to be subject to the Heraclitean ebb and +flow; and history was written from a new point of +view. We learned to regard eras of the past as subject +each to its peculiar passions and ambitions, +and this taught us to throw ourselves back into +their life with a kind of sympathy never before +known. We did not judge them by an immutable +code, but by reference to time and place. Nor is +this all. Within the small arc of our observation +we observed a certain regularity of change similar +to the changes due to growth in an individual, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +this we called the law of progress. History was +then no longer a mere chronicle of events or, if +philosophical, the portrayal and judgment of +characters from a fixed point of view; it became +at its best the systematic examination of the +causes of progress and development. And naturally +this attention to change and motion, this +historic sense, was extended to every other branch +of human interest: in religion it taught Christians +to accept the Bible as the history of revelation +instead of something complete from the beginning; +in literature it taught us to portray the development +of character or the influence of environment +on character rather than the interplay of +fixed passions; in art it created impressionism +or the endeavour to reproduce what the individual +sees at the moment instead of a rationalised picture; +in criticism it introduced what Sainte-Beuve, +the master of the movement, sought to +write, a history of the human spirit.</p> + +<p>But history, like Cronos of old, possessed a +strange power of devouring its own offspring. +Gradually, from the habit of regarding human +affairs in a state of flux and more particularly +from the growth of the idea of progress, the past +lost its hold over men. It became a matter of +curiosity but not of authority, and history as it +was understood in Renan's day has in ours almost +ceased to be written. Science on the other hand +is the observation of phenomena regarded chiefly +in the relation of space—for it is correct, I believe,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +to assert that the laws of energy may be reduced +to this point—and as such is not subject to this +devouring act of time. It frankly discards the +past and as frankly dwells in the present. It is +not my purpose, indeed it would be quite superfluous, +to reckon up the immense acquisitions of +the scientific method in the past century: they are +the theme of schoolboys and savants alike, the +pride and wonder of our civilisation. Nor need I +dwell on the new philosophy which sprang up +from the union of the historic and the scientific +sense and still subsists. Not the system of Hegel +or Schopenhauer or of any other professor of +metaphysics is the true philosophy of the age; +these are but echoes of a past civilisation, voices +and <i>præterea nil</i>. Evolution is the living guide +of our thought, assigning to the region of the unknowable +the conceptions of unity and perfect rest, +and building up its theories on the visible experience +of motion and change and development. +It has reduced the universal flux of Heraclitus to +a scientific system and assimilated it to our inner +growth; it has become as essentially a factor of +our attitude toward the natural world as Newton's +laws of gravitation.</p> + +<p>But if our thoughts are directed almost wholly +to the sphere of motion, yet this does not mean +that the longing after quietude and peace has +passed entirely from the mind of man; the thirst +of the human heart is too deep for that. Only +the world has learned to look for peace in another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +direction. In place of that faith which would +deny valid reality to changing forms, we have +taught ourselves to find a certain order in disorder, +which we call law,—whether it be the law of progress +or the law of energy,—and on the stability +of this law we are willing to stake our desired +tranquillity.</p> + +<p>In this way, through what may be called the +offspring begotten on the historic sense by science, +the mind has turned its regard into the future and +seemed to discern there a continuation of the same +law of progress which it saw working in the past. +Hence have arisen the manifold dreams and +visions of socialism, altruism, humanitarianism, +and all the other isms that would fix the hope of +mankind upon some coming perfectibility of human +life, and that like Prometheus in the play +have implanted blind hopes in the hearts of men. +It is indeed one of the most curious instances of +the recrudescence of ideas to see the mediæval +visions of a city of golden streets and eternal bliss +in another existence brought down to the future +of this world itself. What to the mystic of that +age was to come suddenly, with the twinkling of +an eye, when we are changed and have put away +mortal things, when the angel of the Apocalypse +has sworn that time shall be no longer,—all this, +the heavenly city of joy and endless content, is +now to be the natural outcome here in this world +of causes working in time. The theory is beautiful +in itself and might satisfy the hunger