path: root/60637-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60637 ***

                                   MY
                               COMMONPLACE
                                  BOOK

                              J. T. HACKETT

                        “_Omne meum, nihil meum_”

                           T. FISHER UNWIN LTD
                         LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE

         _First publication in Great Britain, September, 1919._

               _Second English Edition, September, 1920._

                 _Third English Edition, January, 1921._




  _O Memories!_
  _O Past that is!_

                         GEORGE ELIOT.

       *       *       *       *       *

DEDICATED TO MY DEAR FRIEND

_RICHARD HODGSON_

WHO HAS PASSED OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE

  _Of wounds and sore defeat_
  _I made my battle-stay;_
  _Wingèd sandals for my feet_
  _I wove of my delay;_
  _Of weariness and fear_
  _I made my shouting spear;_
  _Of loss, and, doubt, and dread,_
  _And swift oncoming doom_
  _I made a helmet for my head_
  _And a floating plume._
  _From the shutting mist of death,_
  _From the failure of the breath_
  _I made a battle-horn to blow_
  _Across the vales of overthrow._
  _O hearken, love, the battle-horn!_
  _The triumph clear, the silver scorn!_
  _O hearken where the echoes bring,_
  _Down the grey disastrous morn,_
  _Laughter and rallying!_[1]

                         WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _I cannot but remember such things were,_
  _That were most precious to me._

                         MACBETH, IV, 3.




PREFACE[2]


A large proportion of the most interesting quotations in this book was
collected between 1874 and 1886. During that period I was under the
influence of Richard Hodgson, who was my close friend from childhood. To
him directly and indirectly this book is largely indebted.

Hodgson (1855-1905) had a remarkably pure, noble, and lovable character,
and was one of the most gifted men Australia has produced. He is known
in philosophic circles from some early contributions to _Mind_ and other
journals, but is mainly known from his work in psychical research, to
which he devoted the best years of his life. Apart from his great ability
in other directions, he was endowed, even in youth, with fine taste and
a clear and mature literary judgment. This will appear to some extent in
the quotations over his name, and the note on p. 208 will give further
particulars of his career. He was from two to three years older than
myself, and guided me in my early reading. Therefore, indirectly, he has
to do with most of the contents of this book.

But, more than this, about one-third of the main quotations (not
including the notes which I have only now added) came direct from
Hodgson. He left Australia in 1877, but we maintained a voluminous
correspondence until 1886. This correspondence contained most of the
quotations referred to, and the remainder Hodgson gave me in London
on the only occasion I met him after he left Australia. (After 1886 he
became so immersed in psychical research, and I in legal work, that our
correspondence ceased to be of a literary character.) Thus directly and
indirectly Hodgson has much to do with the book—and, if it had been
practicable, I would have placed his name on the title-page.

This book is simply one to be taken up at odd moments, like any other
collection of quotations. But there are two reasons why it may have
some special interest. One reason is that it includes passages from a
number of authors who appear to have become forgotten, or, at any rate,
to be passing Lethe-wards. We, who dwell in the underworld,[3] cannot,
of course, have a complete knowledge of what is known or forgotten in
the inner literary circles of England. We can depend only on the books
and periodicals that happen to come to our hands, and perhaps should not
rely too much on such sources of information. Yet I cannot but think
that Robert Buchanan, for example, has become largely forgotten, and
apparently this is the case also with a number of other authors from whom
I quote. Because of this, I have retained all the passages I had from
such authors.

It must be remembered that this book is not an anthology. A commonplace
book is usually a collection of _reminders_ made by a young man who
cannot afford an extensive library. There is no system in such a
collection. A book is borrowed and extracts made from it; another book by
the same author is _bought_ and no extract made from it. On the one hand
a favourite verse, although well known, is written out for some reason
or other; on the other hand hundreds of beautiful poems are omitted. So
far from this being an anthology, I have, as a matter of course, omitted
many poems that since the seventy-eighty period have become general
favourites; and, as regards the most beautiful gems of our literature,
they are almost all excluded. There are for example, only a few lines
from Shakespeare.

Some exceptions have, however, been made. In a series of word-pictures,
a few of the best-known passages will be found. A few others have been
included for reasons that will readily appear; they either form part of a
series or the reason is apparent from the notes. Apart from these I have
retained Blanco White’s great sonnet and “The Night has a thousand eyes,”
written by F. W. Bourdillon when an undergraduate at Worcester College,
Oxford, because with regard to these I had an interesting and instructive
experience. I accidentally discovered that of four well-read men (two at
least of them more thorough students of poetry than myself) two were
ignorant of the one poem and two of the other. Seeking an explanation, I
turned to the anthologies. I could not find in any of them Bourdillon’s
little gem until I came to the comparatively recent _Oxford Book of
Victorian Verse_ and _The Spirit of Man_. The Blanco White sonnet I could
find _nowhere_ except in collections of sonnets, which in my opinion are
little read. It will be observed that in anthologies alone can Blanco
White’s one and only poem be kept alive.

The second reason why this book may have a special interest is that it
may serve as a reminder to my contemporaries of our stirring thoughts and
experiences in the seventies and eighties. How interesting this period
was it is difficult to show in a few lines. In pure literature, books of
value simply poured from the press. In the closing year, 1889, “One who
never turned his back, but marched breast forward” died on the day that
his last book, _Asolando_, was published, leaving Tennyson, an old man of
eighty, the sole survivor of the poets of a great period. At almost the
same moment “Crossing the Bar” was published.

Apart from literature, the seventies and eighties were an eventful
period in science and religion. Darwinism was still causing its
tremendous upheaval, and the supposed conflict between religion and
science exercised an enormous effect on the minds of men. Evolution had
explained so much of the processes in the history of life, that the
_majority_ of thinkers at that time imagined that no room was left for
the super-natural. Science was supposed to have given a death-blow to
religion, and the greatest wave of materialism ever known in the history
of the world swept over England and Europe. It is strange how many great
thinkers missed what now appears so obvious a fact, that causality still
stood behind all law, and that Darwin, like Newton, had merely helped to
show the method by which the universe is governed. (It seems to me that
James Martineau stood supreme at that time as a man of genius who saw
clearly the inherent defect of the whole materialist movement.)

However, agnosticism, materialism, positivism flourished and triumphed.
Science, whose dignity had been so long unrecognized, came into her
own, and, in her turn, usurped the same dogmatic superior attitude she
had resented in ecclesiasticism. On the one hand pessimistic literature
and philosophy poured from the press; on the other hand new religions
arose to take the place of the old. Theosophy and spiritualism were in
evidence everywhere (leading in 1882 to the happy result that the Society
for Psychical Research was founded). Harrison, Clifford, Swinburne and
others preached the deification of man. There were discords within, as
well as foes without the church. The severely orthodox fought against
the revelations of Colenso and the higher criticism; Seeley’s _Ecce
Homo_ and a host of other works aroused fierce antagonism; Pius IX, who
had in 1864 published his Syllabus which would have destroyed modern
civilization, proclaimed the infallibility of the Pope in 1870—and in
1872 was deprived of temporal power. Such questions as the literal
interpretation and inerrancy of the Bible were the subjects of intense
conflict—and especially strange is it to remember the dire struggle
of well-intentioned men to maintain the horrible doctrine of eternal
punishment. I imagine that this book will assist to some extent in
recalling the atmosphere and aroma of that remarkable period.

I have made very little attempt to arrange my quotations—and now wish I
had done less in that direction. The book is intended for casual reading,
and to arrange it under headings would tend to make it _heavy_. The
element of surprise is more calculated to make the book attractive.

I began the notes that are appended to some of the quotations with the
intention of giving only such short, necessary explanations as would
be of assistance to the inexperienced reader. When, however, I began
to write, I found my pen running away with me. Apart from the usual,
ineffectual efforts of one’s youth, I had never before attempted literary
work, and for the first time experienced the great pleasure there is in
such writing. With the immense variety of subjects in a collection of
quotations, one could continue to write over a series of years; but it
was necessary to keep the book within reasonable bounds, and, therefore,
I had arbitrarily to come to a stop. In these notes I do not claim that
there is much, if any, originality,[4] they are mostly recollections of
old reading. Still they may serve the important purpose of revivifying
old truths (see p. 78).

I have been astonished at the great deal of work this book has
involved—and also how much I have needed the assistance of my friends.
There were some sixty or seventy quotations in respect to which I had
neglected to give any reference to the authors (for the same reason
as one did not put the names on photographs of old friends—it seemed
impossible that the names could be forgotten). The difficulty of finding
even one such quotation is enormous, and we have no British Museum in
Adelaide, but only some limited public libraries. However, with the help
of my friends I have succeeded in tracing the paternity of most of these
“orphans.” In this and other directions I have had the kind assistance of
many gentlemen. Of these first and foremost comes Mr. G. F. Hassell, the
publisher of the Adelaide edition, who, in his devotion to literature as
well as to his own art of printing, is a worthy representative of the old
Renaissance printers. He has given me every assistance, has gone through
every line, and, as he is both an exceedingly well-read man and also of
a younger generation than myself, I have left it to him to decide what
should be omitted and what retained in this book. Professor Mitchell has
also been so kind as to revise and make suggestions concerning a number
of notes on philosophic and other subjects. Professor Darnley Naylor has
been uniformly good in revising any notes of a classical nature—though
he takes no responsibility whatever for the views I express. Dr. E.
Harold Davies has also helped me with two notes on music, in one instance
correcting a serious mistake I had made. Sir Langdon Bonython, my friend
of many years, has assisted me with practical as well as literary
suggestions, and has thrown open his library to me. Mr. Francis Edwards,
of High Street, Marylebone, has assisted in my search for references to
quotations. Mr. H. Rutherford Purnell, Public Librarian of Adelaide, and
his staff have helped me throughout, and Mr. E. La Touche Armstrong,
Public Librarian of Melbourne, has gone to great trouble on my account.
Miss M. R. Walker has assisted me in various ways, and especially in
preparing the very difficult Index of Subjects. Mr. Sydney Temple Thomas
has lent me a number of important books I specially required. Others
who have helped me in one way or another are two English friends, Mrs.
Caroline Sidgwick and Mrs. Rachael Bray, Messrs. J. R. Fowler, H. W.
Uffindell, S. Talbot Smith and Dr. J. W. Browne, of Adelaide, Professor
Dettmann of New Zealand, Professor Hyslop of New York and Mr. F. C.
Govers of the State War Council, Sydney.

For permission to include quotations from their works I thank the
following authors: Rev. F. W. Boreham, Mr. F. W. Bourdillon, Mr.
A. J. Edmunds, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. Thomas Hardy, O.M., Professor
Hobhouse, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Mr. E. F. Knight, Mr. R. Le Gallienne,
Mr. W. S. Lilly, Mr. Robert Loveman, Sir Frederick Pollock, Sir Arthur
Quiller-Couch, Professor A. H. Sayce, Mrs. Cronwright Schreiner, Mr. J.
C. Squire, Mr. Herbert Trench, Mr. Samuel Waddington, Mrs. Humphry Ward,
Mr. F. A. Westbury, Mr. F. S. Williamson and Sir Francis Younghusband.

For extracts from the writings of their relatives I am grateful to Lady
Arnold, Sir Francis Darwin, Mr. Henry James, The Earl of Lytton, Dr.
Greville McDonald, Miss Martineau, Miss Massey, Mr. W. M. Meredith,
Mrs. F. W. H. Myers, the Rev. Conrad Noel, Mr. William M. Rossetti, Sir
Herbert Stephen and Lord Tennyson. Mr. Piddington has also given much
assistance.

I am indebted to the following for quotations from the works of the
authors named: of Ruskin to the Ruskin Literary Trustees and their
publishers, Messrs. George Allen and Unwin; of Brunton Stephens to
Messrs. Angus and Robertson; of C. S. Calverley to Messrs. G. Bell and
Sons; of George Eliot to Messrs. William Blackwood & Sons; of James
Kenneth Stephen to Messrs. Bowes and Bowes; of Francis Thompson to
Messrs. Burns and Oates; of R. L. Stevenson to Messrs. Chatto and Windus
and to Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons; of Robert Buchanan to Messrs.
Chatto and Windus and to Mr. W. E. Martyn; of James Thomson (B.V.) to
Messrs. P. J. and A. E. Dobell; of D. G. Rossetti to Messrs. Ellis; of
Swinburne to Mr. W. Heinemann; of Mr. Le Gallienne, H. D. Lowry, Stephen
Phillips and J. B. Tabb to Mr. John Lane; of R. Loveman to the J. B.
Lippincott Co.; of A. K. H. Boyd, R. Jeffries, W. E. H. Lecky and the
Rev. James Martineau, to Messrs. Longmans Green & Co.; of Alfred Austin,
T. E. Brown, Lewis Carroll, Edward Fitzgerald, F. W. H. Myers, Walter
Pater, Lord Tennyson and Charles Tennyson Turner to Messrs. Macmillan &
Co.; of V. O’Sullivan to Mr. Elkin Matthews; of Mrs. Elizabeth Waterhouse
to Messrs. Methuen & Co.; of Robert Browning to Mr. John Murray; of Dr.
Moncure Conway and Sir Alfred Lyall to Messrs. Paul (Kegan), Trench
Trubner & Co.; of George Gissing to Mr. James B. Pinker; of John Payne
to Mr. O. M. Pritchard, his executor, and to Mr. Thomas Wright; of Sir
Edwin Arnold, P. J. Bailey (Festus) and Coventry Patmore to Messrs.
George Routledge & Sons; of G. Whyte Melville to Messrs. Ward Lock & Co.
(songs and verses); of George MacDonald to Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son; Mr.
Rudyard Kipling’s “L’Envoi” is reprinted from Departmental Ditties, by
kind permission of the author and Messrs. Methuen & Co.; “To the True
Romance” is published by Messrs. Macmillan & Co., to whom I am deeply
indebted, not only for this and the permissions mentioned above, but also
for much assistance in tracing copyrights. Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co.,
Mr. John Murray and Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son have been most helpful in
this direction, as have also been Messrs. T. B. Lippincott, the Oxford
University Press and Messrs. Watts & Co. Messrs. Constable & Co. have
generously granted permission for the quotations from George Meredith
and, as the representatives in London of the Houghton Mifflin Co. of
Boston, Mass., have secured the quotations from the works of American
authors published by that Firm, viz., T. B. Aldrich, R. W. Gilder, W. V.
Moody, S. M. B. Piatt, E. M. Thomas, C. D. Warner and the Classics of
Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier. Messrs. G. P. Putnam’s Sons
have also given much help; the lines from Anna Reeve Aldrich and R. C.
Rogers are published by their New York House. Mr. Martin Seeker joins
in the consent given by Mr. Squire for the extract from his poems. I
thank the Editor of the Contemporary Review for quotations from the
writings of Professor A. Bain and the Rev. R. F. Littledale; and the
Editor of the Nineteenth Century for some lines by W. M. Hardinge (Greek
Anthology) and an article on Multiplex Personality. I thank also the
Society for Psychical Research for an obituary article by F. W. H. Myers
on Gladstone, printed in the Journal of that Society.

For any unintentional omissions, oversights, or failures to trace
rights I beg to tender my apologies. The distance of Adelaide from the
centre of publication may, in some measure, serve as an excuse for such
shortcomings.

_All profits derived from the sale of this book will be paid to the Red
Cross Fund._

                                                           J. T. HACKETT.

Adelaide.




PREFACE TO THE SECOND ENGLISH EDITION.


In preparing this edition I have made a great number of more or less
important corrections, alterations and additions. Most of these occupy
only a few lines apiece and, although none call for special mention, they
should together add to the interest and usefulness of this book. For a
number of them I am indebted to Mr. Vernon Rendall, formerly editor of
the _Athenæum_ and _Notes and Queries_. With his wonderfully wide and
exact knowledge of English and classical literature, he gave me much
assistance and I am grateful to him.

The issue of a Second Edition enables me to thank my friend, Sir John
Cockburn, for his truly remarkable kindness to me. When I sent this
book home from Adelaide to be published, he undertook the heavy work of
seeking the consent of the numerous copyright owners, negotiating with
publishers, and seeing the book through the press. Only those who are
experienced in such matters can realize the _enormous_ amount of time
and labour that all this involved. It is impossible for me to express
adequately my obligations to my friend. He did not include any reference
to himself in the original Preface, in spite of my insistence by letter
and cable.

In associating his name with this book, I am bound to add that Sir John
disagrees with and, therefore, disapproves of much that I have said in
some notes on the Ancient Greeks.

                                                           J. T. HACKETT.

London, _September, 1920._




PREFACE TO THE THIRD ENGLISH EDITION.


This has presumably to be called a new edition, rather than a new issue,
seeing that there are revisions and alterations. But these are not
numerous, and the only ones to which I need call special attention are
the substituted verses on pp. 153-5.

I am indebted to Mr. Denys Bray for permission to include his daughter’s
verses.

                                                           J. T. HACKETT.

Mentone, _December, 1920._




YOUTH AND AGE

  _Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying,_
    _Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—_
  _Both were mine! Life went a-maying_
    _With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,_
        _When I was young!_

  _~When~ I was young?—Ah, woful When!_
  _Ah! for the change ’twixt Now and Then!_
  _This breathing house not built with hands,_
  _This body that does me grievous wrong,_
  _O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands_
  _How lightly ~then~ it flashed along:—_
  _Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,_
  _On winding lakes and rivers wide,_
  _That ask no aid of sail or oar,_
  _That fear no spite of wind or tide!_
  _Nought cared this body for wind or weather_
  _When Youth and I lived in’t together._

    _Flowers are lovely: Love is flower-like;_
  _Friendship is a sheltering tree;_
  _O! the joys, that came down shower-like,_
  _Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,_
      _Ere I was old!_

  _~Ere~ I was old? Ah, woful Ere,_
  _Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here!_
  _O Youth! for years so many and sweet_
  _’Tis known that Thou and I were one,_
  _I’ll think it but a fond conceit—_
  _It cannot be, that thou art gone!_
  _Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d:—_
  _And thou wert aye a masker bold!_
  _What strange disguise hast now put on_
  _To ~make believe~ that Thou art gone?_
  _I see these locks in silvery slips,_
  _This drooping gait, this alter’d size:_
  _But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,_
  _And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!_
  _Life is but Thought: so think I will_
  _That Youth and I are house-mates still._

    _Dew-drops are the gems of morning,_
  _But the tears of mournful eve!_
  _Where no hope is, life’s a warning_
  _That only serves to make us grieve_
          _When we are old:_
  _—That only serves to make us grieve_
  _With oft and tedious taking-leave,_
  _Like some poor nigh-related guest_
  _That may not rudely be dismist,_
  _Yet hath outstay’d his welcome while,_
  _And tells the jest without the smile._

                         S. T. COLERIDGE.




My Commonplace Book


  Our God and soldier we alike adore,
  When at the brink of ruin, not before;
  After deliverance both alike requited,
  Our God forgotten, and our soldiers slighted.

                         FRANCIS QUARLES (1592-1644).

       *       *       *       *       *

  In an age of fops and toys,
  Wanting wisdom, void of right,
  Who shall nerve heroic boys
  To hazard all in Freedom’s fight?
  ...
  So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
  So near is God to man,
  When Duty whispers low, _Thou must_,
  The youth replies, _I can_.

                         R. W. EMERSON (_Voluntaries_).

       *       *       *       *       *

ENGLAND

  When I have borne in memory what has tamed
  Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
  When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
  The student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed
  I had, my Country—am I to be blamed?
  Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
  Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
  Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
  For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
  In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
  And I by my affection was beguiled:
  What wonder if a Poet now and then,
  Among the many movements of his mind,
  Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

                         WORDSWORTH (1803).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Careless seems the great Avenger; history’s pages but record
  One death struggle in the darkness ’twixt old systems and the Word;
  Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,—
  Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,
  Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own.

                         J. R. LOWELL (_The Present Crisis_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Many loved Truth, and lavished life’s best oil
    Amid the dust of books to find her,
  Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,
    With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.
  Many in sad faith sought for her,
  Many with crossed hands sighed for her;
  But these, our brothers, fought for her,
  At life’s dear peril wrought for her,
  So loved her that they died for her....
  They saw her plumed and mailed,
  With sweet, stern face unveiled,
  And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.

                         J. R. LOWELL (_Ode at Harvard Commemoration,
                         1865_).

    This Ode was written in memory of the Harvard University men
    who had died in the Secession war. Our own brave men are also
    fighting in the cause of Truth, against the hideous falsity of
    German teaching and morals.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                The future’s gain
  Is certain as God’s truth; but, meanwhile, pain
  Is bitter, and tears are salt: our voices take
  A sober tone; our very household songs
  Are heavy with a nation’s griefs and wrongs;
  And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake
  Of the brave hearts that nevermore shall beat.
  The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet!

                         J. G. WHITTIER (_In War Time_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRIEST

  “The glory of Man is his strength,
  And the weak man must die,” said the Lord.

  CHORUS

  Hark to the Song of the Sword!

  PRIEST

  Uplift! let it gleam in the sun—
  Uplift in the name of the Lord!

  KAISER

  Lo! how it gleams in the light,
  Beautiful, bloody, and bright.
  Yea, I uplift the Sword
  Thus in the name of the Lord!

  THE CHIEFS

  Form ye a circle of fire
  Around him, our King and our Sire—
  While in the centre he stands,
  Kneel with your swords in your hands,
  Then with one voice deep and free
  Echo like waves of the sea—
    “In the name of the Lord!”

  VOICES WITHOUT

  Where is he?—he fades from our sight!
  Where the Sword?—all is blacker than night.
  Is it finish’d, that loudly ye cry?
  Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die?
  O bury us deep, most deep;
  Write o’er us, wherever we sleep,
    “In the name of the Lord!”

  KAISER

  While I uplift the Sword,
  Thus in the name of the Lord,
  Why, with mine eyes full of tears,
  Am I sick of the song in mine ears?
  God of the Israelite, hear;
  God of the Teuton, be near;
  Strengthen my pulse lest I fail.
  Shut out these slain while they wail—
  For they come with the voice of the grave
  On the glory they give me and gave.

  CHORUS

  In the name of the Lord? Of what Lord?
  Where is He, this God of the Sword?
  Unfold Him; where hath He His throne?
  Is He Lord of the Teuton alone?
  Doth He walk on the earth? Doth He tread
  On the limbs of the dying and dead?
  Unfold Him! We sicken, and long
  To look on this God of the strong!

  PRIEST

  Hush! In the name of the Lord,
  Kneel ye, and bless ye the Sword!

                         R. BUCHANAN (_The Apotheosis of the Sword,
                         Versailles, 1871_)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Short is mine errand to tell, and the end of my desire:
  For peace I bear unto thee, and to all the kings of the earth,
  Who bear the sword aright, and are crowned with the crown of worth;
  But unpeace to the lords of evil, and the battle and the death;
  And the edge of the sword to the traitor and the flame to the slanderous
    breath:
  And I would that the loving were loved, and I would that the weary should
    sleep,
  And that man should hearken to man, and that he that soweth should reap.

                         W. MORRIS (_Sigurd the Volsung, Book III_).

       *       *       *       *       *

SACRIFICE

  Though love repine, and reason chafe,
  There came a voice without reply,—
  “’Tis man’s perdition to be safe,
  When for the truth he ought to die.”

                         R. W. EMERSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

GREEKS OR GERMANS?

Do not imagine that you are fighting about a single issue, freedom or
slavery. You have an empire to lose, and are exposed to danger by reason
of the hatred which your imperial rule has inspired in other states. And
you cannot resign your power, although some timid or unambitious spirits
want you to act justly. For now your empire has become a _despotism_,
a thing which in the opinion of mankind has been unjustly acquired yet
cannot be safely relinquished. The men of whom I speak, if they could
find followers, would soon ruin the state, and, if they were to found a
state of their own, would just as soon ruin that.

                                                  (_Speech by Pericles._)

I have observed again and again that a democracy cannot govern an empire;
and never more clearly than now, when I see you regretting the sentence
you pronounced on the Mityleneans. Having no fear or suspicion of one
another, you deal with your allies on the same principle. You do not
realize that, whenever you yield to them out of pity, or are prevailed
on by their pleas, you are guilty of a weakness dangerous to yourselves
and receive no gratitude from them. You need to bear in mind that your
empire is a _despotism_ exercised over unwilling subjects who are ever
conspiring against you. They do not obey because of any kindness you show
them: they obey just so far as you show yourselves their masters. They
have no love for you, but are held down by force....

You must not be misled by pity, or eloquent pleading or by generosity.
There are no three things more fatal to empire.

                     (_Speech by Cleon_) THUCYDIDES, II, 63; III, 37, 40.

    It will be seen that these odious sentiments are attributed
    by the impartial Thucydides to his hero Pericles as well as
    to the demagogue Cleon. The Greeks were fervent supporters of
    Democracy and Equality, but not when it came to dealing either
    with foreign states or with their own _women or slaves_. (See
    also Socrates and Aristotle, p. 367.)

       *       *       *       *       *

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the
sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their
country; but he, that stands it _now_, deserves the love and thanks
of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we
have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more
glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly:
it is dearness only that gives anything its value. Heaven knows how to
put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so
celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.

                                                     THOMAS PAINE (1776).

    Outside the Bible and other books of religion, I think it
    would be difficult to find any single passage in the world’s
    literature that produced so wonderful a result as the above
    passage of Tom Paine’s. It was the opening paragraph of the
    first number of _The Crisis_, and was written by miserable,
    flaring candle-light, when Paine was a private in Washington’s
    ill-clad, worn-out army at Trenton. The soldiers, who were then
    despairing from hardship and defeat, were roused by these words
    to such enthusiasm that next day they rushed bravely in and won
    the first American victory, which turned the tide of the war of
    independence.

    Previously to this, it was through Paine’s pamphlet, _Common
    Sense_, that the Americans first saw that separation was the
    only remedy for their grievances. Conway tells an amusing story
    about _Common Sense_ and _The Rights of Man_. When the Bolton
    town crier was sent round to seize these prohibited books, he
    reported that he could not find any Rights of Man or Common
    Sense anywhere!

    For trying to save the life of Louis XVI during the revolution,
    Paine was thrown into the Bastille, and only escaped death by a
    curious accident. It was customary for chalk-marks to be made
    on the cell-doors of those to be guillotined the following
    morning, and these doors opened outwards. When Paine’s door
    was marked, it happened to be open, and the mark was made on
    the inside, so that, when the door was shut, the mark was not
    visible. If Paine had not been a sceptic, this would have
    been described in those days as a wonderful interposition of
    Providence!

    Conway lays a terrible indictment against Washington. When
    Paine, whose services to America, and to Washington himself,
    had been so magnificent, was thrown into the Bastille,
    Washington could have saved him by a word—but remained silent!
    This was no doubt the reason why Paine, after his liberation,
    was led to make an unjust attack on Washington’s military and
    Presidential work. It was due to this attack on Washington
    and the bigotry of the time against the author of _The Age of
    Reason_, that Paine fell utterly into disrepute.

    When the Centenary of American independence was celebrated by
    an Exhibition at Philadelphia, a bust of Paine was offered to
    the city by his admirers, but was promptly declined! And yet
    Conway says that on the day, whose centenary was then being
    celebrated, Paine was idolized in America above all other men,
    Washington included.

    The foregoing notes were made on reading an article on Paine by
    Moncure D. Conway in _The Fortnightly_, March, 1879. I think
    the fact mentioned in the last paragraph and the town-crier
    story do not appear in Conway’s subsequent _Life of Paine_.

    Even at the present day bigotry seems to prevent any proper
    recognition of Paine’s fine character and important work.
    (The unpleasant flippancy[5] with which he dealt with serious
    religious questions is no doubt partly the cause of this.) I
    find very inadequate appreciation of him in _The Americana_
    and _The Biographical Dictionary of America_—and also in our
    own _Dictionary of National Biography_. The general impression
    among the public still probably is that Paine was an atheist;
    as a matter of fact, he was a Theist, and his will ends with
    the words, “I die in perfect composure and resignation to the
    will of my Creator, God.”

    Carlyle’s reference to Paine is amusing: “Nor is our England
    without her missionaries. She has her Paine: rebellious
    staymaker; unkempt; who feels that he, a single needleman, did,
    by his _Common-Sense_ Pamphlet, free America—that he can and
    will free all this World; perhaps even the other.” (_French
    Revolution._)

       *       *       *       *       *

    Buy my English posies!
      You that will not turn—
    Buy my hot-wood clematis,
      Buy a frond o’ fern
    Gather’d where the Erskine leaps
      Down the road to Lorne—
    Buy my Christmas creeper
      And I’ll say where you were born!
  West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin—
  They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn—
  Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main—
  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

    Buy my English posies!
      Ye that have your own
    Buy them for a brother’s sake
      Overseas, alone.
    Weed ye trample underfoot
      Floods his heart abrim—
    Bird ye never heeded,
      O, she calls his dead to him!
  Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas;
  Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these!
  Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land—
  Masters of the Seven Seas, O, love and understand!

                         RUDYARD KIPLING (_The Flowers_).

    Of the verses in this fine poem which speak for the various
    British Dominions I take only the one that represents my own
    country. At the time Kipling wrote, the inhabitants of our
    beloved mother-country did not seem to fully realize that we
    were their kindred—that our fern and clematis made _English
    posies_—but no doubt their feeling has altered since we have
    fought side by side in mutual defence. However, to us England
    was always “home,” and when Kipling wrote this poem he entered
    straight into our hearts.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY

  RUFINUS

  Here lilies, here the rosebud, and here too
  The windflower with her petals drenched in dew,
  And daffodillies cool, and violets blue.

  MELEAGER

  It’s oh! to be a wild wind—when my lady’s in the sun—
  She’d just unbind her neckerchief and take me breathing in,
  It’s oh! to be a red rose—just a faintly blushing one—
  So she’d pull me with her hand and to her snowy breast I’d win.

  PLATO TO ASTER

  Thou gazest on the stars—a star to me
  Thou[6] art—but oh! that I the heavens might be
  And with a thousand eyes still gaze on thee!

  PALLADAS

  Breathing the thin breath through our nostrils, we
  Live, and a little space the sunlight see—
  Even all that live—each being an instrument
  To which the generous air its life has lent.
  If with the hand one quench our draught of breath,
  He sends the stark soul shuddering down to death.
  We, that are nothing on our pride are fed,
  Seeing, but for a little air, we are as dead.

  AESOPUS

  Is there no help from life save only death?
  “Life that such myriad sorrows harboureth
  I dare not break, I cannot bear”—one saith.

  “Sweet are stars, sun, and moon, and sea, and earth,
  For service and for beauty these had birth,
  But all the rest of life is little worth—

  “Yea, all the rest is pain and grief” saith he
  “For if it hap some good thing come to me
  An evil end befalls it speedily!”[7]

  PHILODEMUS

  I loved—and you. I played—who hath not been
  Steeped in such play? If I was mad, I ween
  ’Twas for a god and for no earthly queen.

  Hence with it all! Then dark my youthful head,
  Where now scant locks of whitening hair instead,
  Reminders of a grave old age, are shed.

  I gathered roses while the roses blew,
  Playtime is past, my play is ended too.
  Awake, my heart! and worthier aims pursue.

                         W. M. HARDINGE (_Nineteenth Century_, Nov. 1878).

    My notes tell me nothing of Hardinge, except that he was the
    “Leslie” in Mallock’s _New Republic_. Another version of
    Plato’s beautiful epigram (which was addressed to “Aster,” or
    “Star”) is the following by Professor Darnley Naylor:

      Thou gazest on the stars, my Star;
        Oh! might I be
      The starry sky with myriad eyes
        To gaze on thee!

    The Greek Anthology is a collection of about 4,500 short poems
    by about 300 Greek writers, extending over a period of one
    thousand seven hundred years, from, say, 700 B.C. to 1000 A.D.
    At first these poems were epigrams—using the word “epigram”
    in its original sense, as a verse intended to be inscribed on
    a tomb or tablet in memory of some dead person or important
    event. Later they included poems on any subject, so long as
    they contained one fine thought couched in concise language.
    Still later any short lyric was included.

    This wonderful collection forms a great treasure-house of
    poetry, which gives much insight into the Greek life of the
    time, and it also largely influenced English and European
    literature. For instance, the first verse of Ben Jonson’s
    “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” is taken direct from the
    Anthology (Agathias, _Anth. Pal._, V., 261). I may add that
    the second verse, in which the poet sends the wreath, not as
    a compliment to the lady but as a kindness to the roses which
    could not wither if worn by her, is also borrowed from a Greek
    source. (Philostratus, _Epistolai Erotikai_.)

    Numberless English and European scholars have attempted the
    difficult task of translating or paraphrasing these little
    poetic gems into correspondingly poetic and concise language,
    but the beauty of the original can never be fully retained.

       *       *       *       *       *

PLATO TO STELLA

  Thou wert the morning star among the living,
      Ere thy fair light had fled:—
  Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving
      New splendour to the dead.

                           SHELLEY’S VERSION.

       *       *       *       *       *

PTOLEMY

  I know that we are mortal, the children of a day;
  But when I scan the circling spires, the serried stars’ array,
  I tread the earth no longer and soar where none hath trod,
  To feast in Heaven’s banquet-hall and drink the wine of God.

                           H. DARNLEY NAYLOR’S VERSION.

    Although there cannot be absolute certainty, this Ptolemy is no
    doubt the great Greek astronomer; and the epigram would date
    from about 140 A.D.

       *       *       *       *       *

HERACLEITUS.

  They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead,
  They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
  I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
  Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

  And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
  A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
  Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
  For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

                         WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY (1823-1892).

    This is a paraphrase of verses written by Callimachus on
    hearing of the death of his friend, the poet Heracleitus (not
    the philosopher of that name).

    Francis Thompson (_Sister Songs_) hoped that his “nightingales”
    would continue to sing after his death, just as light would
    come from a star long after it had ceased to exist:

  Oh! may this treasure-galleon of my verse,
  Fraught with its golden passion, oared with cadent rhyme,
  Set with a towering press of fantasies,
                    Drop safely down the time,
      Leaving mine islèd self behind it far
  Soon to be sunk in the abysm of seas,
  (As down the years the splendour voyages
      From some long ruined and night-submergèd star).

       *       *       *       *       *

When I consider the shortness of my life, lost in an eternity before
and behind, “passing away as the remembrance of a guest who tarrieth
but a day,” the little space I fill or behold in the infinite immensity
of spaces, of which I know nothing and which know nothing of me—when I
reflect this, I am filled with terror, and wonder why I am _here_ and not
_there_, for there was no reason why it should be the one rather than the
other; why _now_ rather than _then_. Who set me here? By whose command
and rule were this time and place appointed me? How many kingdoms know
nothing of us! The eternal silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me.

                                                      PASCAL (_Pensées_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ye weep for those who weep? she said,
    Ah, fools! I bid you pass them by.
  Go weep for those whose hearts have bled
    What time their eyes were dry.
  Whom sadder can I say? she said.

                         E. B. BROWNING (_The Mask_).

    See also Seneca (_Hipp._), _Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes
    stupent_, “Light sorrows speak, but deeper ones are dumb.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Star unto star speaks light.

                                P. J. BAILEY (_Festus, Scene 1, Heaven_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  O love, my love! if I no more should see
  Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
    Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,—
  How then should sound upon Life’s darkening slope
  The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,
    The wind of Death’s imperishable wing!

                         D. G. ROSSETTI (_Lovesight_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Our deeds are like children that are born to us; they live and act apart
from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never: they
have an indestructible life both in and out of our consciousness.

                                                 GEORGE ELIOT (_Romola_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Room in all the ages
    For our love to grow,
  Prayers of both demanded
    A little while ago:

  And now a few poor moments,
    Between life and death,
  May be proven all too ample
    For love’s breath.

                         RODEN NOEL (_The Pity of It_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining
    Under those spider-webs lying!...

  Is it your moral of Life?
    Such a web, simple and subtle,
  Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,
    Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,
      Death ending all with a knife?

  Over our heads truth and nature—
    Still our life’s zigzags and dodges,
  Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature—
    God’s gold just showing its last where that lodges,
      Palled beneath man’s usurpature.

  So we o’ershroud stars and roses,
    Cherub and trophy and garland;
  Nothings grow something which quietly closes
    Heaven’s earnest eye; not a glimpse of the far land
      Gets through our comments and glozes.

                         R. BROWNING (_Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_).

    Hugues of Saxe-Gotha is an imaginary name, but it probably
    indicates the great Sebastian Bach, who came from that part of
    Germany. The “masterpiece, hard number twelve,” referred to
    in the poem, may be (Dr. E. Harold Davies tells me) the great
    Organ Fugue in F Minor, which is in “five part” counter-point.

    This very interesting poem is written in a half-humorous
    fashion, but its intention is quite serious. In a wonderfully
    imitative manner,[8] it describes the wrangling and disputing
    in a five-voiced fugue (where five persons appear to be taking
    part):

      One is incisive, corrosive;
        Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant;
      Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive;
        Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant:
      Five ... O Danaïdes, O Sieve!

    (For killing their husbands the fifty Danaïdes were doomed to
    pour water everlastingly into a sieve.)

    “Where in all this is the music?” asks Browning. And, although
    he is writing humorously, yet, however rank the heresy, he
    finds that the fugue, with its elaborate counterpoint, is
    wanting in the essentials of true art. He prefers Palestrina’s
    simpler and more emotional mode of expression:

      Hugues! I advise _meâ poenâ_[9]
        (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon)
      Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena!
        Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ,
      Blare out the _mode Palestrina_.

    In the poem, where occurs the passage quoted, one can vividly
    follow the poet’s thought. Music is essentially the language of
    feeling, of _emotion_; the fugue is a triumph of _invention_,
    and, therefore, the result of _intellect_. Feeling is
    elemental, simple, and unanalysable. The subtleties of pure
    harmony are the expression of deepness and richness of feeling;
    the intricacies of the fugue are artificially constructed and,
    therefore, unsuited to the expression of pure emotion. They
    represent intellect as against feeling. And essentially in the
    moral world, but also in our general outlook upon truth and
    nature, the spiritual perception is derived from simple human
    emotion rather than intellect; “Thou hast hid these things from
    the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.” (The
    whole of Browning’s poetry teaches that love, not intellect,
    is the solution of all moral problems, and the goal of the
    universe.)

    In the poem the organist has been playing on the organ in
    an old church; and Browning suddenly sees an illustration
    of his thought in the fine gilded ceiling covered by thick
    cobwebs. The cobwebs that obscure the gold of the ceiling
    are the intellectual wranglings that destroy music in the
    fugue—and both are symbolical of what occurs in our lives.
    Truth and Nature, “God’s gold”—the pure, simple truths of the
    higher life—are over us, bright and clear as the noon-day
    sun. But by doubts and disputations, warring philosophies and
    contending creeds, by strife over non-essentials, casuistries,
    self-deceptions, by questions of dogma (often as fine as any
    spider’s web), by endless “comments and glozes,” we lose sight
    of the elemental truths and clear principles that should guide
    our lives. The pure and simple-hearted reach the Mount of
    Vision: to them comes the clear sense of Love and Duty. Those
    of us who turn our intellects to a perverse use and exclude
    the spiritual perception of the soul are like the spiders who
    cover up “stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland.”
    We obscure and forget all noble ideals, abolish God’s high
    “legislature,” and follow a lawless life of selfish passion
    and sordid ambitions. The Good and Beautiful and True have
    been obliterated and forgotten; “God’s gold” is tarnished, His
    harmonies lost in discord; and we become morally dead.

  So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.
  Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air;
  Cold plashing past it, crystal waters roll;
  We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!...

  Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high,
  Upon our life a ruling effluence send;
  And when it fails, fight as we will, we die,
  And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.

                         MATTHEW ARNOLD (_Palladium_).

       *       *       *       *       *

(Referring to the Gorham case) The future historian of opinion will write
of us in this strain: “The people who spoke the language of Shakespeare
were great in the constructive arts: the remains of their vast works
evince an extraordinary power of combining and economizing labour: their
colonies were spread over both hemispheres, and their industry penetrated
to the remotest tribes: they knew how to subjugate nature and to govern
men: but the weakness of their thought presented a strange contrast to
the vigour of their arm; and though they were an earnest people, their
conceptions of human life and its Divine Author seems to have been of
the most puerile nature. Some orations have been handed down—apparently
delivered before one of their most dignified tribunals—in which the
question is discussed: ‘In what way the washing of new-born babes
according to certain rules prevented God’s hating them.’ The curious
feature is, that the discussion turns entirely upon the manner in which
this wetting operated; and no doubt seems to have been entertained by
disputants, judges, or audience, that, without it, a child or other
person dying would fall into the hands of an angry Deity, and be kept
alive for ever to be tortured in a burning cave. Now, all researches
into the contemporary institutions of the island show that its religion
found its chief support among the classes possessing no mean station or
culture, and that the education for the priesthood was the highest which
the country afforded. This strange belief must be taken, therefore, as
the measure, not of popular ignorance, but of their most intellectual
faith. A philosophy and worship embodying such a superstition can present
nothing to reward the labour of research.”

                    JAMES MARTINEAU (_Essay on “The Church of England”_).

    In the Gorham case, which went on appeal to the Privy Council,
    it was decided that Mr. Gorham’s beliefs, although unusual,
    were not repugnant to the doctrines of the Church of England.
    His views were that baptism is generally necessary to
    salvation, that it is a sign of grace by which God works in
    us, but only in those who worthily receive it. In others it is
    not effectual. Infants baptized who die before actual sin are
    certainly saved, but regeneration does not necessarily follow
    on baptism.

    In such matters one question stands out very prominently.
    The priest is consecrated to the high office of teaching the
    eternal truths of Christ—Love and Duty and Moral Aspiration.
    How can he keep those truths in due perspective when his
    intellect is engaged in warfare over miserable casuistries.

    And as the strife waxes fiercer among the priests of the Most
    High, they call in the aid of hired mercenaries. Think of
    the lawyers paid by one side or the other to argue questions
    of baptism and prevenient grace! It was precisely this
    introduction into religion of legal formalism and technicality,
    the arguing from texts and ancient commentaries, the verbal
    quibbling and hair-splitting, the “letter” that “killeth” as
    against the “spirit” that “giveth life,” which led to Christ’s
    bitter invectives against the “Scribes” or lawyers of His day.

    Seeley, in _Ecce Homo_, points out that when Christ summoned
    the disciples to him, he required from them only Faith, and not
    belief in any specific doctrines. As it was not until later
    that they learnt He was to suffer death and rise again, they
    could at first have held no belief in the Atonement or the
    Resurrection. “Nor,” says Seeley, “do we find Him frequently
    examining His followers in their creed, and rejecting one as
    a sceptic and another as an infidel.... Assuredly those who
    represent Christ as presenting to man an abstruse _theology_,
    and saying to them peremptorily: ‘Believe or be damned,’ have
    the coarsest conception of the Saviour of the world.”

    As I have read somewhere, “From all barren Orthodoxy, good
    Lord, deliver us.”[10]

       *       *       *       *       *

  For while a youth is lost in soaring thought,
  And while a maid grows sweet and beautiful,
  And while a spring-tide coming lights the earth,
  And while a child, and while a flower is born,
  And while one wrong cries for redress and finds
  A soul to answer, still the world is young!

                         LEWIS MORRIS (_Epic of Hades_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Poems are painted window panes.
  If one looks from the square into the church,
  Dusk and dimness are his gains—
  Sir Philistine is left in the lurch!
  The sight, so seen, may well enrage him,
  Nor anything henceforth assuage him.

  But come just inside what conceals;
  Cross the holy threshold quite—
  All at once ’tis rainbow-bright,
  Device and story flash to light,
  A gracious splendour truth reveals.
  This to God’s children is full measure,
  It edifies and gives you pleasure!

                         GOETHE.

    This is George MacDonald’s translation (but never can a
    translation of poetry reproduce the original). MacDonald says
    of the poem: “This is true concerning every form in which truth
    is embodied, whether it be sight or sound, geometric diagram
    or scientific formula. Unintelligible, it may be dismal enough
    regarded from the outside; prismatic in its revelation of truth
    from within.” Among the arts this statement is most applicable
    to poetry, and hence the reason why notes are often required to
    assist many persons to “come inside,” to enter into the heart
    of a poem—to reach the point of vision.

       *       *       *       *       *

DE TEA FABULA

        Do I sleep? Do I dream?
          Am I hoaxed by a scout?
        Are things what they seem,
          Or is Sophists about?
  Is our τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

        Which expressions like these
          May be fairly applied
        By a party who sees
          A Society skied
  Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.

        ’Twas November the third.
          And I says to Bill Nye,
        “Which it’s true what I’ve heard:
          If you’re, so to speak, fly,
  There’s a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as
    High.”

        Which I mentioned its name
          And he ups and remarks:
        “If dress-coats is the game
          And pow-wow in the Parks,
  Then I’m nuts on Sordello and Hohensteil-Schwangau and similar Snarks.”

        Now the pride of Bill Nye
          Cannot well be express’d;
        For he wore a white tie
          And a cut-away vest:
  Says I: “Solomon’s lilies ain’t in it, and they was reputed well
    dress’d.”

        But not far did we wend,
          When we saw Pippa pass
        On the arm of a friend
          —Dr. Furnivall ’twas,
  And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class.

        “Well,” I thought, “this is odd.”
          But we came pretty quick
        To a sort of a quad
          That was all of red brick,
  And I says to the porter: “R. Browning: free passes and kindly look
    slick.”

        But says he, dripping tears
          In his check handkerchief,
        “That symposium’s career’s
          Been regrettably brief,
  For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder leaf!”

        Then we tucked up the sleeves
          Of our shirts (that were biled),
        Which the reader perceives
          That our feelings were riled,
  And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her
    child.

        Which emotions like these
          Must be freely indulged
        By a party who sees
          A Society bulged
  On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.

        But I ask: Do I dream?
          _Has_ it gone up the spout;
        Are things what they seem,
          Or is Sophists about?
  Is our τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

                         SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH.

    This parody on Bret Harte’s “Plain Language from Truthful
    James” was written at the time when the Browning Society at
    Keble College, Oxford, came to an end—apparently, according to
    these verses, because its funds had been exhausted in afternoon
    teas!

    τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι (pronounced _toe tee ane einai_). In Oxford
    special attention is paid to Aristotle; and Quiller-Couch,
    being an Oxford man, assumes that his readers are familiar
    with this phrase. It means “the essential nature of a thing,”
    or, literally, “the question what a thing really is.” Such
    a Society would be engaged in discovering the true meaning
    of Browning’s difficult poems, so that the phrase is as
    appropriate as it is amusing in its application.

    The title “De Tea fabula” is a pun on Horace’s “Quid rides?
    Mutato nomine _de te Fabula_ narratur” (Sat. 1, 69). “Wherefore
    do you laugh? Change but the name, of thee the tale is told.”
    Oxford, which Matthew Arnold called the home of lost causes,
    still refuses to pronounce Latin correctly, and makes _te_
    rhyme with _fee_, _see_, _bee_. It ought of course to rhyme
    with _fay_, _say_, _bay_. Or possibly Sir Arthur has reverted
    to the pronunciation of _ea_ which prevailed until the end of
    the Eighteenth Century. See Pope’s “Rape of the Lock”:

      Here thou, great Anna, whom three realms obey,
      Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.

    _Dr. Furnivall_ (1825-1910), an eminent philologist, was the
    founder of the society, the first society ever formed to study
    the works of a living poet. From the context he may have
    specially admired, as he certainly threw special light upon,
    Browning’s _Pippa Passes_.

    _Scout_ at Oxford is a (male) college servant.

       *       *       *       *       *

    One fine frosty day,
  My stomach being empty as your hat.

                         R. BROWNING (_Fra Lippo Lippi_).

    The “cheekiest” line I know.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE MOON

  The wind is shrill on the hills, and the plover
    Wheels up and down with a windy scream;
  The birch has loosen’d her bright locks over
    The nut-brown pools of the mountain stream:
  Yet here I linger in London City,
    Thinking of meadows where I was born—
  And over the roofs, like a face of pity,
    Up comes the Moon, with her dripping horn.

  O Moon, pale Spirit, with dim eyes drinking
    The sheen of the Sun as he sweepeth by,
  I am looking long in those eyes, and thinking
    Of one who hath loved thee longer than I;
  I am asking my heart if ye Spirits cherish
    The souls that ye witch with a harvest call?—
  If the dreams must die when the dreamer perish?—
    If it be idle to dream at all?

  The waves of the world roll hither and thither,
    The tumult deepens, the days go by,
  The dead men vanish—we know not whither,
    The live men anguish—we know not why;
  The cry of the stricken is smothered never,
    The Shadow passes from street to street;
  And—o’er us fadeth, for ever and ever,
    The still white gleam of thy constant feet.

  The hard men struggle, the students ponder,
    The world rolls round on its westward way;
  The gleam of the beautiful night up yonder
    Is dim on the dreamer’s cheek all day;
  The old earth’s voice is a sound of weeping,
    Round her the waters wash wild and vast,
  There is no calm, there is little sleeping,—
    Yet nightly, brightly, thou glimmerest past!

  Another summer, new dreams departed,
    And yet we are lingering, thou and I;
  I on the earth, with my hope proud-hearted,
    Thou, in the void of a violet sky!
  Thou art there! I am here! and the reaping and mowing
    Of the harvest year is over and done,
  And the hoary snow-drift will soon be blowing
    Under the wheels of the whirling Sun.