of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +heart, even though its main hope concerns only +generations to come, were it not for a lingering +and fatal suspicion that progress does not involve +increased capability of happiness to the individual, +and that somehow the race does not move toward +content. Physical comfort has perhaps become +more widely distributed, but of the placid joy of +life the recent years have known singularly little; +we need but turn over the pages of the more representative +poets and prose writers of the past +sixty years to discover how deep is the unrest of +our souls. The higher literature has come to be +chiefly the "blank misgivings of a creature moving +about in worlds not realised"; and missing +the note of deeper peace we sigh at times even for</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A draught of dull complacency.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noidt">Alas, those who would find a resting-place for +the spirit in the relations of man to man seem +not to reckon that the very essence—if such a +term may be used of so contingent a nature—that +the very essence of this world's life is +motion and change and contention, and that Peace +spreads her wings in another and purer atmosphere. +One might suppose that a single glance +into the heart would show how vain are such +aspirations, and how utterly dreary and illusory +is every conceived ideal of progress and socialism +because each and all are based on an inherent contradiction. +He who waits for peace until the +course of events has become stable is like the silly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +peasant by the river side, watching and waiting +while the current flows forever and will ever flow.</p> + +<p>Not less vain is the hope of those who would +find in the laws of science a permanent abiding +place—perhaps one should say was rather than is, +for the avowed gospel of science which was to +usurp the office of olden-time religious faith is +already like the precedent historic sense, itself becoming +a thing of the past. Yet the much discussed +war between science and religion is none +the less real because to-day the din of battle has +ceased. It does not depend on criticism of the +Mosaic story of creation by the one, nor on hostility +to progress offered by the other. These +things were only signs of a deeper and more +radical difference: religion is the voice of faith +uttering in symbols of the imagination its distrust +of the world as a scene of deception and unreality, +whereas science is the attempt to discover fixed +laws in the midst of this very world of change. +If to-day the strife between the two seems reconciled, +this only means that faith has grown dimmer +and that science has learned the futility of its +more dogmatic assumptions.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> +<p>The very growth of science is in fact a gradual +recognition of motion as the basis of phenomena +and an increasing comprehension of what may be +called the laws of motion. When motion was regarded +as simple and regular, it seemed possible +to explain phenomena by correspondingly simple +and regular laws; but when each primary motion +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>was seen to be the resultant of an infinite series +of motions the question became in like manner infinitely +complex, or in other words insoluble. +But to be clear we must consider the matter more +in detail.</p> + +<p>From the days of the old Greek Heraclitus, who +built up his theory of the world on the axiom of +eternal flux and change, the Doctrine of Motion +as a distinct enunciation has lingered on in the +world well-nigh unnoticed and buried from sight +in the bulk of suppositions and guesses that have +made up the passing systems of philosophy. +Now and then some lonely thinker took up the +doctrine, but only to let it drop back into obscurity; +until during the great burst of scientific +enquiry in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries it +assumed new significance and began to grow. +From that time to this its progress in acceptance +as the basis of phenomena may be regarded as a +measure of scientific advance.</p> + +<p>By a strange fatality Kant, who had been so +efficient as an iconoclast in metaphysics, was perhaps +with his nebular hypothesis, followed later +by the work of Goethe on animal and plant variations, +the one most largely responsible for the new +hope that in science at last was to be found an +answer to the riddle of existence which had baffled +the search of pure reason. The achievement of +Kant both destructive and constructive is well +known, if vaguely understood, by the world at +large; but it is not so well known that a contem<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>porary +of Kant did precisely for science what the +sage of Königsberg accomplished in metaphysics. +In the very decade in which <i>The Critique of Pure +Reason</i> saw the light, Lagrange, a scholar of +France, published a work which carried the analytic +method, or the method of motion, to its +farthest limit. In this work, the <i>Mécanique +Analytique</i>, Lagrange develops an equation from +which it can be proved conclusively that to