  While tower and turret lie silver’d under,
    When eyes are closed and lips are dumb,
  In the nightly pause of the human wonder,
    From dusky portals I see thee come;
  And whoso wakes and beholds thee yonder,
    Is witch’d like me till his days shall cease,—
  For in his eyes, wheresoever he wander,
    Flashes the vision of God’s white Peace.

                         R. BUCHANAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no short cut, no patent tramroad, to wisdom: after all the
centuries of invention, the soul’s path lies through the thorny
wilderness which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet,
with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time.

                                        GEORGE ELIOT (_The Lifted Veil_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Let us think less of men and more of God.
  Sometimes the thought comes swiftening over us,
  Like a small bird winging the still blue air;
  And then again, at other times, it rises
  Slow, like a cloud, which scales the skies all breathless,
  And just overhead lets itself down on us,
  Sometimes we feel the wish across the mind
  Rush like a rocket tearing up the sky,
  That we should join with God, and give the world
  The slip: but, while we wish, the world turns round
  And peeps us in the face—the wanton world;
  We feel it gently pressing down our arm—
  The arm we had raised to do for truth such wonders;
  We feel it softly bearing on our side—
  We feel it touch and thrill us through the body,—
  And we are fools, and there’s the end of us.

                         P. J. BAILEY (_Festus_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  It fell upon a merry May morn,
    I’ the perfect prime of that sweet time
    When daisies whiten, woodbines climb,—
  The dear Babe Christabel was born.

  ...

  Look how a star of glory swims
    Down aching silences of space,
    Flushing the Darkness till its face
  With beating heart of light o’erbrims!

  So brightening came Babe Christabel,
    To touch the earth with fresh romance,
    And light a Mother’s countenance
  With looking on her miracle.

  With hands so flower-like soft, and fair,
    She caught at life, with words as sweet
    As first spring violets, and feet
  As faery-light as feet of air.

  ...

  She grew, a sweet and sinless Child,
    In shine and shower,—calm and strife;
    A Rainbow on our dark of Life.
  From Love’s own radiant heaven down-smiled!

  In lonely loveliness she grew,—
    A shape all music, light, and love,
    With startling looks, so eloquent of
  The spirit burning into view.

  Such mystic lore was in her eyes,
    And light of other worlds than ours,
    She looked as she had fed on flowers,
  And drunk the dews of Paradise[11]

  ...

  Ah! she was one of those who come
    With pledgèd promise not to stay
    Long, ere the Angels let them stray
  To nestle down in earthly home:

  And, thro’ the windows of her eyes,
    We often saw her saintly soul,
    Serene, and sad, and beautiful,
  Go sorrowing for lost Paradise.

  She came—like music in the night
    Floating as heaven in the brain,
    A moment oped, and shut again,
  And all is dark where all was light.

  ...

  In this dim world of clouding cares,
    We rarely know, till wildered eyes
    See white wings lessening up the skies,
  The Angels with us unawares.

  Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled;
    Awhile she sat with folded wings—
    Sang round us a few hoverings—
  Then straightway into glory sped.

  And white-wing’d Angels nurture her;
    With heaven’s white radiance robed and crown’d,
    And all Love’s purple glory round,
  She summers on the Hills of Myrrh.

  Thro’ Childhood’s morning-land, serene
    She walked betwixt us twain, like Love;
    While, in a robe of light above,
  Her better Angel walked unseen,—

  Till Life’s highway broke bleak and wild;
    Then, lest her starry garments trail
    In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
  The Angel’s arms caught up the child.

  Her wave of life hath backward roll’d
    To the great ocean; on whose shore
    We wander up and down, to store
  Some treasures of the times of old:

  And aye we seek and hunger on
    For precious pearls and relics rare,
    Strewn on the sands for us to wear
  At heart, for love of her that’s gone.

                         GERALD MASSEY (_The Ballad of Babe Christabel_).

    These exquisite verses appear to be forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

  If you loved only what were worth your love,
  Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
    Make the low nature better by your throes!
  Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

                           R. BROWNING (_James Lee’s Wife_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  ... He knows with what strange fires He mixed this dust.

    Hereditary bent
    That hedges in intent
  He knows, be sure, the God who shaped thy brain.
    He loves the souls He made,
    He knows His own hand laid
  On each the mark of some ancestral stain.

                           ANNA REEVE ALDRICH.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I have lost the dream of Doing,
    And the other dream of Done,
    The first spring in the pursuing,
    The first pride in the Begun,—
  First recoil from incompletion, in the face of what is won.

                           E. B. BROWNING (_The Lost Bower_).

    It is the saddest of things that we lose our early enthusiasms.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The other (maiden) up arose[12]
  And her fair lockes, which formerly were bound
  Up in one knot, she low adowne did loose:
  Which, flowing long and thick her clothed around.
  And the ivorie in golden mantle gowned:
  So that fair spectacle from him was reft,
  Yet that, which reft it, no less faire was found:
  So, hid in lockes and waves from looker’s theft,
  Nought but her lovely face she for his looking left.

  Withall she laughèd, and she blushed withall,
  That blushing to her laughter gave more grace,
  And laughter to her blushing.

                           SPENSER (_Faerie Queene 2_, XII, 67).

       *       *       *       *       *

I love and honour Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. Nor
can you excite me to the least uneasiness by saying, “He acted, and thou
sittest still.” I see action to be good when the need is, and sitting
still to be also good. One piece of the tree is cut for a weathercock,
and one for the sleeper of a bridge; the virtue of the wood is apparent
in both.

                                        R. W. EMERSON (_Spiritual Laws_).

       *       *       *       *       *

You know what a sad and sombre decorum it is that outwardly reigns
through the lands oppressed by Moslem sway. By a strange chance in these
latter days, it happened that, alone of all the places in the land, this
Bethlehem, the native village of our Lord, escaped the moral yoke of the
Mussulmans, and heard again, after ages of dull oppression, the cheering
clatter of social freedom, and the voices of laughing girls. When I was
at Bethlehem, though long after the flight of the Mussulmans, the cloud
of Moslem propriety had not yet come back to cast its cold shadow upon
life. When you reach that gladsome village, pray heaven there still
may be heard there the voice of free innocent girls. Distant at first,
and then nearer and nearer the timid flock will gather round you with
their large burning eyes gravely fixed against yours, so that they see
into your brain; and if you imagine evil against them they will know of
your ill-thought before it is yet well born, and will fly and be gone
in the moment. But presently if you will only look virtuous enough to
prevent alarm, and vicious enough to avoid looking silly, the blithe
maidens will draw nearer and nearer to you; and soon there will be one,
the bravest of the sisters, who will venture right up to your side, and
touch the hem of your coat in playful defiance of the danger; and then
the rest will follow the daring of their youthful leader, and gather
close round you, and hold a shrill controversy on the wondrous formation
that you call a hat, and the cunning of the hands that clothed you with
cloth so fine; and then, growing more profound in their researches, they
will pass from the study of your mere dress to a serious contemplation
of your stately height, and your nut-brown hair, and the ruddy glow
of your English cheeks. And if they catch a glimpse of your ungloved
fingers, then again will they make the air ring with their sweet screams
of delight and amazement, as they compare the fairness of your hand
with the hues of your sunburnt face, or with their own warmer tints.
Instantly the ringleader of the gentle rioters imagines a new sin; with
tremulous boldness she touches, then grasps your hand, and smoothes it
gently betwixt her own, and pries curiously into its make and colour, as
though it were silk of Damascus or shawl of Cashmere. And when they see
you, even then still sage and gentle, the joyous girls will suddenly,
and screamingly, and all at once, explain to each other that you are
surely quite harmless and innocent—a lion that makes no spring—a bear
that never hugs; and upon this faith, one after the other, they will take
your passive hand, and strive to explain it, and make it a theme and
a controversy. But the one—the fairest and the sweetest of all—is yet
the most timid; she shrinks from the daring deeds of her playmates, and
seeks shelter behind their sleeves, and strives to screen her glowing
consciousness from the eyes that look upon her. But her laughing sisters
will have none of this cowardice; they vow that the fair one _shall_ be
their _complice_—_shall_ share their dangers—_shall_ touch the hand of
the stranger; they seize her small wrist and draw her forward by force,
and at last, whilst yet she strives to turn away, and to cover up her
whole soul under the folds of downcast eyelids, they vanquish her utmost
strength, they vanquish her utmost modesty and marry her hand to yours.
The quick pulse springs from her fingers and throbs like a whisper upon
your listening palm. For an instant her large timid eyes are upon you—in
an instant they are shrouded again, and there comes a blush so burning,
that the frightened girls stay their shrill laughter as though they had
played too perilously and harmed their gentle sister. A moment, and all
with a sudden intelligence turn away and fly like deer; yet soon again
like deer they wheel round, and return, and stand, and gaze upon the
danger, until they grow brave once more.

                                               A. W. KINGLAKE (_Eothen_).

    Let us hope that the present war will be a successful “Crusade”
    and that the Turks will disappear from the land which is sacred
    to the memory of our Lord.

       *       *       *       *       *

Discedant nunc amores; maneat Amor.

(Loves, farewell; let Love, the sole, remain.)

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Remember me when I am gone away,
    Gone far away into the silent land;
    When you can no more hold me by the hand,
  Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
  Remember me when no more day by day
    You tell me of our future that you planned:
    Only remember me; you understand
  It will be late to counsel then or pray.
  Yet if you should forget me for a while
    And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
    For if the darkness and corruption leave
    A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
  Better by far you should forget and smile
    Than that you should remember and be sad.

                           CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

    Compare Shakespeare’s sonnet LXXI:

      No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
                ... for I love you so
      That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
      If thinking on me then should make you woe.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I saw a son weep o’er a mother’s grave:
  “Ay, weep, poor boy—weep thy most bitter tears
  That thou shalt smile so soon. We bury Love,
  Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
  _That_ is the thing to weep for, not the dead.”

                           ALEXANDER SMITH (_A Boy’s Poem_)

       *       *       *       *       *

UNTIL DEATH

  If thou canst love another, be it so.
  I would not reach out of my quiet grave
  To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go.
    Love shall not be a slave....

  It would not make me sleep more peacefully,
  That thou wert waiting all thy life in woe
  For my poor sake. What love thou hast for me
    Bestow it ere I go....

  Forget me when I die. The violets
  Above my rest will blossom just as blue
  Nor miss thy tears—E’en Nature’s self forgets—
    But while I live be true.

                           F. A. WESTBURY.

    These verses are by a South Australian writer. “Forget me when
    I die” is an unpleasing sentiment; yet in “When I am dead, my
    dearest,” Christina Rossetti says:

        If thou wilt, remember,
      And if thou wilt, forget.

    As regards the latter poem, the curious fact is that it is
    read as an exquisite piece of _music_, and not for any poetic
    thought it contains. If it _has_ any coherent meaning, it is
    that the speaker is indifferent whether or not “her dearest”
    will remember her or she will remember him. Yet the haunting
    music of the lines has made it a favourite poem, and it finds
    a place in all the leading anthologies. Christina Rossetti
    is by no means a great poet. (Mr. Gosse’s estimate in the
    _Britannica_ is exaggerated), but she had a wonderful gift
    of language and metre. Take, for example, the pretty lilt
    contained in the simplest words in “Maiden-Song”:

      Long ago and long ago,
        And long ago still,
      There dwelt three merry maidens
        Upon a distant hill.
      One was tall Meggan,
        And one was dainty May,
      But one was fair Margaret,
        More fair than I can say,
      Long ago and long ago.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,
    Am I not richer than of old?
  Safe in thy immortality,
    What change can reach the wealth I hold?
  What chance can mar the pearl and gold
    Thy love hath left in trust for me?
  And while in life’s long afternoon,
    Where cool and long the shadows grow,
  I walk to meet the night that soon
    Shall shape and shadow overflow,
  I cannot feel that thou art far,
  Since near at need the angels are;
  And when the sunset gates unbar,
    Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
  And, white against the evening star,
    The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

                           JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (_Snow-Bound_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  I have a dream—that some day I shall go
  At break of dawn adown a rainy street,
  A grey old street, and I shall come in the end
  To the little house I have known, and stand; and you,
  Mother of mine, who watch and wait for me.
  Will you not hear my footstep in the street,
  And, as of old, be ready at the door,
  To give me rest again?... I shall come home.

                           H. D. LOWRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
  I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
  But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
  That spot which no vicissitude can find?
  Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
  But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
  Even for the least division of an hour,
  Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
  To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
  Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
  Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
  Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
  That neither present time, nor years unborn
  Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

                           WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

    Written of the poet’s child Catherine, who died in 1812 at
    three years of age, and of whom Wordsworth had also written,
    “Loving she is, and tractable, though wild.” _Forty years
    after_ the death of this child and her brother, who died
    about the same time, the poet spoke of them to Aubrey de Vere
    with the same acute sense of bereavement as if they had only
    recently died.

       *       *       *       *       *

DEATH

  It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
  This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
  That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
  In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
  That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
  And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;
  That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright
  Be lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;
  It is not death to know this,—but to know
  That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
  In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
  So duly and so oft—and when grass waves
  Over the passed-away, there may be then
  No resurrection in the minds of men.

                           THOMAS HOOD.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A little pain, a little fond regret,
  A little shame, and we are living yet,
  While love, that should outlive us, lieth dead.

                           W. MORRIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O never rudely will I blame his faith
  In the might of stars and angels!...
      ... For the stricken heart of Love
  This visible nature, and this common world,
  Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import
  Lurks in the legend told my infant years
  Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn,
  For fable is Love’s world, his home, his birth-place:
  Delightedly dwells he ’mong fays and talismans,
  And spirits; and delightedly believes
  Divinities, being himself divine.
  The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
  The fair humanities of old religion,
  The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,
  That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
  Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
  Or chasms and wat’ry depths; all these have vanished.
  They live no longer in the faith of reason!
  But still the heart doth need a language, still
  Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
  And to yon starry world they now are gone,
  Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
  With man as with their friend; and to the lover
  Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
  Shoot influence down: and even at this day
  ’Tis Jupiter who brings whate’er is great,
  And Venus who brings everything that’s fair.

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_Wallenstein—The Piccolomini_).

    _His faith._—Wallenstein, the great German soldier and
    statesman (1583-1634) believed in astrology.

    The “intelligible forms of ancient poets” and “fair humanities
    of old religion” are the gods and inferior divinities that
    please our fancy. Thus the Greeks peopled the heavens (not very
    distant heavens to them) with their gods who visited earth and
    mingled with men. There were also the lesser deities, as the
    Hours and the Graces; and also the Nymphs—the Nereïds, Naiads,
    Orcades and Dryads—who inhabited seas, springs, rivers, and
    trees respectively. The Nymphs would correspond somewhat to the
    elves, gnomes and fairies of Northern religions.

    Coleridge’s translation of “Wallenstein” (of which “The
    Piccolomini” is a portion) is considered a masterpiece.
    Schiller was fortunate in having a finer poet than himself to
    translate his drama. In the above passage Coleridge greatly
    improved on the original; the seven splendid lines beginning
    “The intelligible forms of ancient poets” are his and not
    Schiller’s; and, therefore, this passage may fairly be ascribed
    to him as author.

       *       *       *       *       *

  By rose-hung river and light-foot rill
    There are who rest not; who think long
  Till they discern as from a hill
    At the sun’s hour of morning song.
  Known of souls only, and those souls free,
    The sacred spaces of the sea.

                           A. C. SWINBURNE (_Prelude—Songs before
                           Sunrise_).

    The sea typifies the wider, nobler life of the soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

Je prends mon bien où je le trouve.

(I take my property wherever I find it.)

                                                     MOLIÈRE (1622-1673).

    This famous saying is quoted in French literature as though
    Molière had said, “I admit plagiarism, but I so improve what
    I borrow from others that it becomes my own” (see _Larousse_,
    under “_Bien_”).

      “Tho’ old the thought and oft expressed,
      ’Tis his at last who says it best.”

    It is, however, an interesting question whether this was the
    true meaning intended by Molière.

    The story is told by Grimarest, the first biographer of the
    great dramatist. In 1671 Molière produced _Les Fourberies de
    Scapin_, in which he had inserted two scenes taken from _Le
    Pedant Joué_, of Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655). (They are
    the amusing scenes where Geronte repeatedly says, _Que diable
    allait-il faire dans cette galère_, “What the deuce was he
    doing in that Turkish galley?”) Grimarest says that Cyrano
    had used in these scenes what he had overheard from Molière,
    and that the latter, when taxed with the plagiarism, replied,
    “Je _reprends_ mon bien où je le trouve” (“I _take back_ my
    property, wherever I find it”). That is to say, he definitely
    _denied_ the plagiarism.

    Voltaire, in a “Life of Molière,” makes a general assertion
    (not referring specially to this incident) that all Grimarest’s
    stories are false. This must, of course, be far too sweeping
    an assertion, and Grimarest is in fact quoted as an authority.
    Voltaire himself (1694-1778) uses the saying in the sense given
    by Grimarest (_La Pucelle_, Chant III.):

      Cette culotte est mienne; et je prendrai
      Ce que fut mien où je le trouverai.

    (“These breeches are mine, and I shall take what was mine
    wherever I find it.”) Agnès Sorel had been captured dressed
    as a man and wearing the garment in question, which had been
    previously stolen from the speaker.

    It seems to me that Grimarest’s story must be accepted, that
    Molière claimed the scenes as originally his and denied
    plagiarism. There is no evidence to the contrary, and the
    saying is given its obvious meaning. (It is word for word as
    in the Digest, _Ubi rem meam invenio, ibi vindico_, “Where I
    find my own property, I appropriate it.”) But the question then
    arises, Why should so commonplace a statement have attained
    such notoriety?

    The explanation seems simple. Molière had many jealous and
    bitter enemies, who laid every charge they could against
    him. He was well known to have borrowed ideas, characters
    and scenes in all directions—and his enemies constantly and
    persistently attacked him on this ground. Then came his most
    glaring plagiarism from a comparatively recent play, written
    by a man whose dare-devil exploits had made him a perfect
    hero of romance. Molière’s story that Cyrano had previously
    stolen the scenes from him would not been have accepted for a
    moment. Cyrano had never been known to plagiarize, nor would
    it have been natural for a man of his character to do anything
    clandestine. Also Molière would have had nothing to support
    his statement—and Cyrano was not alive to contradict him.
    The conclusion, therefore, seems to be that the dramatist’s
    statement was received in Paris with such incredulity,
    indignation, and ridicule that it became a byword.

    But if this is so, why have the words been given an entirely
    fictitious meaning? The answer seems to lie in the fact that
    as Molière’s great genius became realized the desire arose
    to remove a blemish from his character. His is the greatest
    name in French literature, and almost anything would be
    excused in him. (We ourselves pass lightly over plagiarisms
    by Shakespeare.) Also, whether morally justified or not,
    Molière enriched the world’s literature by his borrowings.
    It was, therefore, no serious matter to Frenchmen that he
    should have borrowed from Cyrano, but it was a distinct
    blemish on his character that he should have denied the fact
    and also slandered a dead man. Ordinarily, in such a case,
    the story is ignored and forgotten, just as the one improper
    act of Sir Walter Scott, his borrowing from Coleridge of the
    “Christabel” metre, is usually ignored or slurred over. But
    the saying had become rooted in literature and this course
    was not practicable. However, there is little that enthusiasm
    cannot accomplish by some means or other, and the object in
    this instance has been achieved by _reversing the meaning_
    of Molière’s words. If this conjecture is correct, it is an
    illustration of what has occurred on a far greater scale in
    connection with the Greeks (see Index of Subjects).

    As regards the meaning now given to the saying, Seneca claimed
    the same right to borrow at will. _Quidquid bene dictum est
    ab ullo, meum est_ (_Ep. XVI_). After advising his reader to
    consider the Epistle carefully and see what value it had for
    him, he says, “You need not be surprised if I am still free
    with other people’s property. But why do I say ‘other people’s
    property’? Whatever has been well said by anyone belongs to
    me.”[13]

    So also the late Samuel Butler said, “Appropriate things are
    meant to be appropriated.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Our finest hope is finest memory,
  As they who love in age think youth is blest
  Because it has a life to fill with love.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_A Minor Poet_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The disposition to judge every enterprise by its event, and believe in
no wisdom that is not endorsed by success, is apt to grow upon us with
years, till we sympathize with nothing for which we cannot take out a
policy of assurance.

                              JAMES MARTINEAU (_Hours of Thought I, 87_).

       *       *       *       *       *

If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think
little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and
Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination. Once
begin upon this downward path, you never know where you are to stop.
Many a man has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he
thought little of at the time.

                          DE QUINCEY (_Murder, as one of the Fine Arts_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  For when the mellow autumn flushed
  The thickets, where the chestnut fell,
  And in the vales the maple blushed,
    Another came who knew her well,

  Who sat with her below the pine
  And with her through the meadow moved,
  And underneath the purpling vine
    She sang to him the song I loved.

                           N. G. SHEPHERD.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t room to swing a
cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me, sitting down on the
foot of the bed, nursing his leg, “You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to
swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to
me!”

                                           DICKENS (_David Copperfield_).

       *       *       *       *       *

(After looking at his watch) “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told
you butter would not suit the works!” he added, looking angrily at the
March Hare.

“It was the _best_ butter,” the March Hare replied.

                                   LEWIS CARROLL (_Alice in Wonderland_).

       *       *       *       *       *

“They were learning to draw,” the Dormouse went on, “and they drew all
manner of things—everything that begins with an M—”

“Why with an M?” said Alice.

“Why not?” said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

                                   LEWIS CARROLL (_Alice in Wonderland_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps, as two negatives make one affirmative, it may be thought
that two layers of moonshine might coalesce into one pancake; and two
Barmecide banquets might be the square root of one poached egg.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a Dublin lunatic asylum, one of the inmates peremptorily ordered a
visitor to take off his hat. Deferentially obeying the order, the visitor
asked why he should remove his hat. The lunatic replied: “Do you not
know, sir, that I am the Crown Prince of Prussia?” Having duly made his
apologies, the visitor proceeded on his round; but, coming upon the
same lunatic, was met with the same demand. Again obeying the order, he
repeated the question: “May I ask why you wish me to take off my hat?”
The lunatic replied: “Are you not aware, sir, that I am the Prince of
Wales?” “But,” said the visitor, “you told me just now you were the
Crown Prince of Prussia.” The lunatic, after scratching his head and
deliberating for a moment, replied: “Ah, but that was by a different
mother.”

(Another Irish lunatic always lost himself and insisted on looking for
himself under the bed.)

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

    These are true stories but localized—another injustice to
    Ireland!

       *       *       *       *       *

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I
were married.

                                              (_Much Ado About Nothing._)

       *       *       *       *       *

_Pointz._ Come, your reason, Jack,—your reason.

_Falstaff._ Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plenty as
blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

                                                   (_1 Henry IV_, ii, 4.)

    _Reason_ needs to be given its old pronunciation, “raison” (_or
    raisin_) in order to understand Falstaff’s pun.

       *       *       *       *       *

Still I cannot believe in clairvoyance—_because the thing is impossible_.

                                 SAMUEL ROGERS, 1763-1855 (_Table Talk_).

    Rogers mentions some remarkable facts about the clairvoyant,
    Alexis, and ends with this convincing argument. Apart from
    clairvoyance (of which I know nothing), Rogers would no doubt
    have made a similar reply if some prophet had foretold that
    men would one day communicate with each other by wireless
    telegraphy; and the same effective argument is to-day opposed
    by many to the evidence that the dead communicate with the
    living.

    I might follow the eight preceding quotations (which illustrate
    “the art of reasoning”) with the well-known story of Charles
    Lamb, who, when blamed for coming late to the office, excused
    himself on the ground that he always left early. (He also said,
    “A man could not have too little to do and too much time to do
    it in.”) There is also the reply of Lord Rothschild, when the
    cabman told him that his son paid better fares than he did,
    “Yes, but He has a rich father, and I haven’t.”

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

  _Thy face is far from this our war,_
    _Our call and counter-cry,_
  _I shall not find Thee quick and kind,_
    _Nor know Thee till I die._
  _Enough for me in dreams to see_
    _And touch Thy garments’ hem:_
  _Thy feet have trod so near to God_
    _I may not follow them._

  Through wantonness if men profess
    They weary of Thy parts,
  E’en let them die at blasphemy
    And perish with their arts;
  But we that love, but we that prove
    Thine excellence august,
  While we adore discover more
    Thee perfect, wise, and just.

  Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred
    Beyond his belly-need,
  What is is Thine of fair design
    In thought and craft and deed;
  Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
    That was and that shall be,
  And hope too high, wherefore we die,
    Has birth and worth in Thee.

  Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
    To gild his dross thereby,
  And knowledge sure that he endure
    A child until he die—
  For to make plain that man’s disdain
    Is but new Beauty’s birth—
  For to possess in loneliness
    The joy of all the earth.

  As thou didst teach all lovers speech
    And Life all mystery,
  So shalt Thou rule by every school
    Till love and longing die,
  Who wast or yet the Lights were set
    A whisper in the Void,
  Who shalt be sung through planets young
    When this is clean destroyed.

  Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
    Across the pressing dark,
  The children wise of outer skies
    Look hitherward and mark
  A light that shifts, a glare that drifts
    Rekindling thus and thus,
  Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
    Strange tales to them of us.

  Time hath no tide but must abide
    The servant of Thy will;
  Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
    The ranging stars stand still—
  Regent of spheres that lock our fears
    Our hopes invisible,
  Oh! ’twas certés at Thy decrees
    We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

  Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
    That lacks thy morning-eyne,
  And captains bold by Thee controlled
    Most like to God’s design;
  Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
    To lift them through the fight.
  And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
    To give the dead good-night.

  A veil to draw ’twixt God, His law,
    And Man’s infirmity,
  A shadow kind to dumb and blind
    The shambles where we die;
  A rule to trick th’ arithmetic
    Too base of leaguing odds—
  The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
    Thou handmaid of the Gods!

  O Charity, all patiently
    Abiding wrack and scaith!
  O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
    Yet drops no jot of faith!
  Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
    To higher, lordlier show,
  Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
    The careless angels know!

  _Thy face is far from this our war,_
    _Our call and counter-cry,_
  _I may not find Thee quick and kind,_
    _Nor know Thee till I die._

  _Yet may I look with heart unshook_
    _On blow brought home or missed—_
  _Yet may I hear with equal ear_
    _The clarions down the List;_
  _Yet set my lance above mischance_
    _And ride the barrière—_
  _Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,_
    _My Lady is not there!_

                           RUDYARD KIPLING.

    All attempts to define poetic imagination, to determine its
    scope or prescribe its limits, leave us cold and unsatisfied,
    for the simple reason that its variety and range are unlimited.
    The aesthetic, moral and spiritual faculties are all in essence
    identical, so that no definition of the aesthetic can exclude
    the spiritual, and art and poetry spring from the same root as
    religion. They all have what Wordsworth calls the “Spirit of
    Paradise.”[14] Imagination[15] in its larger sense includes
    all those higher faculties of man, all that lifts him above
    his material existence. The “True Romance” in this fine poem
    is imagination in this complete sense. By our lower perceptive
    faculties we see the world of Nature in its material form;
    by our higher powers we apprehend its aesthetic, moral and
    spiritual beauty. (Man with his consciousness, will, reason,
    and also his higher imaginative faculties, is as much part of
    _Nature_ as any star or clod, crystal or gas, fly or flower.)
    Hence imagination gives us the vision of glory in earth and
    sky, the sense of wonder and worship, the emotions of sympathy
    and love; it teaches us duty and self sacrifice; it awakens in
    us a sense of the mystery of birth, life and death, directing
    our thoughts from the finite and material world to the infinite
    realm of the spiritual.

    _Verse 4, lines 5, 6._ Our faculties develop, and we realize,
    for example, the beauty of Nature which was not apparent to
    the Greeks of Plato’s time (see p. 379; see also p. 283).
    _Verse 9, l. 5, 6._ Imagination teaches us heroism. In the
    italicized verses, “our war” is, of course, the strife of our
    material existence: we can face with courage the mischances
    of life, seeing that “My Lady Romance,” the soul which is our
    higher nature, must persist through life and after death.
    (“_Barrière_,” barrier.)

       *       *       *       *       *

We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future
selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid
misdoing and shabby achievement.

                                            GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The stars make no noise.

                                                           IRISH PROVERB.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY SIGHT

  Who fancied what a pretty sight
  This rock would be if edged around
  With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
  How glorious to this orchard ground!
  Who loved the little rock, and set
  Upon its head this coronet?

  Was it the humour of a child?
  Or rather of some gentle maid,
  Whose brows, the day that she was styled
  The Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?
  Of man mature, or matron sage?
  Or old man toying with his age?

  I asked—’twas whispered, “The device
  To each and all might well belong:
  It is the Spirit of Paradise
  That prompts such work, a Spirit strong
  That gives to all the self-same bent
  Where life is wise and innocent.”

                           WORDSWORTH.

       *       *       *       *       *

They who believe in the influences of the stars over the fates of men
are, in feeling at least, nearer the truth than they who regard the
heavenly bodies as related to them merely by a common obedience to an
external law. All that man sees has to do with man. Worlds cannot be
without an intermundane relationship. The community of the centre of
all creation suggests an inter-radiating connection and dependence
of the parts. Else a grander idea is conceivable than that which is
already embodied. The blank, which is only a forgotten life lying behind
the consciousness, and the misty splendour, which is an undeveloped
life lying before it, may be full of mysterious revelations of other
connections with the worlds around us than those of science and
poetry. No shining belt or gleaming moon, no red and green glory in a
self-encircling twin-star, but has a relation with the hidden things of a
man’s soul, and, it may be, with the secret history of his body as well.
They are portions of the living house within which he abides.

                                             G. MACDONALD (_Phantastes_).

       *       *       *       *       *

        O weary time, O life,
  Consumed in endless, useless strife
  To wash from out the hopeless clay
  Of heavy day and heavy day
  Some specks of golden love, to keep
  Our hearts from madness ere we sleep!

                           W. MORRIS (_The Earthly Paradise_).

    To an Australian, a metaphor taken from alluvial gold-mining is
    interesting.

       *       *       *       *       *

(Dr. Slop has been uttering terrible curses against Obadiah) I declare,
quoth my Uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself
with so much bitterness.—He is the father of curses, replied Dr. Slop.—So
am not I, replied my uncle.—But he is cursed and damned already to all
eternity, replied Dr. Slop.

I am sorry for it, quoth my Uncle Toby.

                                     LAURENCE STERNE (_Tristram Shandy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Faust._ If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me.

  _Good Angel._ Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee.

  _Bad Angel._ Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee.

  _Faust._ Be I a devil, yet God may pity me.

                           MARLOWE (_Doctor Faustus_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  But fare-you-well, Auld Nickie-Ben!
  O, wad ye tak a thought and men’!
  Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
          Still hae a stake:
  I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
          Ev’n for your sake!

                           ROBERT BURNS (_Address to the Deil_).

       *       *       *       *       *

“Shargar, what think ye? Gin the deil war to repent, wad God forgie him?”

“There’s no sayin’ what folk wad dae till ance they’re tried,” returned
Shargar cautiously.

                           GEORGE MACDONALD (_Robert Falconer, ch. xii._)

    There is a passage, I think in one of MacDonald’s novels, where
    the question is again put, “Gin the de’il war to repent?” The
    reply is to the effect, “Do not wish even him anything so
    dreadful. The agony of his repentance would be far worse than
    anything he can suffer in hell.”

    Scotus Erigena, a very able Irish theologian and philosopher of
    the 9th century, believed that Satan himself must ultimately be
    reclaimed, since otherwise God could not in the end conquer and
    extinguish sin. He cites Origen and others in support of his
    contention. These old and very serious discussions seem more
    remote than Plato, but the belief in a personal devil was not
    uncommon even in my young days.

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Hope, whose eyes
  Can sound the seas unsoundable, the skies
  Inaccessible of eyesight; that can see
  What earth beholds not, hear what wind and sea
  Hear not, and speak what all these crying in one
  Can speak not to the sun.

                           SWINBURNE (_Thalassius_).

       *       *       *       *       *

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

      In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,                        shine
      And hot upon the meads did cast his ray;
      The apple reddened from its paly green,
      And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
      The pied chelándry sang the livelong day;                  goldfinch
      ’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
  And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere.           apparel

      The sun was gleaming in the midst of day.
      Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,
      When from the sea arose in drear array
      A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,
      The which full fast unto the woodland drew,
      Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,
  And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.

      Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-side                      holm-oak
      Which did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,
      A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,
      Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothing
      Long brimful of the miseries of need.
      Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?
  He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

      Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;
      How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!
      Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man!                 grave
      Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.
      Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head
      Are Charity and Love among high elves;
  For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

      The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,
      The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;
      The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall,             gloom, appal
      And the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;
      Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;
      The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,
  And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.

      List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy sound
      Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,
      Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,
      Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;
      The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs;                   swings
      Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,
  And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.

  Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,
  The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;
  His chapournette was drenched with the rain,             small round hat
  His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
  He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same;               told his beads
  The storm increases, and he drew aside,                       backwards,
  With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.         i.e., cursed

      His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,
      With a gold button fastened near his chin,
      His autremete was edged with golden twine,                      robe
      And his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;
      Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.
      The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,
  For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

      “An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,
      “Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,
      Till the sun shineth high above our head,
      And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.
      Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.
      No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,
  All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.”              crucifix

      “Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;
      This is no season alms and prayers to give.
      My porter never lets a beggar in;
      None touch my ring who not in honour live.”
      And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,
      And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;
  The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

      Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,
      Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;
      Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.
      His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean;      short surplice
      A Limitor he was of order seen;                        Begging Friar
      And from the pathway-side then turnèd he,
  Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.

      “An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,
      “For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”
      The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,
      And did thereout a groat of silver take:
      The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,
      “Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care,
  We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.

      “But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.
      Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;
      Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see.             short cloak
      ’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.”
      He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde.             went on his way
      Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure,                     glory
  Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!

                           THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770).

    The sun would conventionally be said to be in Virgo in August.

    It is sad and strange to think of the amazing story of this
    child-genius, who lived in a world of romance but was driven by
    destitution to commit suicide at _seventeen_ years of age. The
    above was one of the “Rowley forgeries,” but, for the antique
    words which Chatterton used (often incorrectly) to imitate
    the language of the Fifteenth Century, modern words have been
    substituted where possible.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I thought once how Theocritus had sung
  Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
  Who each one in a gracious hand appears
  To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
  And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
  I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
  The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.
  Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
  A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,
  So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
  Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
  And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—
  “Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there,
  The silver answer rang.—“Not Death, but Love.”

                           E. B. BROWNING (_Sonnets from the Portuguese_).

    This is the first of the chain of sonnets, which Mrs. Browning
    called “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” They tell her own
    love-story, and were written in secret and without thought of
    publication. Robert Browning learnt of them only the year after
    the marriage, and then insisted on their being published. They
    include some of the finest sonnets in our language.

    To appreciate this and the other sonnets, it is necessary to
    know the beautiful story of the two poets. Mrs. Browning was
    six years older than her husband and a life-long invalid,
    expecting, as she says in this sonnet, Death rather than Love.
    Their marriage was supremely happy, and the great poet, when in
    England, used to visit the church in which they were married to
    express his thankfulness. He tells the love-story in the next
    quotation.

    In these sonnets Mrs. Browning laid bare her innermost feelings.

    Robert Browning, however, in several poems says the privacy of
    a poet’s life and feelings should not be bared to the public.
    Wordsworth had written in 1827:

      Scorn not the Sonnet.... With this key
      Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

    Browning in 1876 (thirty years after the “Sonnets from the
    Portuguese” were written) wrote in his poem called _House_:

                                “_With this same key_
          _Shakespeare unlocked his heart_”....
      Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

    Swinburne comments on these lines: “No whit the less like
    Shakespeare, but undoubtedly the less like Browning.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  ... Come back with me to the first of all,
    Let us lean and love it over again,
  Let us now forget and now recall,
    Break the rosary in a pearly rain,
  And gather what we let fall!...

  Hither we walked then, side by side,
    Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,
  And still I questioned or replied,
    While my heart, convulsed to really speak,
  Lay choking in its pride.

  Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,
    And pity and praise the chapel sweet,
  And care about the fresco’s loss,
    And wish for our souls a like retreat,
  And wonder at the moss.

  We stoop and look in through the grate,
    See the little porch and rustic door,
  Read duly the dead builder’s date;
    Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,
  Take the path again—but wait!

  Oh moment, one and infinite!
    The water slips o’er stock and stone;
  The West is tender, hardly bright:
    How grey at once is the evening grown—
  One star, its chrysolite!

  We two stood there with never a third,
    But each by each, as each knew well:
  The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,
    The lights and the shades made up a spell
  Till the trouble grew and stirred.

  Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
    And the little less, and what worlds away!
  How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,
    Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,
  And life be a proof of this!...

  A moment after, and hands unseen
    Were hanging the night around us fast;
  But we knew that a bar was broken between
    Life and life: we were mixed at last
  In spite of the mortal screen....

  How the world is made for each of us!
    How all we perceive and know in it
  Tends to some moment’s product thus,
    When a soul declares itself—to wit,
  By its fruit, the thing it does!...

  I am named and known by that moment’s feat;
    There took my station and degree;
  So grew my own small life complete,
    As nature obtained her best of me—
  One born to love you, sweet!

  And to watch you sink by the fire-side now
    Back again, as you mutely sit
  Musing by fire-light, that great brow
    And the spirit-small hand propping it,
  Yonder, my heart knows how!

                           R. BROWNING (_By the Fireside_).

    The last verse, describing Mrs. Browning, makes it clear that
    the poet is speaking of his own love-story, although the scene
    is imaginary. The last two verses are to be read literally, as
    an expression of the poet’s firm belief, and not as poetical
    exaggeration.

       *       *       *       *       *

You must not say that this cannot be, or that that is contrary to nature.
You do not know what Nature is, or what she can do; and nobody knows.
Wise men are afraid to say that there is anything contrary to nature,
except what is contrary to mathematical truth, as that two and two cannot
make five. There are dozens and hundreds of things in the world which
we should certainly have said were contrary to nature, if we did not
see them going on under our eyes all day long. If people had never seen
little seeds grow into great plants and trees, of quite different shapes
from themselves, and these trees again produce fresh seeds, they would
have said, “The thing cannot be”.... Suppose that no human being had
ever seen or heard of an elephant. And suppose that you described him to
people, and said, “This is the shape, and plan, and anatomy of the beast
... and this is the section of his skull, more like a mushroom than a
reasonable skull of a reasonable or unreasonable beast; yet he is the
wisest of all beasts, and can do everything save read, write, and cast
accounts.” People would surely have said, “Nonsense; your elephant is
contrary to nature,” and have thought you were telling stories—as the
French thought of Le Vaillant when he came back to Paris and said that
he had shot a giraffe; and as the King of the Cannibal Islands thought
of the English sailor, when he said that in his country water turned to
marble, and rain fell as feathers. The truth is that folks’ fancy that
such and such things cannot be, simply because they have not seen them,
is worth no more than a savage’s fancy that there cannot be such a thing
as a locomotive, because he never saw one running wild in the forest.

                           CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875) (_Water-Babies_).

    This passage interested us greatly in the old days, and also
    another passage drawing a not very satisfactory analogy between
    the transformation of insects and our probable transformation
    at death. I do not know whether the elephant’s brain warrants
    Kingsley’s deduction.

    This book, published in 1863,[16] had a considerable effect
    in doing away with the barbarous employment of young children
    in mines, factories, brickfields, etc. It called attention
    particularly to the chimney-sweep boys of four or five years
    of age who had to climb up the narrow chimneys, and who were
    simply slaves, neglected and ill-treated by their drunken
    masters. We are apt to forget how recently we emerged from
    barbarism in many directions, and that we are only now becoming
    civilized in other respects, as, for instance, with regard to
    the poor, suffering, and ignorant.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The worst way to improve the world
    Is to condemn it.

                           P. J. BAILEY (_Festus_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DARK GLASS

  Not I myself know all my love for thee:
    How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh
    To-morrow’s dower by gage of yesterday?
  Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be
  As doors and windows bared to some loud sea,
    Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;
    And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relay
  And ultimate outpost of eternity?

  Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all?
    One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,—
    One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.
  Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call
  And veriest touch of powers primordial
    That any hour-girt life may understand.

                           D. G. ROSSETTI.

       *       *       *       *       *

The gods are on the side of the strongest.

                                                 TACITUS (_Hist._ 4, 17).

    De Rabutin, Comte de Bussy, said in 1677, “God is on the side
    of the heaviest battalions.” Voltaire again said, in 1770, that
    there are far more fools than wise men, “and they say that God
    always favours the heaviest battalions” (Letter to Le Riche).
    Gibbon wrote, “The winds and waves are always on the side of
    the ablest navigators” (Ch. LXVIII). (I owe part of this note
    to _King’s Classical and Foreign Quotations_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OCTOPUS

BY ALGERNON _SINBURN_

  Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,
    Whence camest to dazzle our eyes,
  With thy bosom bespangled and banded,
    With the hues of the seas and the skies?
  Is thy name European or Asian,
    Oh mystical monster marine,
  Part molluscous and partly crustacean,
        Betwixt and between?

  Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?
    Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess
  Of the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets—
    Of the sea-weed—thy mustard and cress?
  Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,
    Remote from reproof or restraint?
  Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,
        Sinburnian or Saint?

  Lithe limbs curling free as a creeper,
    That creeps in a desolate place,
  To enrol and envelop the sleeper
    In a silent and stealthy embrace;
  Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,
    Our juices to drain and to drink,
  Or to whelm as in waves of Cocytus,
        Indelible ink!

  Oh, breast that ’twere rapture to writhe on!
    Oh, arms ’twere delicious to feel
  Clinging close with the crush of the Python,
    When she maketh her murderous meal!
  In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden
    Let our empty existence escape;
  Give us death that is glorious and golden,
        Crushed all out of shape!

  Ah, thy red limbs lascivious and luscious,
    With death in their amorous kiss!
  Cling round us and clasp us and crush us,
    With bitings of agonized bliss!
  We are sick with the poison of pleasure,
    Dispense us the potion of pain;
  Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure,
        And bite us again!

                           A. C. HILTON (1851-1877)

    This extraordinarily clever parody of Swinburne’s “Dolores” was
    written by Arthur Clement Hilton, when he was an undergraduate
    at St. John’s, Cambridge. It appeared in _The Light Green_, a
    clever but short-lived magazine published in Cambridge in the
    early seventies as a rival to _The Dark Blue_, published in
    London by Oxford men. Hilton was the main contributor to _The
    Light Green_. He died when only twenty-six years of age. This
    brilliant young author is not included in _The Dictionary of
    National Biography_.

    “The Octopus” is one of the best of English parodies. I had
    not seen it for forty years, until I recently found it in Adam
    and White’s _Parodies and Imitations_ (1912). In that book,
    although the authors presumably had _The Light Green_ to print
    from, the punctuation is inferior to that in my copy, and the
    word “Dispose” instead of “Dispense” in the third last line
    must be a misprint.

       *       *       *       *       *

He seemed to me to be one of those men who have not very extended minds,
but who know what they know very well—shallow streams, and clear because
they are shallow.

                                          S. T. COLERIDGE (_Table Talk_).

       *       *       *       *       *

To know what you prefer, instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world
tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.

                                R. L. STEVENSON (_Virginibus Puerisque_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner.

(To know all is forgive all.)

                                                          FRENCH PROVERB.

    This proverb is said to have originated from a sentence in Mme.
    de Staël’s _Corinne, Tout comprendre rend très-indulgent_,
    “Understanding everything makes one very forgiving.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The true life of the human community is planted deep in the private
affections of its members; in the greatness of its individual minds;
in the pure severities of its domestic conscience; in the noble and
transforming thoughts that fertilize its sacred nooks. Who can observe,
without astonishment, the durable action of men truly great on the
history of the world, and the evanescence of vast military revolutions,
once threatening all things with destruction? How often is it the fate
of the former to be invisible for an age, and then live for ever; of the
latter, to sweep a generation from the earth, and then vanish with slight
trace?

                      JAMES MARTINEAU (_The Outer and the Inner Temple_).

    Wars seem to leave little trace except where they result in the
    immigration and settlement of a tribe or nation. Otherwise they
    appear to cancel one another. The present war will probably
    destroy the only trace of the Franco-Prussian war, and, with
    respect to Turkey, Poland, and other countries, will no doubt
    cancel the effects of many tremendous conflicts of past
    centuries.

       *       *       *       *       *

A century ago men were following, with bated breath, the march of
Napoleon, and waiting with feverish impatience for the latest news of
the wars. And all the while, in their own homes, babies were being
born. But who could think about _babies_? Everybody was thinking about
_battles_. In one year, lying midway between Trafalgar and Waterloo,
there stole into the world a host of heroes! During that one year, 1809,
Mr. Gladstone was born in Liverpool; Alfred Tennyson was born at the
Somersby rectory and Oliver Wendell Holmes made his first appearance in
Massachusetts. On the very self-same day of that self-same year Charles
Darwin made his debut at Shrewsbury, and Abraham Lincoln drew his first
breath in old Kentucky. Music was enriched by the advent of Frederic
Chopin at Warsaw, and of Felix Mendelssohn at Hamburg. Within the same
year, too, Samuel Morley was born in Homerton, Edward Fitzgerald in
Woodbridge, Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Durham, and Frances Kemble in
London. But nobody thought of babies. Everybody was thinking of battles.
Yet, viewing that age in the truer perspective which the distance of a
hundred years enables us to command, we may well ask ourselves, “Which of
the battles of 1809 mattered more than the babies of 1809?” ...

We fancy that God can only manage His world by big battalions abroad,
when all the while He is doing it by beautiful babies at home. When a
wrong wants righting, or a truth wants preaching, or a continent wants
opening, God sends a baby into the world to do it. That is why, long,
long ago, a babe was born in Bethlehem.

                              FRANK W. BOREHAM (_Mountains in the Mist_).

       *       *       *       *       *

REINFORCEMENTS

  When little boys with merry noise
    In the meadows shout and run;
  And little girls, sweet woman buds,
    Brightly open in the sun;
  I may not of the world despair,
    Our God despaireth not, I see;
  For blithesomer in Eden’s air
    These lads and maidens could not be.

  Why were they born, if Hope must die?
    Wherefore this health, if Truth should fail?
  And why such Joy, if Misery
    Be conquering us and must prevail?
  Arouse! our spirit may not droop!
    These young ones fresh from Heaven are;
  Our God hath sent another troop,
    And means to carry on the war.

                           THOMAS TOKE LYNCH (1818-1871).

       *       *       *       *       *

  O wind, a word with you before you pass;
  What did you to the Rose that on the grass
  Broken she lies and pale, who loved you so?

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE WIND

  Roses must live and love, and winds must blow.

                           PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON (_The Rose and the Wind_).

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?

  What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?
  Are there great calms, and find ye silence there?
  Like soft-shut lilies all your faces glow
  With some strange peace our faces never know,
  With some great faith our faces never dare:
  Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

  Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?
  Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?
  Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap?
  Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?
  Day shows us not such comfort anywhere:
  Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

  Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,
  Day, that shows man so great and God so small.
  That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;
  O is the Darkness too a lying glass
  Or, undistracted, do ye find truth there?
  What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?

                           R. LE GALLIENNE.

    These lines were written of _the blind_, but become even more
    beautiful and true if applied to a different subject, _the
    dead_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Continuing the work of creation, _i.e._, co-operating as instruments of
Providence in bringing order out of disorder ... is only a part of the
mission of mankind, and the time will come again when its due rank will
be assigned to contemplation and the calm culture of reverence and love.
Then poetry will resume her equality with prose.... But that time is not
yet, and the crowning glory of Wordsworth is that he has borne witness
to it and kept alive its traditions in an age, which, but for him, would
have lost sight of it entirely.

                                                              J. S. MILL.

    In that utilitarian period the figure of the great poet stands
    out in sheer sublimity. Apart from the depressing atmosphere
    of the time, one needs to remember how serenely he continued
    to deliver his high message in spite of the most deadly want
    of appreciation. At thirty he received £10 from his poems and
    nothing more until he was sixty-five! The quotation is from a
    letter in Caroline Fox’s _Journals_.

       *       *       *       *       *

My sarcastic friend says, with the utmost gravity, that no man with less
than a thousand pounds a year can afford to have private opinions upon
certain important subjects. He admits that he has known it done upon
eight hundred a year; but only by very prudent people with small families.

                              SIR A. HELPS (_Companions of my Solitude_).

       *       *       *       *       *

’Tis an old theme, this Divine Love, and it cannot be exhausted. Men have
not outlived it, angels cannot outlearn it. It swayed the ancient world
by many a fair god and goddess; its light has been cast over ages of
Christian controversy and warfare; it is still the guiding Star of the
Sea to each voyager after the nobler faith. The youth leaves the old
shore of belief, only because love has left it. His starved affections
will no longer accept stone, though pulverized flour-like and artfully
kneaded, for bread. Their white sails fill the purple and the sombre
seas, and they hail each other to ask for the summer-land, where faith
climbs to beauty, and the lost bowers of childhood’s trust may be found
again.

                                       MONCURE DANIEL CONWAY (1832-1907).