explain +any group of phenomena measured by +energy an infinite number of hypotheses may be +employed. So, for instance, if we establish any +one theory which will sufficiently account for the +known phenomena of light, such as reflection, refraction, +polarisation, etc., there will yet remain +an infinite number of other hypotheses equally +capable of explaining the same group of phenomena. +Or to use the words of Poincaré: "If +then we can give one complete mechanical explanation +of a phenomenon, there will also be +possible an infinite number of others which will +account equally well for all the particulars revealed +by experiment." That is to say, no <i>experimentum +crucis</i> can be imagined which will +reveal the truth or error of any given theory. +This restriction on the finality of our knowledge +is borne out in all physical reasoning,—and I +venture also to say in the other sciences; thus in +optics we can perform no experiment which will +establish as finally true the theory that light is +caused by the motion of corpuscles of matter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +emitted from a luminous body, or that it is due to +vibrations propagated through a medium by a +wave motion, or that it is generated by certain +disturbances in the electrical state of bodies. +Each of these hypotheses has its advantages and +disadvantages; and in our choice we merely adopt +that theory which explains the greater number of +phenomena in the simplest way.</p> + +<p>If any one should here ask: Granted that from +phenomena expressed in terms of energy no ultimate +law can be educed, yet may not some other +view of phenomena lead to other results? We +answer that no other view is possible. Not that +the system of the universe, if we may use such an +expression, is necessarily constructed on what we +call energy, but that our minds can conceive it +only in terms of energy. An analysis of the concepts +which enter into the idea of energy must +make it evident that in our understanding of nature +we cannot go beyond this point.</p> + +<p>There is an agreement among philosophers and +scientists that the concept of space is not derived +from external experience, but is inherently intuitive. +As stated by Kant:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The representation of space cannot be borrowed through +experience from relations of external phenomena, but, on +the contrary, those external phenomena become possible +only by means of the representation of space. Space is a +necessary representation, <i>a priori</i>, forming the very foundation +of external intuitions. It is impossible to imagine +that there should be no space, though it is possible to +imagine space without objects to fill it.</p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> + +<p class="noidt">The concept of space therefore makes possible the +intuition of external phenomena; but these phenomena +to be realised must appeal to one of our +senses, and this connecting link between the outer +world and our consciousness is the concept which +we call time. Quoting again from Kant:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Time is the formal condition, <i>a priori</i>, of all phenomena +whatsoever. But, as all representations, whether +they have for their objects external things or not, belong +by themselves, as determinations of the mind, to our +inner state;... therefore, if I am able to say, <i>a +priori</i>, that all external phenomena are in space, I can, +according to the principle of the internal sense, make +the general assertion that all phenomena, that is, all objects +of the senses, are <i>in time</i>, and stand necessarily in +relations of time.</p></div> + +<p class="noidt">It follows, then, that our simplest possible expression +for phenomena will be in terms of space and +time, and that beyond this the human mind cannot +go.</p> + +<p>Turning here from metaphysical to scientific +language, we speak of space and time as the +fundamental units from which we deduce the +laws of the external world. The fact that space +appeals to us only through time furnishes us with +our concept or unit of motion, which is the ratio +of space to time. The external phenomena so +revealed to us we call the manifestations of mass +or energy, thus providing ourselves with a second +unit. It must be observed, however, that mass +or energy is not a new concept, but bears precisely +the same relation to motion as Kant's <i>Ding-an-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>sich</i> +bears to space and time: it is the unknowable +cause of motion—or more properly speaking it is +the ability residing in an object to change the +motion of another object and is measured by the +degree of change it can produce. And I say mass +or energy, advisedly, for the two are merely different +names or different views of the same thing; +we cannot conceive of matter without energy or +of energy without matter. Our choice between +the two depends solely on the simplicity and convenience +with which deductions may be made +from one or the other. From a physical standpoint +the concept energy is rather the simpler, but +mathematically our deductions flow more readily +from the concept mass.