    This fine writer was a Unitarian minister, but afterwards
    became a “Free-thinker.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  There are in this loud stunning tide
    Of human care and crime,
  With whom the melodies abide
    Of th’ everlasting chime;
  Who carry music in their heart
    Through dusky lane and wrangling mart.
  Plying their daily task with busier feet,
  Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

                           JOHN KEBLE (_The Christian Year_, “_St.
                           Matthew._”)

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DARK COMPANION

  There is an orb that mocked the lore of sages
    Long time with mystery of strange unrest;
  The steadfast law that rounds the starry ages
    Gave doubtful token of supreme behest;

  But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,
    Concluded some far influence unseen—
  Some kindred sphere through viewless others ranging,
    Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between;

  And knowing it alone through perturbation
    And vague disquiet of another star,
  They named it, till the day of revelation,
    “The Dark Companion”—darkly guessed afar.

  But when, through new perfection of appliance,
    Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,
  The mystic mover was revealed to science,
    No Dark Companion, but—a speck of light:

  No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory:
    No fell disturber, but a bright compeer:
  The shining complement that crowned the story:
    The golden link that made the meaning clear.

  Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us,
    Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways,
  Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us,
    Disquieting all the tenor of our days—

  Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embraces
    Overtake remotest change of clime and skies—
  Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous traces
    Are scattered shreds of riven enterprise—

  Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing,
    The clearer day shall change our faith to sight,
  Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing,
    No Dark Companion, but a thing of light:

  No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order:
    No alien heart of discord and caprice:
  A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border:
    A kindred element of law and peace.

  So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling,
    The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth,
  Are by thy magnet-communing compelling
    Our spirits farther from the scope of earth.

  So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving,
    ’Tis that thou lead’st us by a path unknown,
  Our seeming deviations all subserving
    The perfect orbit round the central throne.

  ...

  The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me.
    The loved who live—ah, God! how few they are!
  I looked above; and Heaven in mercy found me
    This parable of comfort in a star.

                           J. BRUNTON STEPHENS (_Convict Once and other
                           Poems_).

    The “Dark Companion” is no doubt the star known as the
    “Companion of Sirius.” Certain peculiarities in the motion of
    Sirius led Bessel in 1844 to the belief that it had an obscure
    companion, with which it was in revolution. The position of
    the companion having been ascertained by calculation, it was
    at last found in 1862. It is equal in mass to our sun but is
    obscured by the brilliancy of Sirius, which is the brightest
    of the fixed stars. Brunton Stephens’ poem was published in
    Melbourne in 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEQUEL TO “MY QUEEN”

  “_When and where shall I earliest meet her_,” etc.

  Yes, but the years run circling fleeter,
    Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—
  Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;
    She cometh never, or comes too late.

  Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—
    Ought I to linger? the far end nears;
  Ever ahead have I looked, and sought her
    On the bright sky-line of the gathering years.

  Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,
    As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,
  Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,
    Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.

  Here on the ridge of my upward travel,
    Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,
  Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel
    The entangled maze of a search that fails.

  When and where have I seen and passed her?
    What are the words I forgot to say?
  Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?
    Should we have loved, had I stayed that day?

  Was it her face that I saw, and started,
    Gliding away in a train that crossed?
  Was it her form that I once, faint-hearted,
    Followed awhile in a crowd and lost?

  Was it there she lived, when the train went sweeping
    Under the moon through the landscape hushed?
  Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,
    Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.

  Listen and linger—She yet may find me
    In the last faint flush of the waning light—
  Never a step on the path behind me;
    I must journey alone, to the lonely night.

  But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,
    A fading figure, with eyes that wait,
  Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,
    “He cometh never, or comes too late?”

                           SIR ALFRED LYALL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Too late for love, too late for joy,
    Too late, too late!
  You loitered on the road too long,
    You trifled at the gate:
  The enchanted dove upon her branch
    Died without a mate;
  The enchanted princess in her tower
    Slept, died, behind the grate;
  Her heart was starving all this while
    You made it wait.

  Ten years ago, five years ago,
    One year ago,
  Even then you had arrived in time,
    Though somewhat slow;
  Then you had known her living face
    Which now you cannot know:
  The frozen fountain would have leaped,
    The buds gone on to blow,
  The warm south wind would have awaked
    To melt the snow.

                           CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (_The Prince’s Progress_).

       *       *       *       *       *

      Where waitest thou,
  Lady I am to love? Thou comest not!
  Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot;
      I looked for thee ere now!...

    Where art thou, sweet?
  I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams!
  Oh, gentle promised Angel of my dreams,
    Why do we never meet?

    Thou art as I,—
  Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;
  We cannot live apart; must meeting be
    Never before we die ...?

                           SIR EDWIN ARNOLD (_À Ma Future_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Mild is the parting year, and sweet
    The odour of the falling spray;
  Life passes on more rudely fleet,
    And balmless is its closing day.

  I wait its close, I court its gloom,
    But mourn that never must there fall
  Or on my breast or on my tomb
    The tear that would have sooth’d it all.

                           W. S. LANDOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

The devil has made the stuff of our life and God makes the hem.

                                   VICTOR HUGO (_By the King’s Command_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I think, I said, I can make it plain that there are at least six
personalities distinctly to be recognized as taking part in a dialogue
between John and Thomas.

    Three Johns: The real John—known only to his Maker. John’s
    ideal John—never the real one, and often very unlike him.
    Thomas’s ideal John—never the real John, nor John’s John, but
    often very unlike either.

    Three Thomases: The real Thomas. Thomas’s ideal Thomas. John’s
    ideal Thomas.

Only one of the three Johns is taxed; only one can be weighed on a
platform balance; but the other two are just as important in the
conversation. Let us suppose the real John to be old, dull, and
ill-looking. But as the Higher Powers have not conferred on men the gift
of seeing themselves in the true light, John very possibly conceives
himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks from the point
of view of this ideal. Thomas, again, believes him to be an artful
rogue, we will say; therefore he _is_, so far as Thomas’s attitude in
the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, though really simple and
stupid. The same conditions apply to the three Thomases. It follows that,
until a man can be found who knows himself as his Maker knows him, or
who sees himself as others see him, there must be at least six persons
engaged in every dialogue between two. Of these the least important,
philosophically speaking, is the one that we have called the real person.
No wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are six of them
talking and listening all at the same time.

(A very unphilosophical application of the above remarks was made by
a young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits near me at
table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegetable little known to
boarding-houses, was on its way to me _via_ this unlettered Johannes. He
appropriated the three that remained in the basket, remarking that there
was just one apiece for him. I convinced him that his practical inference
was hasty and illogical, but in the meantime he had eaten the peaches.)

                        O. W. HOLMES (_Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                  When aweary of your mirth,
  From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
  And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
  Grudge every minute as it passes by,
  Made the more mindful that the sweet days die—
  Remember me a little then, I pray,
  The idle singer of an empty day.

                           W. MORRIS (_The Earthly Paradise_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

  Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
    Which was my sin, though it were done before?
  Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
    And do run still, though still I do deplore?—
      When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
        For I have more.

  Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
    Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
  Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
    A year or two, but wallowed in a score?—
      When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
        For I have more.

  I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun
    My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
  But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
    Shall shine, as He Shines now and heretofore;
      And having done that, Thou hast done:
        I fear no more.

                           JOHN DONNE (1573-1631).

    In line (1) the reference is to the old doctrine that the guilt
    of Adam and Eve’s “original sin” tainted all generations of
    man; (3) “run,” ran; (8) his sin—the example he has set—is the
    door which opened to others the way of sin.

    In this fine poem there are _puns_. In the last verse one pun
    is on the words “Son” and “Sun,” Christ being the “Sun of
    righteousness who arises with healing in his wings” (_Malachi_
    iv, 2). Also in the fifth, eleventh, and seventeenth lines,
    the play is on the last word “done” and the poet’s name Donne,
    which was pronounced _dun_.[17] (It was occasionally written
    Dun, Dunne, or Done: see Grierson’s _Poems of John Donne_, Vol.
    II, pp. lvii, lxxvii, lxxxvii, 8 and 12. Contrariwise, the
    adjective “dun,” dull-brown, was spelt _donne_ in the poet’s
    time.) We are accustomed only to the jocular use of puns, but
    here there is a serious intention to give two meanings to one
    expression. Such a use of puns was one of the “quaint conceits”
    of that period of our literature, and it is found also in
    serious Persian poetry.

       *       *       *       *       *

Very likely female pelicans like so to bleed under the selfish little
beaks of their young ones: it is certain that women do. There must be
some sort of pleasure, which we men don’t understand, which accompanies
the pain of being scarified.

                                                 THACKERAY (_Pendennis_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing
but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they
are gone.

                                             GEORGE ELIOT (_Felix Holt_).

       *       *       *       *       *

LET IT BE THERE.

            Not there, not there!
  Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;—
  Little reck I of the bright, blue sky,
  And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,
  And the bending boughs, and the breezy air—
            Not there, good friends, not there!

  In the city churchyard, where the grass
  Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray
  Of that self-same sun doth find its way
  Through the heaped-up houses’ serried mass—
  Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,
  And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—
  Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry,
  Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,
  Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—
            Good friends, let it be _there_!

  I am old, my friends—I am very old—
  Fourscore and five—and bitter cold
  Were that air on the hill-side far away;
  Eighty full years, content, I trow,
  Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,
  And trod those dark streets day by day,
  Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,
  Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,
  Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me
  They are all comely and fair to see—
  They have _old faces_—each one doth tell
  A tale of its own, that doth like me well,
  Sad or merry, as it may be,
  From the quaint old book of my history.
  And, friends, when this weary pain is past,
  Fain would I lay me to rest at last
  In their very midst; full sure am I,
  How dark soever be earth and sky,
  I shall sleep softly—I shall know
  That the things I loved so here below
  Are about me still—so never care
  That my last home looketh all bleak and bare—
            Good friends, let it be _there_!

                           THOMAS WESTWOOD (1814-1888).

       *       *       *       *       *

Every man hath his gift, one a cup of wine, another heart’s blood.

                                                                   HAFIZ.

    Some poets sing of wine or sensuous enjoyment, but Hafiz pours
    out his heart’s blood in song. Presumably wine and blood are
    contrasted because of their similar appearance.

       *       *       *       *       *

The devil could drive woman out of Paradise; but the devil himself cannot
drive the Paradise out of a woman.

                                        G. MACDONALD (_Robert Falconer_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PULLEY

          When God at first made man,
  Having a glass of blessings standing by,
  “Let us,” said He, “pour on him all we can;
  Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,
          Contract into a span.”

          So strength first made a way,
  Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
  When almost all was out, God made a stay,
  Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
          _Rest_ in the bottom lay.

          “For if I should,” said He,
  “Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
  He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
  And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
          So both should losers be.

          “Yet let him keep the rest,
  But keep them with repining restlessness;
  Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
  If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
          May toss him to My breast.”

                           GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633).

    “The Pulley” because by the desire for rest after toil and
    tribulation God _draws man up_ to Himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

(Darwin’s _Origin of Species_ was published in November, 1859.) At
the Oxford meeting of the British Association in 1860 Huxley had on
Thursday, June 28, directly contradicted Professor Owen’s statement that
a gorilla’s brain differed more from a man’s than it did from the brain
of the lowest of the Quadrumana (apes, monkeys, and lemurs). He was thus
marked out as the champion of evolution. On the Saturday, although the
public were not admitted, the members crowded the room to suffocation,
anxious to hear the brilliant controversialist, Bishop Wilberforce, take
part in the debate. An unimportant paper was read bearing upon Darwinism,
and a discussion followed. The Bishop, inspired by Owen, began his
speech. He spoke in dulcet tones, persuasive manner, and with well-turned
periods, but ridiculing Darwin badly and Huxley savagely. “In a light,
scoffing tone, florid and fluent, he assured us there was nothing in the
idea of evolution: rock-pigeons were what rock-pigeons had always been.
Then, turning to Huxley, with a smiling insolence, he begged to know,
_was it through his grandfather or his grandmother that he claimed his
descent from a monkey_.”

As he said this, Huxley turned to his neighbour and said, “The Lord
hath delivered him into mine hands!” On rising to speak, he first
gave a forcible and eloquent reply to the scientific part of the
Bishop’s argument. Then “he stood before us and spoke those tremendous
words—words, which no one seems sure of now, nor, I think, could remember
just after they were spoken, for their meaning took away our breath,
though it left us in no doubt as to what it was. “He was not ashamed to
have a monkey for his ancestor: but he would be ashamed to be connected
with a man who used great gifts to obscure the truth.” No one doubted
his meaning, and the effect was tremendous. One lady fainted and had
to be carried out; I, for one, jumped out of my seat.” (_Macmillan’s_,
1898.) There is no verbatim report of this incident, but the varying
accounts agree in outline.

                                       (_Extracted from Life of Huxley._)

    One object of this book is to bring back the memories of the
    seventy-eighties—and of overwhelming interest at the time was
    the alleged conflict between religion and science. Through
    Darwin’s great discovery and Herbert Spencer’s world-wide
    extension of the evolution theory, so much was found covered
    by law that men were blinded to the fact that the essential
    question of causality, lying behind all law, was still
    untouched.

    The important and thrilling incident referred to above took
    place in 1860, when I was two years old, but it was still an
    absorbing topic thirteen or fourteen years later, and is one of
    my most vivid recollections.

    Wilberforce (1805-1873) was a great Churchman and, indeed,
    has been said to be the greatest prelate of his age, although
    his nickname “Soapy Sam” led to a popular depreciation of his
    merits. (This epithet originally meant that he was evasive
    on certain questions, but it took a further meaning from his
    persuasive eloquence.) In this instance he meddled with a
    subject of which he was ignorant. Owen, who instigated him to
    make this attack on Darwin and Huxley had at first welcomed
    the theory of evolution, but quailed before the orthodox
    indignation against the necessary extension of that theory to
    the origin of man. Huxley (1825-1895) was thirty-five years of
    age when he thus showed himself a strong debater and a power in
    the scientific world.

       *       *       *       *       *

On tracing the line of life backwards, we see it approaching more and
more to what we call the purely physical condition. We come at length
to those organisms which I have compared to drops of oil suspended in a
mixture of alcohol and water. We reach the _protogenes_ of Haeckel, in
which we have “a type distinguishable from a fragment of albumen only
by its finely granular character.” Can we pause here? We break a magnet
and find two poles in each of its fragments. We continue the process
of breaking; but however small the parts, each carries with it, though
enfeebled, the polarity of the whole. And when we can break no longer, we
prolong the intellectual vision to the polar molecules. Are we not urged
to do _something_ similar in the case of life?... Believing, as I do, in
the continuity of nature, I cannot stop abruptly where our microscopes
cease to be of use. Here the vision of the mind authoritatively
supplements the vision of the eye. By a necessity engendered and
justified by science I cross the boundary of the experimental evidence,
and _discern in that Matter_ which we, in our ignorance of its latent
powers, and notwithstanding our professed reverence for its Creator,
have hitherto covered with opprobrium, _the promise and potency of all
terrestrial Life_.

(Referring to the question of inquiring into the mystery of our origin).
Here, however, I touch a theme too great for me to handle, but which will
assuredly be handled by the loftiest minds, _when you and I, like streaks
of morning cloud, shall have melted into the infinite azure of the past_.

                                                            JOHN TYNDALL.

    The italics are mine.

    As in the preceding quotation the subject is the alleged
    conflict between religion and science, which occupied so large
    a space in our life and thought in the seventies and eighties.
    The above are the two passages from Tyndall’s presidential
    address at the Belfast meeting of the British Association in
    1874, which caused an immense sensation. The Belfast Address,
    like Huxley’s smashing reply to Bishop Wilberforce, was useful
    in showing that all scientific questions must be considered
    with an open mind, free of theological bias, and also in
    adding testimony to the importance and value of Darwin’s
    investigation. Although fifteen years had passed since _The
    Origin of Species_ was published, this was still necessary. (At
    that very time Professor McCoy, afterwards Sir Frederick McCoy,
    F.R.S., when lecturing at the Melbourne University to his
    students, of whom I was one, was still making inane jokes about
    evolution and our monkey cousins.)

    But, while the world was in ferment over the question of
    man’s alleged kinship with the monkey, there came the further
    startling fact that the President of the British Association
    also proclaimed his belief in _materialism_ and, inferentially,
    that there was no life after death. Englishmen had not before
    realized how widely materialism had spread through England
    and Europe. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that
    a _majority_ at least of the leading thinkers had become
    materialists.

    In travelling outside science into metaphysics, Tyndall
    betrayed a lamentable ignorance of the latter—a parallel case
    to that of Bishop Wilberforce when he attempted to meddle with
    science. Martineau, referring to the first quotation above,
    wrote: “There is no magic in the superlatively little to draw
    from the universe its last secret. Size is but relative,
    magnified or dwindled by a glass, variable with the organ of
    perception: to one being, the speck which only the microscope
    can show us may be a universe; to another, the solar system but
    a molecule; and in the passing from the latter to the former
    you reach no end of search or beginning of things. You merely
    substitute a miniature of nature for its life-size without at
    all showing whence the features arise.”

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW GOSPEL

  _HAECKELIUS loquitur_:

  The ages have passed and come with the beat of a measureless tread
  And piled up their palace-dome on the dust of the ageless dead,
  Since the atom of life first glowed in the breast of eternal time,
  And shaped for itself its abode in the womb of the shapeless slime;
  And the years matured its form with slow, unwearying toil.
  Moulded by sun and storm, and rich with the centuries’ spoil,
  Till the face of the earth was fair, and life grew up into mind,
  And breathed its earliest prayer to its god in the dawn or wind,
  And called itself by the name of man, the master and lord,
  Who conquers the strength of flame and tempers the spear and sword;
  For the world grows wiser by war, and death is the law of life,
  The lowermost rock in the scar is red with the stains of strife.
  Burst thro’ the bounds of sight, and measure the least of things,
  Plummet the infinite and make to thy fancy wings;
  From crystal, and coral, and weed, up to man in his noblest race,
  The weaker shall fail in his need, and the stronger shall hold his place!

  _RENANUS loquitur_:

  Ah! leave me yet a little while, to watch
    The golden glory of the dying day,
  Till all the purple mountains gleam and catch
    The last faint light that slowly steals away.

  Too soon the night is on us; aye, too soon
    We know the cloud is born of blinding mist:
  The throne, whereon the gods sate crowned at noon
    With ruby rays and liquid amethyst,

  Is but a vapour, dim and grey, a streak
    Of hollow rain that freezes in its fall,
  A dull, cold shape that settles on the peak,
    Icy and stifling as a dead man’s pall.

  The world’s old faith is fairest in its death,
    For death is fairer oftentimes than life;
  No vulgar passion quivers in the breath:
    The dead forget their weariness and strife.

  Say not that death is even as decay,
    A hideous charnel choked with rotting dust;
  The cold white lips are beautiful as spray
    Cast on an iceberg by the northern gust.

  The memories of the past are diadem’d
    About the brow and folded on the eyes;
  The weary lids beneath are bent and gemm’d
    With charmèd dreams and mystic reveries.

  Once more she sits in her imperial chair,
    And kings and Cæsars kneel before her feet,
  And clouds of incense fill the heavy air,
    And shouts of homage echo thro’ the street.

  Or yet, again, she stretches forth the hand,
    And men are done to death at her desire;
  The smoke of burning cities dims the land,
    And limbs are torn or shrivelled in the fire.

  Once more the scene is shifted, and the gleam
    Of eastern suns about her brow is curled;
  Once more she roams a maiden by the stream,
    Despised of men, the Magdalen of the world.

  So scene on scene floats lightly, as a haze
    That comes and goes with sudden gust and lull:
  Limned with the sunset hues of other days,
    They are but dreams; yet dreams are beautiful.

                           ARCHIBALD HENRY SAYCE (_Academy, Dec. 5, 1885_).

    As in the two preceding quotations, the subject is the
    supposed conflict of religion and science. Haeckel (born 1834,
    recently dead) was the most ruthless of all the biologists in
    accounting for evolution and all progress by a struggle for
    existence. Renan (1823-1892), the French writer, whose love of
    Christianity survived his belief in it, speaks of the passing
    away of the old faith as “the golden glory of the dying day,”
    and says that in its death it will be more beautiful than in
    its life, when it led to passion, persecution and war. The
    penultimate verse refers to the time when temporal power was
    removed from the church, and she reverted to the humility, and
    also the beauty, of primitive Christianity when it came in its
    morning glory from the East.

    The fact that these fine verses are by the great philologist
    and archæologist, Professor Sayce, who has not publicly
    appeared in the rôle of a poet, adds greatly to their interest.
    The few verses he has published have mostly appeared over the
    initials “A.H.S.” in the old _Academy_ (the present periodical
    is a different concern), and he was not known to the public as
    the author.

    Anything about Professor Sayce must be interesting to the
    reader, and I, therefore, need not apologize for mentioning
    the following incidents, which, I imagine, are known only
    among his friends. In 1870, during the Franco-German War, Mr.
    Sayce was ordered to be shot at Nantes as a German spy, and
    only escaped “by the skin of his teeth.” It was just before
    Gambetta had flown in his balloon out of Paris, and there was
    no recognized Government in the country. Nantes was full of
    fugitives, and bands of Uhlans were in the neighbourhood. Mr.
    Sayce was arrested when walking round the old citadel examining
    its walls—not realizing that it was occupied by French troops.
    Fortunately, some ladies of the garrison came in during his
    examination to see the interesting young prisoner and, after
    Mr. Sayce had been placed against the wall and a soldier told
    off to shoot him, they prevailed upon the Commandant to give
    him a second examination, which ended in his acquittal.

    Mr. Sayce was also among the Carlists in the Carlist war of
    1873, and was present at some of the so-called battles which,
    he says, were dangerous only to the onlookers. He also once had
    a pitched battle with Bedouins in Syria.

    Professor Sayce (he became Professor in 1876) has also the
    proud distinction of being the only person known to have
    survived the bite of the Egyptian cerastes asp, which is
    supposed to have killed Cleopatra. He accidentally trod on
    the reptile in the desert some three or four miles north of
    Assouan and was bitten in the leg. Luckily, he happened to
    be just outside the dahabieh in which he was travelling with
    three Oxford friends, one of them the late Master of Balliol.
    The cook had a small pair of red-hot tongs, with which he had
    been preparing lunch, and Professor Sayce was able to burn
    the bitten leg down to the bone within two minutes after the
    accident; thus saving his life at the expense of a few weeks’
    lameness.

       *       *       *       *       *

  But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—
    A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.
  Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
    Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.
  O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,
    Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:
  Seared is, of course, my heart—but unsubdued
  Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

  I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen;
    But on one statement I may safely venture:
  That few of our most highly gifted men
    Have more appreciation of the trencher.
  I go. One pound of British beef, and then
    What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher”;
  That, “home-returning,” I may “soothly say,”
  “Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”

                           C. S. CALVERLEY (_Beer_).

    These are the two last verses of a parody on Byron. In each of
    the last three lines there is a literary reference. The first,
    of course, is to the happy-go-lucky Dick Swiveller of Dickens’s
    _Old Curiosity Shop_.

    The next reference is to the amusing story about Sir Walter
    Scott that became known about the time Calverley was writing
    (1862). Scott, in his description of Melrose Abbey by moonlight
    (“Lay of the Last Minstrel”) says:

      If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
      Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
      For the gay beams of lightsome day
      Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey....

    Yet there can be no doubt that _he himself had never seen_ the
    Abbey by moonlight! He further tells his readers that they can

      _Home returning, soothly_ swear
      Was never scene so sad and fair.

    They, having seen it, can “soothly” (_i.e._, _truthfully_)
    swear to its beauty, which was more than he himself could!

    Calverley’s last line is from Sydney Smith’s “Recipe for a
    Salad”:

            Oh, herbaceous treat!
      ’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
      Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul,
      And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl;
      Serenely full the epicure would say,
      “Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day.”

    This again is an adaptation of Dryden’s “Imitation of Horace”
    (Book III, Ode 29):

      Happy the man, and happy he alone,
      He who can call to-day his own;
      He who, secure within, can say,
      To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d to-day.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We may live without poetry, music and art;
  We may live without conscience, and live without heart:
  We may live without friends; we may live without books;
  But civilized man can not live without cooks.

  He may live without books—what is knowledge but grieving?
  He may live without hope—what is hope but deceiving?
  He may live without love—what is passion but pining?
  But where is the man that can live without dining?

                           EARL OF LYTTON, “OWEN MEREDITH” (1831-1891)
                           (_Lucile_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  “A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
    “Is what we chiefly need:
  Pepper and vinegar besides
    Are very good indeed—
  Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
    We can begin to feed.”

                           LEWIS CARROLL (_The Walrus and the Carpenter_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  That all-softening, overpowering knell,
  The tocsin of the soul—the dinner bell.

                           BYRON (_Don Juan_).

       *       *       *       *       *

              First of the first,
  Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as now
  Perfect in whiteness: stoop thou down, my child..
  My rose, I gather for the breast of God..
  And surely not so very much apart,
  Need I place thee, my warrior-priest..
          In thought, word and deed,
  How throughout all thy warfare thou wast pure,
  I find it easy to believe: and if
  At any fateful moment of the strange
  Adventure, the strong passion of that strait,
  Fear and surprise may have revealed too much,—
  As when a thundrous midnight, with black air
  That burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell,
  Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed
  Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides
  Immensity of sweetness,—so, perchance,
  Might the surprise and fear release too much
  The perfect beauty of the body and soul
  Thou savedst in thy passion for God’s sake,
  He who is Pity. Was the trial sore?
  Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time!
  Why comes temptation but for man to meet
  And master and make crouch beneath his feet,
  And so be pedestaled in triumph?

                           R. BROWNING (_The Ring and the Book, X_).

    A young handsome priest, who had led a gay life, was moved by
    pure motives to rescue a beautiful young wife from a dreadful
    husband, and he travelled with her for three days to Rome.
    The husband was following with an armed band, the priest was
    risking disgrace, and the girl was risking death. The mutual
    danger would in itself tend to draw the fugitives too closely
    together; but also the girl had shown herself doubly lovable,
    for the strain and stress had revealed in her a very beautiful
    nature—just as a midnight thunder-storm opens and draws rich
    scent from

                                        Some sheathed
      Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides
      Immensity of sweetness.

    Coleridge has a similar illustration, “Quarrels of anger ending
    in tears are favourable to love in its spring tide, as plants
    are found to grow very rapidly after a thunderstorm with
    rain”—(Allsop’s _Letters, etc., of Coleridge_). Coleridge died
    in 1834, and “The Ring and the Book” was published in 1868-9:
    it is curious that both poets should have been impressed with
    a fact that appears to have been only recently recognized.
    In the seventies Lemström proved that plants thrive under
    electricity; but I think it is only a few years ago that in
    some agricultural experiments in Germany it was found that
    electricity was of no benefit to the crops _without rain or
    other moisture_.

    The quotation is from the fine judgment which the Pope delivers.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had been eight years upon a project for extracting sun-beams out of
cucumbers, which were to be put in phials hermetically sealed and let out
to warm the air in raw, inclement summers.

                                            SWIFT (_Gulliver’s Travels_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A child of our grandmother Eve, a female, or, for thy more sweet
understanding, a woman.

                                            (_Love’s Labour Lost, I, 1._)

       *       *       *       *       *

The whole World was made for man, but the twelfth part of man for woman:
Man is the whole World, and the Breath of God; Woman the rib and crooked
piece of man.

                        SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) (_Religio Medici_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Give me but what this ribband bound,
  Take all the rest the sun goes round!

                           EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) (_On a Girdle_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A woman is the most inconsistent compound of obstinacy and self-sacrifice
that I am acquainted with.

                     J. P. F. RICHTER (_Flower, Fruit and Thorn Pieces_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  If she be made of white and red
  Her faults will ne’er be known.

                           (_Love’s Labour Lost, I, 2_).

       *       *       *       *       *

God made the world in six days, and then he rested. He then made man and
rested again. He then made woman and, since then, neither man, woman, nor
anything else has rested.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
    The very eyes of me.

                           ROBERT HERRICK (_To Anthea_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  As perchance carvers do not faces make,
  But that away, which hid them there, do take:
  Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee,
  And be his Image, or not his, but He.

                           JOHN DONNE (_The Cross_).

    As sculptors chisel away the marble that hides the statue
    within, so let “crosses” or afflictions remove the impurities
    which hide the Christ in us, so that we shall become His image,
    or not His _image_, but _Himself_.

       *       *       *       *       *

What is experience? A little cottage made with the _débris_ of those
palaces of gold and marble which we call our _illusions_.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
  Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
  And that unrest which men miscall delight,
  Can touch him not and torture not again;
  From the contagion of the world’s slow stain.
  He is secure, and now can never mourn
  A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;
  Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
  With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

                           SHELLEY (_Adonaïs, an Elegy on Keats, XL_).

    This verse is engraved on Shelley’s own monument in the Priory
    Church at Christchurch, Hampshire.

       *       *       *       *       *

A loose, slack, not well-dressed youth met Mr. Green and myself in a lane
near Highgate. Green knew him and spoke. It was Keats. He was introduced
to me, and stayed a minute or so. After he had left us a little way, he
came back and said, “Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having
pressed your hand!” “There is death in that hand,” I said to Green, when
Keats was gone; yet this was, I believe, before the consumption showed
itself distinctly.

                                          S. T. COLERIDGE (_Table Talk_).

    This was about 1819. It is pathetic, this meeting of two great
    poets, Keats who was to die two years afterwards at the early
    age of twenty-six, and Coleridge, whose few brilliant years
    of poetic life had long previously ended in slavery to the
    opium-habit.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT

  ’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
    Lay in the Field of Blood;
  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Beside the body stood.

  Black was the earth by night,
    And black was the sky;
  Black, black were the broken clouds,
    Tho’ the red Moon went by....

  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
    So grim, and gaunt, and gray,
  Raised the body of Judas Iscariot,
    And carried it away.

  ...

  For days and nights he wandered on
    Upon an open plain,
  And the days went by like blinding mist,
    And the nights like rushing rain.

  He wandered east, he wandered west,
    And heard no human sound;
  For months and years, in grief and tears,
    He wandered round and round....

  ...

  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
    Strange, and sad, and tall,
  Stood all alone at dead of night
    Before a lighted hall.

  And the wold was white with snow,
    And his foot-marks black and damp,
  And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose,
    Holding her yellow lamp.

  And the icicles were on the eaves,
    And the walls were deep with white,
  And the shadows of the guests within
    Pass’d on the window light.

  The shadows of the wedding guests
    Did strangely come and go,
  And the body of Judas Iscariot
    Lay stretch’d along the snow.

  The body of Judas Iscariot
    Lay stretched along the snow;
  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Ran swiftly to and fro.

  To and fro, and up and down,
    He ran so swiftly there,
  As round and round the frozen Pole
    Glideth the lean white bear.

  ’Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
    And the lights burnt bright and clear—
  “Oh, who is that,” the Bridegroom said,
    “Whose weary feet I hear?”

  ’Twas one look’d from the lighted hall,
    And answered soft and slow,
  “It is a wolf runs up and down
    With a black track in the snow.”

  The Bridegroom in his robe of white
    Sat at the table-head—
  “Oh, who is that who moans without?”
    The blessed Bridegroom said.

  ’Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
    And answered fierce and low
  “’Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Gliding to and fro.”

  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Did hush itself and stand.
  And saw the Bridegroom at the door
    With a light in his hand.

  The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
    And he was clad in white,
  And far within the Lord’s Supper
    Was spread so broad and bright.

  The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look’d,
    And his face was bright to see—
  “What dost thou here at the Lord’s Supper
    With thy body’s sins?” said he.

  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Stood black, and sad, and bare—
  “I have wandered many nights and days;
    There is no light elsewhere.”

  ’Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
    And their eyes were fierce and bright—
  “Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Away into the night!”

  The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
    And he waved hands still and slow,
  And the third time that he waved his hands
    The air was thick with snow.

  And of every flake of falling snow,
    Before it touched the ground,
  There came a dove, and a thousand doves
    Made sweet sound.

  ’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
    Floated away full fleet,
  And the wings of the doves that bare it off
    Were like its winding-sheet.

  ’Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
    And beckon’d, smiling sweet;
  ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
    Stole in, and fell at his feet.

  “The Holy Supper is spread within,
    And the many candles shine,
  And I have waited long for thee
    Before I poured the wine!”

  The supper wine is poured at last,
    The lights burn bright and fair,
  Iscariot washes the Bridegroom’s feet,
    And dries them with his hair.

                           ROBERT BUCHANAN.

    See reference to Buchanan in the Preface.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Now, as of old,
  Man by himself is priced:
    For thirty pieces Judas sold
  Himself, not Christ.

                           HESTER CHOLMONDELEY.

    I learn from the _New Statesman_ reviewer of the first English
    Edition that these lines were by Hester, a gifted sister of
    Mary Cholmondeley. She died at 22.

       *       *       *       *       *

The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought
grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in,
and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.

                            ALEXANDER SMITH (_On the Writing of Essays_).

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the calling of great men, not so much to preach new truths, as to
rescue from oblivion those old truths which it is our wisdom to remember
and our weakness to forget.

                                                            SYDNEY SMITH.

       *       *       *       *       *

In philosophy equally as in poetry it is the highest and most useful
prerogative of genius to produce the strongest impressions of novelty,
while it rescues admitted truths from the neglect caused by the very
circumstances of their universal admission. Extremes meet. Truths, of all
others the most awful and interesting, are too often considered as so
true, that they lose all the power of truth, and lie bed-ridden in the
dormitory of the soul, side by side with the most despised and exploded
errors.

                                  S. T. COLERIDGE (_Aids to Reflection_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  I have given no man of my fruit to eat,
    I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine.
  Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet,
    This wild new growth of the corn and vine,
  This wine and bread without lees or leaven,
  We had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven,
  Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet,
    One splendid spirit, your soul and mine.

  In the change of years, in the coil of things,
    In the clamour and rumour of life to be,
  We, drinking love at the furthest springs,
    Covered with love as a covering tree,
  We had grown as gods, as the gods above,
  Filled from the heart to the lips with love,
  Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings,
    O love, my love, had you loved but me!

  We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved
    As the moon moves, loving the world; and seen
  Grief collapse as a thing disproved,
    Death consume as a thing unclean,
  Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast
  Soul to soul while the years fell past;
  Had you loved me once, as you have not loved;
    Had the chance been with us that has not been.

                           SWINBURNE (_The Triumph of Time_).

       *       *       *       *       *

      But she is far away
    Now; nor the hours of night grown hoar
  Bring yet to me, long gazing from the door,
    The wind-stirred robe of roseate grey
  And rose-crown of the hour that leads the day
      When we shall meet once more.

      Oh sweet her bending grace
    Then when I kneel beside her feet;
  And sweet her eyes o’erhanging heaven; and sweet
    The gathering folds of her embrace;
  And her fall’n hair at last shed round my face
      When breaths and tears shall meet ...

      Ah! by a colder wave
    On deathlier airs the hour must come
  Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home.
    Between the lips of the low cave
  Against that night the lapping waters lave,
      And the dark lips are dumb.

      But there Love’s self doth stand,
    And with Life’s weary wings far-flown,
  And with Death’s eyes that make the water moan,
    Gathers the water in his hand:
  And they that drink know nought of sky or land
      But only love alone.

                           D. G. ROSSETTI (_The Stream’s Secret_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Behold, my lord, what monsters muster here,
  With Angels’ faces, and harmful, hellish hearts,
  With smiling looks, and deep deceitful thoughts,
  With tender skins, and stony cruel minds....
  The younger sort come piping on apace
  In whistles made of fine enticing wood,
  Till they have caught the birds for whom they brided.
  The elder sort go stately stalking on,
  And on their backs they bear both land and fee,
  Castles and Towers, revénues and receipts,
  Lordships and manors, fines, yea farms and all.
  What should these be? (Speak you, my lovely lord!)
  They be not men: for why? they have no beards.
  They be no boys, which wear such side-long gowns.
  What be they? women, masking in men’s weeds,
  With dutchkin doublets and with jerkins jagged,
  With Spanish spangs and ruffs set out of France.
  They be so sure even _Wo_ to _Men_ indeed.
  High time it were for my poor muse to wink,
  Since all the hands, all paper, pen and ink,
  Which ever yet this wretched world possessed,
  Cannot describe this Sex in colours due.

                           GASCOIGNE (_The Steele Glas_, 1576).

       *       *       *       *       *

I’m not denying the women are foolish: God Almighty made ’em to match the
men.

                                              GEORGE ELIOT (_Adam Bede_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  They are slaves who fear to speak
  For the fallen and the weak;
  They are slaves who will not choose
  Hatred, scoffing and abuse,
  Rather than in silence shrink
  From the truth they needs must think;
  They are slaves who dare not be
  In the right with two or three.

                           J. R. LOWELL (_Stanzas on Freedom_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The Baptist might be in the Wilderness shouting to the poor, who were
listening with all their might and faith to the preacher’s awful accents
and denunciations of wrath or woe or salvation; and our friend the
Sadducee would turn his sleek mule with a shrug and a smile from the
crowd, and go home to the shade of his terrace, and muse, over preacher
and audience, and turn to his roll of Plato, or his pleasant Greek
song-book babbling of honey and Hybla, and nymphs and fountains and love.
To what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leads a man to a shameful
loneliness and selfishness, so to speak—the more shameful, because it
is so good-humoured and conscienceless and serene. Conscience! What is
conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith? Myths
alike enveloped in enormous tradition. If seeing and acknowledging the
lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you can with only too fatal a
clearness, you submit to them without any protest farther than a laugh:
if, plunged yourself in easy sensuality, you allow the whole wretched
world to pass groaning by you unmoved: if the fight for the truth is
taking place, and all men of honour are on the ground armed on the one
side or the other, and you alone are to lie on your balcony and smoke
your pipe out of the noise and the danger, you had better have died, or
never have been at all, than such a sensual coward.

                                    W. M. THACKERAY (_Pendennis, XXIII_).

       *       *       *       *       *

What a monstrous spectre is this man, the disease of the agglutinated
dust, lifting alternate feet or lying drugged with slumber; killing,
feeding, growing, bringing forth small copies of himself; grown upon with
hair like grass, fitted with eyes that move and glitter in his face;
a thing to set children screaming;—and yet looked at nearlier, known
as his fellows know him, how surprising are his attributes! Poor soul,
here for so little, cast among so many hardships, filled with desires
so incommensurate and so inconsistent, savagely surrounded, savagely
descended, irremediably condemned to prey upon his fellow lives: who
should have blamed him had he been of a piece with his destiny and a
being merely barbarous? And we look and behold him instead filled with
imperfect virtues: infinitely childish, often admirably valiant, often
touchingly kind; sitting down, amidst his momentary life, to debate of
right and wrong and the attributes of the deity; rising up to do battle
for an egg or die for an idea; singling out his friends and his mate with
cordial affection; bringing forth in pain, rearing with long-suffering
solicitude, his young. To touch the heart of his mystery, we find in him
one thought, strange to the point of lunacy: the thought of duty; the
thought of something owing to himself, to his neighbour, to his God; an
ideal of decency, to which he would rise if it were possible; a limit of
shame, below which, if it be possible, he will not stoop.

                                     R. L. STEVENSON (_Pulvis et Umbra_).

       *       *       *       *       *

      Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
      The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
      Nor know we anything so fair
      As is the smile upon thy face:
      Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
      And fragrance in thy footing treads;
      Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
  And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

                           WORDSWORTH (_Ode to Duty_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A CHARGE.

  If thou has squander’d years to grave a gem
    Commission’d by thy absent Lord, and while
          ’Tis incomplete,
  Others would bribe thy needy skill to them—
    Dismiss them to the street!

  Should’st thou at last discover Beauty’s grove,
    At last be panting on the fragrant verge,
          But in the track,
  Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love—
    Turn at her bidding back.

  When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears,
    And every spectre mutters up more dire
          To snatch control
  And loose to madness thy deep-kennell’d Fears—
        Then to the helm, O Soul!

  Last; if upon the cold green-mantling sea
    Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar,
          Both castaway,
  And one must perish—let it not be he
    Whom thou art sworn to obey!

                           HERBERT TRENCH (_Born 1865_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Human nature, trained in the School of Christianity, throws away as false
the delineation of piety in the disguise of Hebe, and declares that there
is something higher than happiness—that thought which is ever full of
care and truth is better far—that all true and disinterested affection,
which often is called to mourn, is better still—that the devoted
allegiance of conscience to duty and to God—which ever has in it more of
penitence than of joy—is noblest of all.

          JAMES MARTINEAU (_Endeavours after the Christian Life, p. 42_).

       *       *       *       *       *

There is in man a _Higher_ than Love of Happiness; he can do without
Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness! Was it not to preach
forth this same _Higher_ that sages and martyrs, the poet and the priest,
in all times have spoken and suffered; bearing testimony, through life
and through death, of the Godlike that is in Man, and how in the Godlike
only has he Strength and Freedom? Which God-inspired Doctrine art thou
also honoured to be taught; O Heavens! and broken with manifold merciful
Afflictions, even till thou become contrite and learn it! O thank thy
Destiny for these; thankfully bear what yet remain; thou hadst need of
them; the Self in thee needed to be annihilated.... Love not Pleasure;
love God. This is the EVERLASTING YEA, wherein all contradiction is
solved; wherein whoso walks and works, it is well with him.... To the
_Worship of Sorrow_, ascribe what origin and genesis thou pleasest, has
not that Worship originated, and been generated? Is it not _here_? Feel
it in thy heart, and then say whether it is of God! This is Belief; all
else is Opinion.... Do the Duty which liest nearest thee, which thou
knowest to be a Duty. The Situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was
never yet occupied by man. Yes here, in this poor, miserable, hampered,
despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy
Ideal: work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free. The
Ideal is in thyself.

                                      THOMAS CARLYLE (_Sartor Resartus_).

    The belief that the sense of duty and moral aspiration arise
    from within ourselves, and are the cause rather than the result
    of sociological evolution is far more widespread to-day than in
    what Carlyle calls his “atheistical century.” The “Everlasting
    Yea” is opposed to the “Everlasting No” of nescience.

       *       *       *       *       *

  He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know
    At first sight, if the bird be flown;
  But what fair well or grove he sings in now
    That is to him unknown.

                           HENRY VAUGHAN (_Friends Departed_).

    For the subject of the verse see title of poem.

       *       *       *       *       *

          Must it last for ever,
          The passionate endeavour,
  Ah, have ye, there in heaven, hearts to throb and still aspire?
          In the life you know now,
          Rendered white as snow now,
  Do fresher glory-heights arise, and beckon higher—higher?
          Are you dreaming, dreaming,
          Is your soul still roaming,
  Still gazing upward as we gazed, of old in the autumn gloaming?

          But ah, that pale moon roaming
          Thro’ fleecy mists of gloaming,
  Furrowing with pearly edge the jewel-powder’d sky,
          And ah, the days departed
          With your friendship gentle-hearted,
  And ah, the dream we dreamt that night, together you and I!
          Is it fashioned wisely,
          To help us or to blind us,
  That at each height we gain we turn, and behold a heaven behind us?

                           R. BUCHANAN (_To David in Heaven_).

    David Gray was a young poet and a great friend of Buchanan’s.
    Another verse in the poem is:

              In some heaven star-lighted,
              Are you now united
      Unto the poet-spirits that you loved of English race?
              Is Chatterton still dreaming?
              And, to give it stately seeming,
      Has the music of his last strong song passed into Keats’s face?
              Is Wordsworth there? and Spenser?
              Beyond the grave’s black portals,
      Can the grand eye of Milton _see_ the glory he sang to mortals?

       *       *       *       *       *

                  What would one have?
  In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance—
  Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
  Meted on each side by the angel’s reed,
  For Leonard, Rafael, Angelo and me
  To cover.

                           ROBERT BROWNING (_Andrea del Sarto_).

    Andrea del Sarto says that, but for certain unfortunate
    circumstances, he might have reached the high eminence of
    Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michael Angelo. In heaven he
    may have another chance to compete with them.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Their noon-day never knows
    What names immortal are:
  ’Tis night alone that shows
    How star surpasseth star.

                           J. B. TABB (_Fame_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted
  Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
  A savage place! as holy and enchanted
  As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
  By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_Kubla Khan_).

    This and the five following quotations and others through the
    book are from a small collection of word-pictures, that I had
    begun to put together. They are mostly well-known.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Behold the Nereïds under the green sea,
  Their wavering limbs borne on the wind-like stream,
  Their white arms lifted o’er their streaming hair
  With garlands pied and starry sea-flower crowns,
  Hastening to grace their mighty sister’s joy.

                           SHELLEY (_Prometheus Unbound_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
  The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
  To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
  The casement slowly grows a glimmering square:
  So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

                           TENNYSON (_The Princess_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  “But show me the child thou callest mine,
  Is she out to-night in the ghost’s sunshine?”

  “In St. Peter’s Church she is playing on,
  At hide-and-seek, with Apostle John.

  When the moonbeams right through the window go,
  Where the twelve are standing in glorious show,

  She says the rest of them do not stir,
  But one comes down to play with her.”

                           G. MACDONALD (_Phantastes_).

    It is a ghost-child who is playing in the great cathedral.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Golden head by golden head,
  Like two pigeons in one nest
  Folded in each other’s wings,
  They lay down in their curtained bed.

                           CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (_Goblin Market_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn;
  The cow’s in the meadow, the sheep in the corn;
  Is this the way you mind your sheep,
  Under the haycock fast asleep?

                           _Nursery Rhyme._

    Edward Fitzgerald, quoting this in “Euphranor,” says the
    “meadow” is the grass reserved for meadowing, or mowing.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FEAST OF ADONIS.

_Gorgo._ Is Praxinoë at home?

_Praxinoë._ My dear Gorgo, at last! Yes, here I am. Euno, find a
chair—get a cushion for it.

_Gorgo._ It will do beautifully as it is.

_Praxinoë._ Do sit down.

_Gorgo._ Oh, this gad-about spirit! I could hardly get to you, Praxinoë,
through all the crowd and all the carriages. Nothing but heavy boots,
nothing but men in uniform. And what a journey it is! My dear child, you
really live _too_ far off.

_Praxinoë._ It is all that insane husband of mine. He has chosen to come
out here to the end of the world, and take a hole of a place—for a house
it is not—on purpose that you and I might not be neighbours. He is always
just the same—anything to quarrel with one! anything for spite!

_Gorgo._ My dear, don’t talk so of your husband before the little fellow.
Just see how astonished he looks at you. (_Talking to the child._) Never
mind, Zopyrio my pet, she is not talking about papa. (Good heavens, the
child does really understand.) Pretty papa!

_Praxinoë._ That “pretty papa” of his the other day (though I told him
beforehand to mind what he was about), when I sent him to a shop to
buy soap and rouge, brought me home salt instead; stupid, great, big,
interminable animal!

_Gorgo._ Mine is just the fellow to him. But never mind now, get on your
things and let us be off to the palace to see the Adonis. I hear the
Queen’s decorations are something splendid.

_Praxinoë._ “In grand people’s houses everything is grand.” What things
you have seen in Alexandria! What a deal you will have to tell to anybody
who has never been there!

_Gorgo._ Come, we ought to be going.

_Praxinoë._ “Every day is a holiday to people who have nothing to do.”
Eunoë, pick up your work; and take care, you lazy girl, how you leave
it lying about again; the cats find it just the bed they like. Come,
stir yourself, fetch me some water, quick! I wanted the water first,
and the girl brings me the soap. Never mind; give it me. Not all that,
extravagant! Now pour out the water—stupid! Why don’t you take care of my
dress? That will do. I have got my hands washed as it pleased God. Where
is the key of the large wardrobe? Bring it here—quick!

_Gorgo._ Praxinoë, you can’t think how well that dress, made full, as
you have got it, suits you. Tell me, how much did it cost—the dress by
itself, I mean?

_Praxinoë._ Don’t talk of it, Gorgo: more than eight guineas of good hard
money. And about the work on it, I have almost worn my life out.

_Gorgo._ Well, you couldn’t have done better.

_Praxinoë._ Thank you. Bring me my shawl, and put my hat properly on my
head—_properly_. No, child (_to her little boy_,) I am not going to take
you; there’s a bogey on horseback who bites. Cry as much as you like;
I’m not going to have you lamed for life. Now we’ll start. Nurse take
the little one and amuse him; call the dog in, and shut the street door.
(_They go out._) Good heavens! what a crowd of people! How on earth are
we ever to get through all this? They are like ants: you can’t count
them. My dearest Gorgo, what will become of us? Here are the Royal Horse
Guards. My good man, don’t ride over me! Look at that bay horse rearing
bolt upright; what a vicious one! Eunoë, you mad girl, do take care!—that
horse will certainly be the death of the man on his back. How glad I am
now, that I left the child safe at home.

_Gorgo._ All right, Praxinoë, we are safe behind them; and they have gone
on to where they are stationed.

_Praxinoë._ Well, yes, I begin to revive again. From the time I was a
little girl I have had more horror of horses and snakes than of anything
else in the world. Let us get on; here’s a great crowd coming this way
upon us.

_Gorgo_ (_to an old woman_). Mother, are you from the palace?

_Old woman._ Yes, my dears.

_Gorgo._ Has one a tolerable chance of getting there?

_Old woman._ My pretty young lady, the Greeks got to Troy by dint of
trying hard; trying will do anything in this world.

_Gorgo._ The old creature has delivered an oracle and disappeared.

_Praxinoë._ Women can tell you everything about everything, even about
Jupiter’s marriage with Juno!

_Gorgo._ Look, Praxinoë, what a squeeze at the palace gates.