</p> + +<p>If then our explanations of phenomena must +ultimately involve the two units of motion and +of energy or mass, and if it can be demonstrated +that on this basis we may account for any group +of phenomena in an infinite number of ways, what +shall we say but that the attempt to attain any +resting-place for the mind in the laws of nature is, +and must always be, futile? Further than this, +any given law is itself only an approximate explanation +of phenomena, and must be continually +modified as we add to our experimental knowledge. +In all cases a law must be considered valid +only within the limits of the sensitiveness of the +instruments by which we get our measurements. +With more delicate instruments variations will be +observed that must be expressed by additional<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +terms in the formula. Thus we maintain that +the law of gravitation is true only within the +range of our observation; it does not apply to +masses of molecular dimensions. Another formula, +the well-known law of the pressure of gases, +can be shown by experiment to be merely an +approximation, because the variations in it are +not of a dimension negligible in comparison with +the sensibility of our instruments. As the pressure +increases the error in the formular equation +becomes constantly greater. To remedy this a +second approximation, which is still inadequate, +has been added to the equation by Van der Waals; +yet greater accuracy will require the addition of +other terms; and a complete demonstration would +demand an infinite series of approximations.</p> + +<p>The meaning of all this is quite plain: there is +no reach of the human intellect which can bridge +the gap between motion and rest. Our senses +are adapted to a world of universal flux which is, +so far as we can determine, subject to no absolute +law but the law of probabilities. He who attempts +to circumscribe the ebb and flow of circumstance +within the bounds of our spiritual needs, he who +attempts to find peace in any formula of science +or in any promise of historic progress, is like one +who labours on the old and vain problem of squaring +the circle:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Qual è'l geomètra, che tutto s'affige<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Per misurar lo cerchio, e non ritrova,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pensando, quel principio ond' egli indige.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p> + +<p class="noidt">The desire of peace, as the world has known it in +past times, signified always a turning away from +the flotsam and jetsam of time and an attempt to +fix the mind on absolute rest and unity,—the desire +of peace has been the aspiration of faith. +And because the object of faith cannot be seen by +the eyes of the body or expressed in terms of the +understanding, a firm grasp of the will has been +necessary to keep the desire of the heart from +falling back into the visible, tangible things of +change and motion. For this reason, when the +will is relaxed, doubts spring up and men give +themselves wholly to the transient intoxication +of the senses. Yet blessed are they that believe +and have not seen. It was the peculiar quest of +the nineteenth century to discover fixed laws and +an unshaken abiding place for the mind in the +very kingdom of unrest; we have sought to chain +the waves of the sea with the winds.</p> + +<p>And how does all this affect one who stands +apart, striving in his own small way to live in the +serene contemplation of the universe? I cannot +doubt that there are some in the world to-day who +look back over the long past and watch the toiling +of the human race toward peace as a traveller +in the Alps may with a telescope follow the mountain-climbers +in their slow ascent through the +snows of Mont Blanc; or again they watch our +labours and painstaking in the valley of the senses +and wonder at our grotesque industry; or look +upon the striving of men to build a city for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> +soul amid the uncertainties of this life, as men +look at the play of children who build castles and +domes in the sands of the seashore and cry out +when the advancing waves wash all their hopes +away. I think there are some such men in the +world to-day who are absorbed in the fellowship +of the wise men of the East, and of the no less +wise Plato, with whom they would retort upon the +accusing advocates of the present: "Do you think +that a spirit full of lofty thoughts, and privileged +to contemplate all time and all existence, can +possibly attach any great importance to this life?" +They live in the world of action, but are not of it. +They pass each other at rare intervals on the +thoroughfares of life and know each other by a +secret sign, and smile to each other and go on +their way comforted and in better hope.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h4>FOOTNOTES</h4> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> <i>The Correspondence of William Cowper.</i> Arranged +in chronological order, with annotations, by Thomas +Wright, Principal of Cowper School, Olney. Four volumes. +New York: Dodd, Mead, & Co., 1904.