_Praxinoë._ Tremendous! Take hold of me, Gorgo; and you, Eunoë, take hold
of Eutychis!—tight hold, or you’ll be lost. Here we go in all together.
Hold tight to us, Eunoë! Oh, dear! oh, dear! Gorgo, there’s my scarf torn
right in two. For heaven’s sake, my good man, as you hope to be saved,
take care of my dress!

_Stranger._ I’ll do what I can, but it doesn’t depend upon me.

_Praxinoë._ What heaps of people! They push like a drove of pigs.

_Stranger._ Don’t be frightened, ma’am, we are all right.

_Praxinoë._ May you be all right, my dear sir, to the last day you live,
for the care you have taken of us! What a kind, considerate man! There is
Eunoë jammed in a squeeze. Push, you goose, push! Capital! We are all of
us the right side of the door, as the bridegroom said when he had locked
himself in with the bride.

_Gorgo._ Praxinoë, come this way. Do but look at that work, how delicate
it is!—how exquisite! Why, the gods might wear it in heaven.

_Praxinoë._ Goddess of Spinning, what hands were hired to do that work?
Who designed those beautiful patterns? They seem to stand up and move
about, as if they were real—as if they were living things, and not
needlework. Well, man is a wonderful creature! And look, look, how
charming _he_ lies there on his silver couch, with just a soft down on
his cheeks, that beloved Adonis—Adonis, whom one loves even though he is
dead!

_Another stranger._ You wretched women, do stop your incessant chatter!
Like turtles, you go on for ever.

_Gorgo._ Lord, where does the man come from? What is it to you if we
_are_ chatterboxes? Order about your own servants!

_Praxinoë._ Oh, honey-sweet Proserpine, let us have no more masters than
the one we’ve got! We don’t the least care for _you_; pray don’t trouble
yourself for nothing.

_Gorgo._ Be quiet, Praxinoë! That first-rate singer, the Argive woman’s
daughter, is going to sing the _Adonis_ hymn. She is the same who was
chosen to sing the dirge last year. We are sure to have something
first-rate from _her_. She is going through her airs and graces ready to
begin.

                                          THEOCRITUS (_Fifteenth Idyll_).

    This is Matthew Arnold’s translation of a _poem_ by Theocritus,
    who lived in the Third Century B.C., 2,200 years ago, (see
    Arnold’s Essay on _Pagan and Mediaeval Religious Sentiment_). I
    have altered a few words and also omitted part because of its
    length.

    Gorgo, a lady of Alexandria, calls on her friend Praxinoë, to
    take her to the Festival of Adonis. Greek ladies were allowed
    to go out on Festival days if veiled and attended, and,
    therefore, Gorgo and Praxinoë take with them their respective
    maids, Eutychis and Eunoë, who would no doubt be slave-girls.

    Some curious facts may be noted. The wife is kept in seclusion
    and the husband does the marketing, buying among other things
    her _rouge_. Observe how perfunctory are the pretty lady’s
    ablutions (the soap, by the way, is in the form of paste).
    The little boy represents the ruling sex and will be removed
    at an early age from her control. She is disposed to rebel
    against her lord and master, but takes the utmost care of the
    important boy-child. While the ladies with their slaves make
    up their own dresses, the designs and the finest needlework
    are done by men. The Greek woman in Athens was practically
    uneducated and regarded as an inferior being; but these ladies
    were Dorian Greeks and would no doubt be better treated and
    have somewhat more freedom—especially in Alexandria, which was
    a colony and, therefore, probably less conservative. Although
    no doubt veiled, their eyes would be visible and, as seen in
    the East to-day, a pretty woman can always manage to show
    her beauty, if she chooses. It will be seen that one man is
    polite to the two young, pretty, richly-dressed ladies, and
    saves them from being crushed by the crowd, while another is a
    crusty, grumpy person, who treats them with some rudeness and,
    in the original, ridicules their Dorian pronunciation. Praxinoë
    is most grateful to the polite man for what would now be an
    ordinary act of courtesy.

    As regards the conversation Andrew Lang says: “Nothing can be
    more gay and natural than the chatter of the women, which has
    changed no more in two thousand years than the song of birds.”

       *       *       *       *       *

                I have seen
  A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
  Of inland ground, applying to his ear
  The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
  To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
  Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
  Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
  Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
  Mysterious union with its native sea.
  Even such a shell the universe itself
  Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
  I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
  Authentic tidings of invisible things;
  Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
  And central peace, subsisting at the heart
  Of endless agitation.

                           WORDSWORTH (_The Excursion_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Marriage is a desperate thing; the Frogs in Aesop were extreme wise: they
had a great mind to some Water, but they would not leap into the Well,
because they could not get out again.

       *       *       *       *       *

’Tis reason a Man that will have a Wife should be at the Charge of her
Trinkets, and pay all the Scores she sets on him. He that will keep a
Monkey, ’tis fit he should pay for the Glasses he breaks.

                                                   SELDEN (_Table Talk_).

       *       *       *       *       *

When you’re a married man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things
as you don’t understand now; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so
much to learn so little, as the charity-boy said wen he got to the end of
the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. _I_ rayther think it isn’t.

                                     CHARLES DICKENS (_Pickwick Papers_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Matrimony is the only game of chance the clergy favour.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man, who admires a fine woman, has yet no more reason to wish himself
her husband, than one, who admired the Hesperian fruit, would have had to
wish himself the dragon that kept it.

                                                          ALEXANDER POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  You wish, Paula, to marry Priscus. I am not surprised;
  You are wise; Priscus will not marry you and he is wise.

                           MARTIAL, IX, 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN THE TWILIGHT.

  Men say the sullen instrument,
    That, from the Master’s bow,
    With pangs of joy or woe,
  Feels music’s soul through every fibre sent,
    Whispers the ravished strings
  More than he knew or meant;
    Old summers in its memory glow;
    The secrets of the wind it sings;
    It hears the April-loosened springs;
      And mixes with its mood
      All it dreamed when it stood
      In the murmurous pine-wood,
              Long ago!

  The magical moonlight then
    Steeped every bough and cone;
  The roar of the brook in the glen
    Came dim from the distance blown;
  The wind through its glooms sang low,
    And it swayed to and fro
      With delight as it stood
      In the wonderful wood,
              Long ago!

  O my life, have we not had seasons
    That only said, Live and rejoice?
  That asked not for causes and reasons,
    But made us all feeling and voice?
  When we went with the winds in their blowing,
    When Nature and we were peers,
  And we seemed to share in the flowing
    Of the inexhaustible years?
    Have we not from the earth drawn juices
    Too fine for earth’s sordid uses?
      Have I heard, have I seen
        All I feel and I know?
      Doth my heart overween?
      Or could it have been
              Long ago?

  Sometimes a breath floats by me,
    An odour from Dreamland sent,
  That makes the ghost seem nigh me
    Of a splendour that came and went,
  Of a life lived somewhere, I know not
    In what diviner sphere,
  Of memories that stay not and go not,
    Like music heard once by an ear
      That cannot forget or reclaim it,
  A something so shy, it would shame it
    To make it a show,
  A something too vague, could I name it,
    For others to know,
  As if I had lived it or dreamed it,
  As if I had acted or schemed it,
              Long ago!

  And yet, could I live it over,
    This life that stirs in my brain
  Could I be both maiden and lover,
  Moon and tide, bee and clover,
    As I seem to have been, once again,
  Could I but speak and show it,
    This pleasure more sharp than pain,
      That baffles and lures me so,
  The world should not lack a poet,
      Such as it had
      In the ages glad,
              Long ago.

                           J. R. LOWELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am especially pleased with their _freundin_ (the German word meaning
a female friend), which unlike the _amica_ of the Romans, is seldom
used but in its best and purest sense. Now I know it will be said that
a friend is already something more than a friend, when a man feels an
anxiety to express to himself that this friend is a female; but this I
deny—in that sense at least in which the objection will be made. I would
hazard the impeachment of heresy, rather than abandon my belief that
there is a sex in our souls as well as in their perishable garments; and
he who does not feel it, never truly loved a sister—nay, is not capable
even of loving a wife as she deserves to be loved, if she indeed be
worthy of that holy name.

              S. T. COLERIDGE (_Biographia Literaria_, Letter to a Lady).

    Coleridge also says: “The qualities of the sexes correspond.
    The man’s courage is loved by the woman, whose fortitude again
    is coveted by the man. His vigorous intellect is answered by
    her infallible tact. Can it be true what is so constantly
    affirmed, that there is no sex in souls?—I doubt it, I doubt it
    exceedingly.”—_Table Talk._

    But surely Coleridge might have found the best proof of his
    contention in the nature of children, the small boy who fights
    with his fists, plays with tin soldiers and despises “girls,”
    and the girl-child who loves her doll and her pretty clothes.
    See next quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

      O thou most dear!
      Who art thy sex’s complex harmony
          God-set more facilely;
          To thee may love draw near
          Without one blame or fear.
  Unchidden save by his humility:
  Thou Perseus’ Shield wherein I view secure
  The mirrored Woman’s fateful-fair allure!
  Whom Heaven still leaves a twofold dignity,
  As girlhood gentle, and as boyhood free;
  With whom no most diaphanous webs enwind
  The barèd limbs of the rebukeless mind.
  Wild Dryad, all unconscious of thy tree,
            With which indissólubly
  The tyrannous time shall one day make thee whole;
  Whose frank arms pass unfretted through its bole
          Who wear’st thy femineity
  Light as entrailèd blossoms, that shalt find
  It erelong silver shackles unto thee.
  Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul;—
          As hoarded in the vine
  Hang the gold skins of undelirious wine,
  As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze;—
      In whom the mystery which lures and sunders;
          Grapples and thrusts apart; endears, estranges,
  —The dragon to its own Hesperides—
      Is gated under slow-revolving changes,
  Manifold doors of heavy-hingèd years.
      So once, ere Heaven’s eyes were filled with wonders
          To see Laughter rise from Tears,
          Lay in beauty not yet mighty,
            Conchèd in translucencies,
          The antenatal Aphodrite,
  Caved magically under magic seas;
  Caved dreamlessly beneath the dreamful seas.

                           FRANCIS THOMPSON (_Sister Songs_).

    Francis Thompson is one of the “difficult” poets who repay
    study. Here he says that, in the young girl, sex appears in
    a less complex form than in the woman and, just as Perseus
    could safely look at the reflection on his shield of the
    fatal Medusa’s head, so we can freely view womanhood in the
    girl-child. Nothing conceals her open, innocent, feminine
    nature. She is the Dryad, the Nymph who lives in the tree and
    is born and dies with it, but is as yet unconscious of the
    tree, that is, of her sex. Her “young sex is yet but in her
    soul,” and is like the juice of the grape which has not yet
    fermented into wine, or the calm air which sleeps undisturbed.
    The mystery of womanhood, which attracts and yet, in its own
    protection, repulses man, will not come to her until after
    the changes of years. It is the Aphrodite lying in unawakened
    beauty before she rises as a goddess from the sea. (“Facilely”
    appears to have the strained meaning “easy to understand” or
    “simply”; the word “gated,” “confined,” is a curious use of a
    university word: the Oxford or Cambridge undergraduate, who
    has misbehaved, may be “gated” for a period, _i.e._, confined
    to the precincts of his own college.) “The dragon to its
    own Hesperides”—the Hesperides were maidens who guarded the
    golden apples of love and fruitfulness, which Earth had given
    to Hera on her marriage to Zeus. The maidens were protected
    by a dragon. Here the dragon is the maiden’s own sensitive
    reserve and self-protecting nature, which enable her to protect
    herself. (“Conchèd,” Aphrodite is lying in her shell.)

       *       *       *       *       *

Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally
resemble them in this, that they please us no longer when once we know
them.

                                                          ALEXANDER POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Compare the ancient with the modern world; “Look on this picture, and
on that.” One broad distinction in the characters of men forces itself
into prominence. Among all the men of the ancient heathen world there
were scarcely one or two to whom we might venture to apply the epithet
“holy.” In other words, there were not more than one or two, if any, who
besides being virtuous in their actions were possessed with an unaffected
enthusiasm of goodness, and besides abstaining from vice regarded even a
vicious thought with horror. Probably no one will deny that in Christian
countries this higher-toned goodness, which we call holiness, has
existed. Few will maintain that it has been exceedingly rare. Perhaps the
truth is, that there has scarcely been a town in any Christian country
since the time of Christ where a century has passed without exhibiting a
character of such elevation that his mere presence has shamed the bad and
made the good better, and has been felt at times like the presence of God
Himself. And if this be so, has Christ failed? or can Christianity die?

                                          SIR J. R. SEELEY (_Ecce Homo_).

    The quotation from Hamlet should read, “Look here, upon this
    picture, and on this.”

       *       *       *       *       *

DAY

  Waking one morning
  In a pleasant land,
  By a river flowing
  Over golden sand:—

  Whence flow ye, waters,
  O’er your golden sand?
  We come flowing
  From the Silent Land.

  Whither flow ye, waters,
  O’er your golden sand?
  We go flowing
  To the Silent Land.

  And what is this fair realm?
  A grain of golden sand
  In the great darkness
  Of the Silent Land.

                           JAMES THOMSON (“B.V.”)

       *       *       *       *       *

  For there is not a lie, spite of God’s high decree,
  But has made its nest sure on some branch of our tree,
  And has some vested right to exist in the land:
  And many will have it the tree could not stand,
  If the sticks, straws, and feathers, that sheltered the wrong,
  Were swept from the boughs they have cumbered so long.

                           W. C. SMITH (_Borland Hall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I shall be old and ugly one day, and I shall look for man’s chivalrous
help, but I shall not find it. The bees are very attentive to the flowers
till their honey is done, and then they fly over them.

                        OLIVE SCHREINER (_The Story of an African Farm_).

       *       *       *       *       *

There are some of us who in after years say to Fate “Now deal us your
hardest blow, give us what you will; but let us never again suffer as we
suffered when we were children.”

                        OLIVE SCHREINER (_The Story of an African Farm_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Il n’a jamais fait couler larmes à personne sauf à sa mort.

(He never caused any one to shed tears, except at his death.)

                                          _B. Seebohm’s Life of Grellet._

    Epitaph on Pétion, President of Hayti about 1816.

       *       *       *       *       *

... that pleasureless yielding to the small solicitations of
circumstance, which is a commoner history of perdition than any single
momentous bargain.

                                            GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

       *       *       *       *       *

If there are two things not to be hidden—love and a cough—I say there
is a third, and that is ignorance, when one is obliged to do something
besides wagging his head.

                                  GEORGE ELIOT (_Romola_—Nello speaking).

    George Eliot is quoting the Latin proverb, _Amor tussisque
    non celantur_. It is also found in George Herbert’s _Jacula
    Prudentum_, 1640. The same proverb appears with all sorts of
    variations, “love and a sneeze,” “love and smoke,” “love and
    a red nose,” “love and poverty,” etc., being the things that
    cannot be hidden. “Love and murder will out” (Congreve, _The
    Double Dealer_, Act IV, 2). (I took these instances from some
    collection of proverbs.)

       *       *       *       *       *

  We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
  The elements, must vanish;—be it so!
    Enough, if something from our hands have power
    To live, and act, and serve the future hour:
  And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
    Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,
  We feel that we are greater than we know.

                           WORDSWORTH (_After-Thought_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  You can’t turn curds to milk again,
  Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;
  And, having tasted stolen honey,
  You can’t buy innocence for money.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_Felix Holt_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The gods are brethren. Wheresoe’er
  They set their shrines of love or fear
  In Grecian woods, by banks of Nile,
  Where cold snows sleep or roses smile,
  The gods are brethren. Zeus the Sire
  Was fashioned of the self-same fire
  As Odin, He, whom Ind brought forth,
  Hath his pale kinsman east and north;
  And more than one, since life began,
  Hath known Christ’s agony for Man.
  The gods are brethren. Kin by fate,
  In gentleness as well as hate,
  ’Mid heights that only Thought may climb
    They come, they go; they are, or seem;
  Each, rainbow’d from the rack of Time,
    Casts broken lights across God’s Dream.

                           R. BUCHANAN (_Balder the Beautiful_).

       *       *       *       *       *

“You remember Tom Martin, Neddy? Bless my dear eyes,” said Mr. Roker,
shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out
of the grated window before him, as if he were fondly recalling some
peaceful scene of his early youth; “it seems but yesterday that he
whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-the-hill, by the wharf there.
I think I can see him now, a-coming up the Strand between the two
street-keepers, a little sobered by his bruising, with a patch o’ winegar
and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that ’ere lovely bull-dog, as
pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following at his heels. What a rum
thing Time is, ain’t it, Neddy?”

                                     CHARLES DICKENS (_Pickwick Papers_).

    Mr. Roker is a turnkey in the Fleet prison.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COURTIN’

  God makes sech nights, all white an’ still
    Fur’z you can look or listen,
  Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
    All silence an’ all glisten.

  Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
    An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,
  An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
    ’Ith no one nigh to hender.

  A fireplace filled the room’s one side
    With half a cord o’ wood in—
  There warn’t no stoves (till comfort died)
    To bake ye to a puddin’.

  The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
    Towards the pootiest, bless her,
  An’ leetle flames danced all about
    The chiny on the dresser....

  The very room, coz she was in,
    Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
  An’ she looked full ez rosy agin
    Ez the apples she was peelin’....

  He was six foot o’ man, A1,
    Clear grit an’ human natur’;
  None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton
    Nor dror a furrer straighter.

  He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
    He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
  Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
    All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

  But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
    All crinkly like curled maple,
  The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
    Ez a south slope in Ap’il.

  She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing
    Ez hisn in the choir;
  My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
    She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

  An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,
    When her new meetin’-bunnet
  Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
    O’ blue eyes sot upon it.

  Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_!
    She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul,
  For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,
    Down to her very shoe-sole.

  She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu,
    A-raspin’ on the scraper,—
  All ways to once her feelins flew
    Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

  He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,
    Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,       sequel.
  His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
    But hern went pity Zekle.

  An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk
    Ez though she wished him furder,
  An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
    Parin’ away like murder.

  “You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
    “Wal ... no ... I come designin’”—
  “To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es
    Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

  To say why gals acts so or so,
    Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;
  Mebby to mean _yes_ an’ say _no_
    Comes nateral to women.

  He stood a spell on one foot fust,
    Then stood a spell on t’other,
  An’ on which one he felt the wust
    He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

  Sez he, “I’d better call agin;”
    Sez she, “Think likely, Mister;”
  Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
    An’ ... Wal he up an’ kist her.

  When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
    Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
  All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips
    An’ teary roun’ the lashes....

  The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
    Too tight for all expressin’,
  Till mother see how metters stood,
    An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.

  Then her red come back like the tide,
    Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,
  An’ all I know is they was cried
    In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.

                           J. RUSSELL LOWELL

       *       *       *       *       *

What is the life of man? Is it not to turn from side to side? From sorrow
to sorrow? To button up one cause of vexation and unbutton another?

                                              STERNE (_Tristram Shandy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I know thy heart by heart.

                                                 P. J. BAILEY (_Festus_).

       *       *       *       *       *

HERBERT SPENCER’S “FIRST PRINCIPLES.”

Mr. Spencer’s genesis of the universe from chaos to the Crimean War ...
For our own part, we must confess that this new book of Genesis appears
to us no more credible than the old.

                          J. MARTINEAU (_Science, Nescience, and Faith_).

       *       *       *       *       *

JAMES MILL.

Did the facts of consciousness stand, as he represents them, his method
would work. He satisfactorily explains—the wrong human nature.

                              J. MARTINEAU (_Essay on John Stuart Mill_).

       *       *       *       *       *

(Referring to those who insist on the _practical_ as against the
_theoretical_.) This solitary term (“practical”) serves a large number of
persons as a substitute for all patient and steady thought; and, at all
events, instead of meaning that which is useful as opposed to that which
is useless, it constantly signifies that of which the use is grossly and
immediately palpable, as distinguished from that of which the usefulness
can only be discerned after attention and exertion.

                                                         SIR HENRY MAINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

(Men are) dragged along the physiological history, because easy to
conceive, and baffled by the spiritual, because it has no pictures to
help it.

                               J. MARTINEAU (_Hours of Thought_, I, 100).

       *       *       *       *       *

As psychology comprises all our sensibilities, pleasures, affections,
aspirations, capacities, it is thought on that ground to have a special
nobility and greatness, and a special power of evoking in the student
the feelings themselves. The mathematician, dealing with conic sections,
spirals, and differential equations, is in danger of being ultimately
resolved into a function or a co-efficient: the metaphysician, by
investigating conscience, must become conscientious; driving fat oxen is
the way to grow fat.

          ALEXANDER BAIN (1818-1903) (_Contemporary Review_, April 1877).

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a crude absurd materialism abroad which hasn’t yet learned
the fundamental difference between Mind and Matter. It is altogether
incomprehensible how any material processes can beget sensations and
feelings and thoughts; it is altogether incomprehensible how _you_ arose
or _I_ arose. Listen to Spencer:—“Were we compelled to choose between the
alternatives of translating mental phenomena into physical phenomena,
or of translating physical phenomena into mental phenomena, the latter
alternative would seem the more preferable of the two.... Hence though
of the two it seems easier to translate so-called Matter into so-called
Spirit, than to translate so-called Spirit into so-called Matter (which
latter is, indeed, wholly impossible), yet no translation can carry us
beyond our symbols.”

                              RICHARD HODGSON (_Letter, March 21, 1880_).

       *       *       *       *       *

_Clown._ What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?

_Malvolio._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

_Clown._ What thinkest thou of his opinion?

_Malvolio._ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

_Clown._ Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness.

                                    SHAKESPEARE (_Twelfth Night_, IV, 2).

       *       *       *       *       *

As the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily
said to a niece of King Gorboduc, “That, that is, is.”

                                    SHAKESPEARE (_Twelfth Night_, IV, 2).

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT IS LOVE?

The passion which unites the sexes ... is the most compound, and
therefore the most powerful of all the feelings. Added to the purely
physical elements of it are, first, those highly complex impressions
produced by personal beauty.... With this there is united the complex
sentiment which we term affection—a sentiment which, as it can exist
between those of the same sex, must be regarded as an independent
sentiment.... Then there is the sentiment of admiration, respect, or
reverence.... There comes next the feeling called love of approbation.
To be preferred above all the world, and that by one admired above
all others, is to have the love of approbation gratified in a degree
passing every previous experience.... Further, the allied emotion of
self-esteem comes into play. To have succeeded in gaining such attachment
from, and sway over, another is a proof of power which cannot fail
agreeably to excite the _amour propre_. Yet again, the proprietary
feeling has its share in the general activity: there is the pleasure
of possession—the two belong to each other. Once more, the relation
allows of an extended liberty of action. Towards other persons a
restrained behaviour is requisite. Round each there is a subtle boundary
that may not be crossed—an individuality on which none may trespass.
But in this case the barriers are thrown down; and thus the love of
unrestrained activity is gratified. Finally there is an exaltation of
the sympathies. Egoistic pleasures of all kinds are doubled by another’s
sympathetic participation; and the pleasures of another are added to
the egoistic pleasures. Thus, round the physical feeling, forming the
nucleus of the whole, are gathered the feelings produced by personal
beauty, that constituting simple attachment, those of reverence, of love
of approbation, of self-esteem, of property, of love of freedom, of
sympathy. These, all greatly exalted, and severally tending to reflect
their excitements on one another, unite to form the mental state we call
Love.

      HERBERT SPENCER (_Principles of Psychology_, 3rd Ed., Vol. I, 487).

    The heading is, of course, mine—not Spencer’s.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT AM I?

The aggregate of feelings and ideas, constituting the mental _I_, have
not in themselves the principle of cohesion holding them together as
a whole; but the _I_ which continuously survives as the subject of
these changing states is that portion of the Unknowable Power, which
is statically conditioned in (my particular one of those) special
nervous structures pervaded by a dynamically-conditioned portion of the
Unknowable Power called energy.

     HERBERT SPENCER (_Principles of Psychology_, 3rd Ed., Vol. II, 504).

    The heading and words in brackets are mine. As the reader may
    at any time be asked “What are you?” it would be well to be
    ready with a simple reply.

       *       *       *       *       *

New truths, old truths! sirs, there is nothing new possible to be
revealed to us in the moral world; we know all we shall ever know: and
it is for simply reminding us, by their various respective expedients,
how we do know this and the other matter, that men get called prophets,
poets, and the like. A philosopher’s life is spent in discovering that,
of the half-dozen truths he knew when a child, such an one is a lie, as
the world states it in set terms; and then, after a weary lapse of years,
and plenty of hard-thinking, it becomes a truth again after all, as he
happens to newly consider it and view it in a different relation with the
others: and so he restates it, to the confusion of somebody else in good
time. As for adding to the original stock of truths,—impossible!

                                        R. BROWNING (_A Soul’s Tragedy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter,
  And proved it, ’twas no matter what he said.