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> In a newly published volume of the letters of William +Bodham Donne (the friend of Edward FitzGerald and +Bernard Barton), the editor, Catharine B. Johnson, throws +doubt on this supposed descent of Cowper's mother from +the Poet Dean.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> How refreshing is that whiff of good honest smoke in +the abstemious lives of Cowper and John Newton! I +have just seen, in W. Tuckwell's <i>Reminiscences of a +Radical Parson</i>, a happy allusion to William Bull's pipes: +"To Olney, under the auspices of a benevolent Quaker.... +I saw all the relics: the parlour where bewitching +Lady Austen's shuttlecock flew to and fro; the hole +made in the wall for the entrance and exit of the hares; +the poet's bedroom; Mrs. Unwin's room, where, as she +knelt by the bed in prayer, her clothes caught fire. The +garden was in other hands, but I obtained leave to enter +it. Of course, I went straight to the summer-house, +small, and with not much glass, the wall and ceiling covered +with names, Cowper's wig-block on the table, <i>a hole +in the floor where that mellow divine, the Reverend Mr. +Bull, kept his pipes</i>; outside, the bed of pinks celebrated +affectionately in one of his letters to Joseph Hill, pipings +from which are still growing in my garden."—The date +of the Rev. Mr. Tuckwell's visit to Olney is not indicated, +but his <i>Reminiscences</i> were published in the present year, +1905.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve was born at Boulogne-sur-Mer, +December 23, 1804, and died at Paris, October +13, 1869.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> <i>The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne.</i> In six +volumes. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1904.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> <i>The Poetical Works of Christina Georgina Rossetti.</i> +With Memoir and Notes, etc. By William Michael Rossetti. +New York: The Macmillan Co., 1904.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> <i>Robert Browning.</i> By C. H. Herford. New York: +Dodd, Mead & Co., 1905.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> <i>The Complete Works of Laurence Sterne.</i> Edited by +Wilbur L. Cross. Supplemented with the Life by Percy +Fitzgerald. 12 volumes. New York: J. F. Taylor & Co. +1904.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> <i>Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of J. H. Shorthouse.</i> +Edited by his wife. In two volumes. New +York: The Macmillan Co., 1905.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Yet even while I read the proof of this page there +lies before me an article in the <i>Contemporary Review</i> +(July, 1905), in which Sir Oliver Lodge utters the +old assumptions of science with childlike simplicity. +"I want to urge," he says, "that my advocacy of science +and scientific training is not really due to any wish to be +able to travel faster or shout further round the earth, or +to construct more extensive towns, or to consume more +atmosphere and absorb more rivers, nor even to overcome +disease, prolong human life, grow more corn, and cultivate +to better advantage the kindly surface of the earth; +though all these latter things will be 'added unto us' if +we persevere in high aims. But it is none of these +things which should be held out as the ultimate object +and aim of humanity—the gain derivable from a genuine +pursuit of truth of every kind; no, the ultimate aim can +be expressed in many ways, but I claim that it is no less +than to be able to comprehend what is the length and +breadth and depth and height of this mighty universe, +including man as part of it, and to know not man and +nature alone, but to attain also some incipient comprehension +of what the saints speak of as the love of God +which passeth knowledge, and so to begin an entrance +into the fulness of an existence beside which the joy +even of a perfect earthly life is but as the happiness of +a summer's day." The sentiment is beautiful, but what +shall we say of the logic? To speak of attaining through +<i>science</i> a comprehension, even an incipient comprehension, +of that which passeth <i>knowledge</i>, is to fall into that +curious confusion of ideas to which the scientifically +trained mind is subject when it goes beyond its own +field. "Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will +demand of thee, and answer thou me. Where wast thou +when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if +thou hast understanding." Has Sir Oliver read the Book +of Job?</p></div> + +<h5>THE END.</h5> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<div class="bbox"> +<h2>Shelburne Essays</h2> + +<h4>By Paul Elmer More</h4> + +<p class="center">3 vols. Crown octavo.</p> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" width="100%"> +<tr><td align='left'>Sold separately.</td><td align='center'>Net, $1.25.</td><td align='right'>(By mail, $1.35)</td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<h4><i>Contents</i></h4> + +<p class="nblockquot"><span class="smcap">First Series</span>: A Hermit's Notes on Thoreau—The Solitude +of Nathaniel Hawthorne—The Origins of Hawthorne +and Poe—The Influence of Emerson—The Spirit +of Carlyle—The Science of English Verse—Arthur +Symonds: The Two Illusions—The Epic of Ireland—Two +Poets of the Irish Movement—Tolstoy; or, The +Ancient Feud between Philosophy and Art—The Religious +Ground of Humanitarianism.</p> + +<p class="nblockquot"><span class="smcap">Second Series</span>: Elizabethan Sonnets—Shakespeare's Sonnets—Lafcadio +Hearn—The First Complete Edition of +Hazlitt—Charles Lamb—Kipling and FitzGerald—George +Crabbe—The Novels of George Meredith—Hawthorne: +Looking before and after—Delphi and +Greek Literature—Nemesis; or, The Divine Envy.</p> + +<p class="nblockquot"><span class="smcap">Third Series</span>: The Correspondence of William Cowper—Whittier +the Poet—The Centenary of Sainte-Beuve—The +Scotch Novels and Scotch History—Swinburne—Christina +Rossetti—Why is Browning Popular?—A Note +on Byron's "Don Juan"—Laurence Sterne—J. Henry +Shorthouse—The Quest.</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" width="80%"> +<tr><td colspan='2' align='center'><big><b>G. P. Putnam's Sons</b></big></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>New York</b></td><td align='right'><b>London</b></td></tr> +</table></div> +</div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="bbox"> +<h3><i>A Few Press Criticisms on<br /> +Shelburne Essays</i></h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"It is a pleasure to hail in Mr. More a genuine critic, for +genuine critics in America in these days are uncommonly +scarce.... We recommend, as a sample of his breadth, +style, acumen, and power the essay on Tolstoy in the present +volume. That represents criticism that has not merely +a metropolitan but a world note.... One is thoroughly +grateful to Mr. More for the high quality of his thought, his +serious purpose, and his excellent style."—<i>Harvard Graduates' +Magazine.</i></p></div> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"We do not know of any one now writing who gives +evidence of a better critical equipment than Mr. More. It +is rare nowadays to find a writer so thoroughly familiar with +both ancient and modern thought. It is this width of view, +this intimate acquaintance with so much of the best that has +been thought and said in the world, irrespective of local +prejudice, that constitute Mr. More's strength as a critic. +He has been able to form for himself a sound literary canon +and a sane philosophy of life which constitute to our mind +his peculiar merit as a critic."—<i>Independent.</i></p></div> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"He is familiar with classical, Oriental, and English +literature; he uses a temperate, lucid, weighty, and not +ungraceful style; he is aware of his best predecessors, and is +apparently on the way to a set of philosophic principles +which should lead him to a high and perhaps influential +place in criticism.... We believe that we are in the +presence of a critic who must be counted among the first who +take literature and life for their theme."—<i>London Speaker.</i></p></div> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" width="80%"> +<tr><td colspan='2' align='center'><big><b>G. P. Putnam's Sons</b></big></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>New York</b></td><td align='right'><b>London</b></td></tr> +</table></div> +</div> + +<p> </p> + +<div class="bbox"> +<h2>The Jessica Letters</h2> + +<h4>An Editor's Romance</h4> +<p class="center"><b> +By Paul E. More<br /> +<small>and</small><br /> +Mrs. Lundy Howard Harris +</b></p> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" width="100%"> +<tr><td align='left'>Crown octavo.</td><td align='center'>Net, $1.10.</td><td align='right'>(By mail, $1.25.)</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>The correspondence between a young New York +Editor and a young Southern woman. The book +is above all a love story. The letters are full of +wit and refreshing frankness. The situations are +delightfully romantic, and the work contains some +of the prettiest love-making that has appeared for +years.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>"It is altogether a charming book. Beautifully printed, +bound in a dainty apple-blossom cover, and written in a clean-cut, +forceful style. Jessica's letters are bright, witty, and +delicately poetic. They introduce to the reader a mind of +rare charm, originality, and independence."—Rev. <span class="smcap">Thomas Dixon</span>, Jr.</p> + +<p>"There can be but praise for the delicate literary quality +revealed on every page of this story. It is indeed refreshing +to find a love story so charmingly told as this."—<i>Newark News.</i></p> + +<p>"A love story told in letters, letters which show how simple +it is to find even under the very nose of the blue pencil both +love and high thinking."—<i>N. Y. Times.</i></p> + +<p>"It is delicate, sincere, and earnest.... A wholesomeness +and sweetness permeates all the book."—<i>Chicago Tribune.</i></p> + + +<p>"A delightfully romantic love story."—<i>The Outlook.</i></p> +</div> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" width="80%"> +<tr><td colspan='2' align='center'><big><b>G. P. 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