                           BYRON (_Don Juan, Canto XI_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The law of equal freedom which Herbert Spencer deduces is binding only
upon those who admit both that human happiness is the Divine Will and
that we should act in accordance with the Divine Will. Why should I
obey this law? Because without such obedience human happiness cannot be
complete. Why should I aim at human happiness? Because human happiness is
the Divine Will. The inexorable _why_ pursues us here—Why should I aim
at the fulfilment of the Divine Will? To this question there seems no
satisfactory reply but that it is for my own happiness to do so.

                             RICHARD HODGSON (_Unpublished Essay_, 1879).

       *       *       *       *       *

I have no ambition to wander into the inane and usurp the sceptre of the
dim Hegel, situated Nowhere, with pure Nothing behind him, and pure Being
before him, steadfastly and vainly endeavouring with his _Werden_ to stop
the sand-flowing of smiling Time.

                             RICHARD HODGSON (_Early Unpublished Essay_).

    _Werden_ in Hegel is usually translated “Becoming.” To Hegel
    the truth of the world is found in life or movement, not in
    Being which is changeless, but tells and does nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Edwin (afterwards Sir Edwin) Arnold was with Herbert Spencer on a Nile
steamer. Spencer was dyspeptic and irritable; Arnold was a nocturnal
bird, pacing the deck alone in a long gown and smoking a long pipe.
Suddenly appeared a white figure, Spencer in his night-shirt, who in the
bad light took Arnold for a sailor (and Arnold did not undeceive him).

“Hi! there!”

“Ay, ay, Sir.”

“What are the men making that noise there forward for?”

“Cleaning the engines, Sir.”

“Just tell them not to make such a row, keeping good Christians from
their sleep at this time of night.”

“Ay, ay, Sir.”

(Disappearance of ghost; joke next morning,)

                               (_Told by Arnold to Hodgson, June, 1884_).

    The great agnostic, usually most precise in his language,
    describes himself as a “good Christian”!

       *       *       *       *       *

  The very law which moulds a tear
  And bids it trickle from its source,—
  That law preserves the earth a sphere,
  And guides the planets in their course.

                           SAMUEL ROGERS (_On a Tear_).

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAM BLAKE.

  He came to the desert of London town
    Grey miles long;
  He wander’d up and he wander’d down,
    Singing a quiet song,

  He came to the desert of London Town,
    Mirk miles broad;
  He wandered up and he wandered down,
    Ever alone with God.

  There were thousands and thousands of human kind
    In this desert of brick and stone:
  But some were deaf and some were blind,
    And he was there alone.

  At length the good hour came; he died
    As he had lived, alone:
  He was not miss’d from the desert wide,—
    Perhaps he was found at the Throne.

                           JAMES THOMSON (“B.V.”).

    _The desert of London town_—_Magna civitas, magna solitudo_: “a
    great city is a great solitude.”

    It is strange to think that these verses (and especially the
    last verse) were written by the pessimist who wrote in all
    sincerity the terrible lines in Pt. VIII of “The City of
    Dreadful Night.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
  Where flocks have ta’en delight;
  Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
  The feet of angels bright;
      Unseen, they pour blessing
      And joy without ceasing,
      On each bud and blossom,
      And each sleeping bosom.

  They look in every thoughtless nest,
  Where birds are covered warm;
  They visit caves of every beast,
  To keep them all from harm:
      If they see any weeping
      That should have been sleeping,
      They pour sleep on their head,
      And sit down by their bed.

  When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
  They pitying stand and weep;
  Seeking to drive their thirst away,
  And keep them from the sheep,
      But if they rush dreadful,
      The angels, most heedful,
      Receive each mild spirit,
      New worlds to inherit.

                           WILLIAM BLAKE (_Night_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sic vos non vobis nidificatis, aves,
  Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves,
  Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes,
  Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves.

  (So you, birds, build nests—not for yourselves,
  So you, sheep, grow fleeces—not for yourselves,
  So you, bees, make honey—not for yourselves,
  So you, oxen, draw the plough—not for yourselves.)

                           VIRGIL.

    According to Donatus, Virgil wrote a couplet in praise of
    Cæsar and posted it anonymously on the portals of the palace
    (31 B.C.). Bathyllus gave himself out as the author of this
    couplet, and on that account received a present from Cæsar.
    Next night _Sic vos non vobis_ (“So you not for you”) was found
    written four times in the same place. The Romans were puzzled
    as to what was meant by these words, until Virgil came forward
    and completed the verse—adding a preliminary line, _Hos ego
    versiculos feci, tulit alter honores_, “I wrote the lines,
    another wears the bays.”

    Shelley in _Song to the Men of England_ wrote as a socialist:

      The seed ye sow, another reaps;
      The wealth ye find, another keeps;
      The robes ye weave, another wears;
      The arms ye forge, another bears.

    In previous verses he refers to bees, and, of course, the above
    quotation was in his mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I know, of late experience taught, that him
  Who is my foe I must but hate as one
  Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves me
  Will I but serve and cherish as a man
  Whose love is not abiding. Few be they
  Who, reaching friendship’s port, have there found rest.

                           SOPHOCLES (_Ajax_).

    This is from C. S. Calverley’s fine translation of the speech
    of Ajax.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards,
  And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of
    Propriety:
  He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,
  Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the
    cork.

                           C. S. CALVERLEY.

    Imitating the now-forgotten Martin Tupper.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whosoever is harmonically composed delights in harmony.... Even that
vulgar and Tavern Musick, which makes one man merry, another mad,
strikes in me a deep fit of devotion, and a profound contemplation of
the First Composer.... There is something in it of Divinity more than
the ear discovers: it is an Hieroglyphical and shadowed lesson of the
whole World, and creatures of God; such a melody to the ear as the whole
World, well understood, would afford the understanding. In brief, it is a
sensible fit of that harmony which intellectually sounds in the ears of
God.

                                    SIR THOMAS BROWNE (_Religio Medici_).

       *       *       *       *       *

(Speaking of an Essay on Wordsworth he is about to write for some
Melbourne society) I purpose describing briefly the poetic tendencies,
or rather the unpoetic tendencies, of the 18th Century, and the new
school beginning to manifest itself in Cowper. I shall then refer
to W.’s principles—shall banish to a future time the working out of
the _psychological_ connection between forms of nature and the human
soul—shall banish also the feelings, the elementary feelings, of
humanity, which W. drew _powerful_ attention to, and confine myself to
pointing out those characteristics in external nature which he took
note of. These produce corresponding feelings in the “human,” and some
of them are _beauty_, _silence and calm_, _joyousness_, _generosity_,
_freedom_, _grandeur_, and _Spirituality_. These are found in Nature,
and W. saw them, and in the growing familiarity with them a man’s soul
becomes _beautiful_, _calm_, _joyous_, _generous_, _free_, _grand_,
and _spiritual_. The first ones, of course, all depend on and grow
from the last, and the Spirituality is God immanent. This last, as the
root of all the others, will merit special attention—it exhibits W.’s
poetico-philosophy so far as it regards the work of Nature upon man; and
includes too the Platonic Reminiscence business. (_Here follows personal
chit-chat._) I think we might add the “supreme loftiness of _labour_” to
the foregoing elements in Nature. In the _Gipsies_ (I give both readings)

        O better wrong and strife,
  Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
    The silent heavens have goings-on;
    The stars have tasks—but these have none!

        Oh, better wrong and strife
  (By nature transient) than this torpid life:
    Life which the very stars reprove
    As on their silent tasks they move.

                           R. HODGSON (_Letter_, 1877, when aged 21).

    In 1877 Blake was little appreciated. (I remember only that in
    our children’s books we had “Tiger, Tiger burning bright”—and
    it was a strange thing to include in such books a poem which
    raises the problems of the existence of evil and the nature of
    God). Hence it will be evident why so keen a student of poetry
    as Hodgson did not couple Blake with Cowper as a precursor of
    the Romantic Revival. As a matter of fact Blake had more of the
    “Romantic” spirit than Cowper, and really preceded him, for
    the poor verse that Cowper published the year before Blake’s
    _Poetical Sketches_ need not be considered. While still in his
    teens Blake wrote (“To the Muses”):

        ... Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,
      How have you left the ancient love
        That bards of old enjoyed in you!
      The languid strings do scarcely move,
        The sound is forced, the notes are few.

    Curiously enough Gray also had in him an element of the
    Romantic _which he suppressed_. It is very remarkable that in
    his Elegy (published 1751) he cut out the following verse:

      There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,
        By hands unseen are showers of violets found;
      The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
        And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
  His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
  The silence that is in the starry sky,
  The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

                           WORDSWORTH (_Song at the Feast of Brougham
                           Castle_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ambition tempts to rise,
  Then whirls the wretch from high
  To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
    And grinning Infamy.

                           THOMAS GRAY (_On a Distant Prospect of Eton
                           College_).

    Slightly altered verbally to admit of quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE

  All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,
  Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?
  Westward across the ocean, and Northward across the snow,
  Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know?

  Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm
  Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering
    storm;
  In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,
  Yet we all say, “Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?”

  A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings,
  As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the figures of ancient kings;
  And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry
  Of those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loth to die.

  For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills,
  Above is the sky, and around us the sound of the shot that kills;
  Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,
  We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.

  The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim,
  And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim;
  And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest,
  Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?

  The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?
  The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side.
  Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath
  Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.

  Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,
  Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;
  They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard
    our race,
  Ever I watch and worship—they sit with a marble face.

  And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests,
  The revels and rites unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts!
  What have they wrung from the Silence? Hath even a whisper come
  Of the secret, Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.

  Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea?
  “The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?”
  It is nought but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens
    began,
  How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man.

  I had thought, “Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,
  Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,
  They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main—”
  Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.

  Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake?
  Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?
  Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and
    gone
  From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and
    lone?

  Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are
    hurled,
  But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?
  The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep
  With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and the voices of women who
    weep.

                           SIR ALFRED LYALL.

       *       *       *       *       *

MEDITATION OF A HINDU PRINCE AND SCEPTIC

  I think till I weary with thinking, said the sad-eyed Hindu King,
  But I see but shadows around me, illusion in everything.

  How knowest thou aught of God, of his favour or his wrath?
  Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, or map out the eagle’s
    path?

  Can the finite the infinite search,—did the blind discover the stars?
  Is the thought that I think a thought, or a throb of the brain in its
    bars?

  For aught that my eye can discern, your god is what you think good,
  Yourself flashed back from the glass when the light pours on it in flood!

  You preach to me of his justice, and this is his realm, you say,
  Where the good are dying of hunger, and the bad gorge every day.

  You tell me he loveth mercy, but the famine is not yet gone,—
  That he hateth the shedder of blood, yet he slayeth us, everyone.

  You tell me the soul must live, that spirit can never die,
  If he was content when I was not, why not when I’ve passed by?

  You say that I must have a meaning! So has dung,—and its meaning is
    flowers:
  What if our lives are but nurture for souls that are higher than ours?

  When the fish swims out of the water, when the bird soars out of the
    blue,
  Man’s thought shall transcend man’s knowledge, and your God be no reflex
    of you!

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

    The preceding poem by Lyall had the same title as these
    verses, “Meditation of a Hindu Prince _and Sceptic_” when
    first published in the _Cornhill_, September, 1877. I was
    fully convinced, for reasons that would take too long to set
    out here, that these verses were by Hodgson. But Mrs. Piper,
    the well-known trance-medium, says that Hodgson gave her a
    copy signed with other initials than his, and that she is sure
    he was not the author. She has mislaid the copy she refers
    to. In view of this statement I must not attribute the verses
    to Hodgson, although I cannot but doubt whether Mrs. Piper’s
    recollection is correct.

       *       *       *       *       *

  One summer hour abides, what time I perched,
  Dappled with noon-day, under simmering leaves,
  And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloof
  An oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,
  Denouncing me an alien and a thief.

                           J. R. LOWELL (_The Cathedral_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The present writer ... was seated in a railway-carriage, five minutes
or so before starting, and had time to contemplate certain waggons or
trucks filled with cattle, drawn up on a parallel line, and quite close
to the window at which he sat. The cattle wore a much-enduring aspect;
and, as he looked into their large, patient, melancholy eyes,—for, as
before mentioned, there was no space to speak of intervening,—a feeling
of puzzlement arose in his mind.... The much-enduring animals in the
trucks opposite had unquestionably some rude twilight of a notion of a
world; of objects they had some unknown cognizance; but he could not get
behind the melancholy eye within a yard of him and look through it. How,
from that window, the world shaped itself, he could not discover, could
not even fancy; and yet, staring on the animals, he was conscious of a
certain fascination in which there lurked an element of terror. These
wild, unkempt brutes, with slavering muzzles, penned together, lived,
could choose between this thing and the other, could be frightened,
could be enraged, could even love and hate; and gazing into a placid,
heavy countenance, and the depths of a patient eye, not a yard away, he
was conscious of an obscure and shuddering recognition of a life akin
so far with his own. But to enter into that life imaginatively, and to
conceive it, he found impossible. Eye looked upon eye, but the one could
not flash recognition on the other; and, thinking of this, he remembers,
with what a sense of ludicrous horror, the idea came,—what, if looking
on one another thus, some spark of recognition could be elicited; if
some rudiment of thought could be detected; if there were indeed a point
at which man and ox could meet and compare notes? Suppose some gleam or
scintillation of humour had lighted up the unwinking, amber eye? Heavens,
the bellow of the weaning calf would be pathetic, shoe-leather would be
forsworn, the eating of roast meat, hot or cold, would be cannibalism,
the terrified world would make a sudden dash into vegetarianism!

                 ALEXANDER SMITH (_On the Importance of Man to Himself_).

    Does not this give the reason why we do not eat dogs and
    horses? We, more than other nations, recognize in the horse, as
    well as in the dog, a life and intelligence akin to our own.
    We also believe that both animals reciprocate the affection
    we feel towards them. (Coleridge in _Table Talk_ says: “The
    dog alone, of all brute animals, has a στοργή or affection
    _upwards_ to man.”)

       *       *       *       *       *

When I am playing with my Cat, who knowes whether she have more sport
in dallying with me, than I have in gaming with her? We entertaine one
another with mutual apish trickes: If I have my houre to begin or to
refuse, so hath she hers.

                                            MONTAIGNE (_Bk. II, ch. 12_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  O what are these Spirits that o’er us creep,
    And touch our eyelids and drink our breath?
  The first, with a flower in his hand, is Sleep;
    The next, with a star on his brow, is Death.

                           R. BUCHANAN (_Balder the Beautiful_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
  He hath awakened from the dream of life—
  ’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
  With phantoms an unprofitable life.

                           SHELLEY (_Adonaïs_ XXXIX).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Have you found your life distasteful?
    My life did—and does—smack sweet.
  Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?
    Mine I saved and hold complete.
  Do your joys with age diminish?
    When mine fails me, I’ll complain.
  Must in death your daylight finish?
    My sun sets to rise again.

                           R. BROWNING (_At the Mermaid_).

    “My life did—and does—smack sweet”—see note p. 236.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAMB

      Little lamb, who made thee?
      Dost thou know who made thee,
  Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
  By the stream and o’er the mead;
  Gave thee clothing of delight,
  Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
  Gave thee such a tender voice,
  Making all the vales rejoice?
      Little lamb, who made thee?
      Dost thou know who made thee?

      Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
      Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
  He is called by thy name.
  For He calls Himself a Lamb.
  He is meek, and He is mild,
  He became a little child.
  I a child, and thou a lamb,
  We are called by His name.
      Little lamb, God bless thee!
      Little lamb, God bless thee!

                           W. BLAKE (1757-1827).

       *       *       *       *       *

Who can wrestle against Sleep? Yet is that giant very gentleness.

                                             MARTIN TUPPER (_Of Beauty_).

       *       *       *       *       *

ON A FINE MORNING

  I.

  Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeing
  What is doing, suffering, being,
  Not from noting Life’s conditions,
  Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;
      But in cleaving to the Dream,
      And in gazing at the Gleam
      Whereby gray things golden seem.

  II.

  Thus do I this heyday, holding
  Shadows but as lights unfolding,
  As no specious show this moment
  With its iridized embowment;
      But as nothing other than
      Part of a benignant plan;
      Proof that earth was made for man.

                           THOMAS HARDY.

    This is not in the _Selected Poems_. It is interesting as
    showing Mr. Hardy in an optimistic mood.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Without the smile from partial beauty won,
  Oh, what were man? a world without a sun!

                           THOMAS CAMPBELL (_Pleasures of Hope, Pt. II_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Of two opposite methods of action, do you desire to know which should
have the preference? Calculate their effects in pleasures and pains, and
prefer that which promises the greater sum of pleasures.

       *       *       *       *       *

Think not that a man will so much as lift up his little finger on your
behalf, unless he sees his advantage in it.

                                              JEREMY BENTHAM (1748-1832).

    These cold-blooded and repulsive aphorisms are typical of
    Bentham’s Utilitarian philosophy, from which all sense of duty
    and moral aspiration were excluded. It is strange that these
    views should be held by a great thinker who was himself of
    benevolent character. Such a doctrine could not have survived
    to my time, had it not been supplemented by John Stuart Mill
    (1806-1873), who gave a different place to the humanist
    element. While still adhering to Bentham’s doctrine that there
    is no good but pleasure and no evil but pain, he introduced as
    the higher forms of pleasure those derived from the wish for
    self-culture and the desire to satisfy our mental and moral
    aims. He gave priority to all the sympathetic and altruistic
    motives that govern our actions. Whereas Bentham held that all
    pleasures were equal and could be counted in one column, Mill
    said that they differed in quality, that they could no more be
    added up in one column than pounds, shillings and pence; that,
    in fact, there is no equivalent for a higher pleasure in any
    quantity of a lower one. This was typical of Mill’s sincerity:
    but he did not see that his additions were fatal to Bentham’s
    doctrine and to hedonism generally. How, for instance, is a
    higher pleasure to be known for a higher? In what respect is
    an intellectual pleasure or the satisfaction of doing one’s
    duty of higher quality than the gratification of the senses? To
    ascertain this it is necessary to pass from the pleasure itself
    to the thing that gives the pleasure or, in other words, to the
    character that finds the pleasure. Many illustrations of this
    might be given. In one of Sir Alfred Lyall’s poems, which is
    founded on fact, an Englishman who has been captured by Arabs
    has no religious belief; his loved ones are waiting his return;
    he can save his life if he will only repeat the Mahomedan
    formula; if he dies no one will know of his self-sacrifice: yet
    he decides to die for the honour of England. However, Bentham’s
    careful calculus of equal pleasures and pains, “push-pin” being
    “worth as much as poetry,”[18] came to an end through Mill, and
    Mill at once made way for Spencer on the one hand, and T. H.
    Green on the other; both of these rejected the calculation of
    pleasures or happiness as the standard of right either for the
    individual or the greatest number. In all directions the low
    moral stage of philosophic thought represented by Benthamism
    has been passed through and forgotten. We no longer hold the
    belief that the only sphere of Government is to protect our
    persons and property, but follow loftier ideals; and in art and
    poetry we look for higher aims than mere luxury and sensuous
    pleasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

LIFE

  We are born; we laugh; we weep;
    We love; we droop; we die!
  Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?
    Why do we live, or die?
  Who knows that secret deep?
        Alas, not I!

  Why doth the violet spring
    Unseen by human eye?
  Why do the radiant seasons bring
    Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
  Why do our fond hearts cling
        To things that die?

  We toil,—through pain and wrong;
    We fight,—and fly;
  We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
    Stone dead we lie.
  Life! is _all_ thy song
        Endure and—die?

                           B. W. PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Stop and consider! Life is but a day;
  A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way
  From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep
  While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
  Of Montmorenci,—Why so sad a moan?
  Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;
  The reading of an ever-changing tale;
  The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;
  A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
  A laughing school boy, without grief or care,
  Riding the springy branches of an elm.

                           KEATS (_Sleep and Poetry_).

    Life is compared to the brief fall of a dewdrop, the Indian’s
    unconscious sleep while his boat hastens to destruction; but
    life also is Hope, Intellect, Beauty, and Physical Enjoyment.

       *       *       *       *       *

  When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;
  Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit
  Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay—
  To-morrow’s falser than the former day;
  Lies worse and, while it says we shall be blessed
  With some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.
  Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
  Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
  And, from the dregs of life, think to receive
  What the first sprightly running would not give,
  I’m tired with waiting for this chymic gold,
  Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.

                           JOHN DRYDEN (_Aureng-zebe_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
  Lest you should think he never could recapture
  The first fine careless rapture!

                           R. BROWNING (_Home-Thoughts from Abroad_).

       *       *       *       *       *

PEU DE CHOSE ET PRESQUE TROP.

  La vie est vaine:
    Un peu d’amour,
  Un peu de haine ...
    Et puis—bonjour!

  La vie est brève:
    Un peu d’espoir,
  Un peu de rêve ...
    Et puis—bonsoir!

  (Life is vain: A little love, A little hate, ... And then—good-day!)
  (Life is short: A little hope, A little dream, ... And then—good night!)

                           LEON MONTENAEKEN.

    This haunting little lyric is a literary curiosity from one
    point of view. In spite of expostulations from the author (a
    Belgian poet), and repeated public statements by others from
    time to time, the poem is constantly being wrongly attributed
    to one or another of the French poets. It appeared in _Le
    Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique_, 1887, but had probably been
    written and published some years before that date. In the
    _Nineteenth Century_, September, 1893, William Sharp pointed
    out that the poem was always being attributed to the wrong
    author—even Andrew Lang being one of the culprits. The author
    himself wrote to _The Literary World_ of June 3, 1904, to
    the same effect. The subject was again spoken of in _Notes
    and Queries_, January 5, 1907, when the author’s letter was
    republished. London _Truth_ also brought the matter up at one
    time, and probably the same fact has been publicly pointed
    out elsewhere a hundred times—but the poem continues to be
    attributed to the wrong author! In the _Dictionary of Foreign
    Phrases and Classical Quotations_, by H. P. Jones, published so
    recently as 1913, the verses are ascribed to Alfred de Musset.

    There is a third verse, which reads like an answer or retort to
    the other two:

      La vie est telle,
        Que Dieu la fit;
      Et telle, quelle,
        Elle suffit!

    (Life is such As God made it, And, just as it is, ... It
    suffices!)

    One of the writers to _Notes and Queries_ quotes the following
    lines:

      On entre, on crie,
      Et c’est la vie!
      On baîlle, on sort,
      Et c’est la mort!

                         (_Ausone de Chancel_, 1836)

    (You enter, you cry, and that is life: you yawn, you go out,
    and that is death.)

       *       *       *       *       *

A very strange, fantastic world—where each one pursues his own golden
bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doing the same. I have been
thinking how a moral Linnæus would classify our race.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

TWO LOVERS

  Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:
    They leaned soft cheeks together there,
    Mingled the dark and sunny hair.
  And heard the wooing thrushes sing,
          O budding time!
          O love’s blest prime!

  Two wedded from the portal stept:
    The bells made happy carollings,
    The air was soft as fanning wings,
  White petals on the pathway slept.
          O pure-eyed bride!
          O tender pride!

  Two faces o’er a cradle bent:
    Two hands above the head were locked;
    These pressed each other while they rocked.
  Those watched a life that love had sent.
          O solemn hour!
          O hidden power!

  Two parents by the evening fire:
    The red light fell about their knees
    On heads that rose by slow degrees
  Like buds upon the lily spire.
          O patient life!
          O tender strife

  The two still sat together there,
    The red light shone about their knees:
    But all the heads by slow degrees
  Had gone and left that lonely pair.
          O voyage fast!
          O vanished past!

  The red light shone upon the floor
    And made the space between them wide;
    They drew their chairs up side by side,
  Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!”
          O memories!
          O past that is!

                           GEORGE ELIOT.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Some of your griefs you have cured,
    And the sharpest you still have survived;
  But what torments of pain you endured
    From evils that never arrived!

                           R. W. EMERSON (_From the French_).

    This sentiment has been expressed by many different authors.
    Some friends of mine have as their favourite motto, “I have had
    many troubles in my life, and most of them never happened.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  With him ther was his son, a yong Squyer,[19]                     Squire
  A lovyere and a lusty bachelor,                                    lover
  With lokkès crulle, as they were leyd in presse.             curly locks
  Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse....
  Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;             playing the flute
  He was as fresh as is the month of May.
  Short was his goune, with slevès long and wide,
  Well coude he sitte on hors and fairè ride.

                           CHAUCER (_Canterbury Tales—Prologue_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  With a waist and with a side
  White as Hebe’s, when her zone
  Slipt its golden clasp, and down
  Fell her kirtle to her feet,
  While she held her goblet sweet,
  And Jove grew languid.

                           KEATS (_Fancy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Like Angels stopped upon the wing by sound
  Of harmony from heaven’s remotest spheres.

                           WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude, Bk. XIV._)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,
    Arm in arm, all against the raying West,
  Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,
    Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.

                           G. MEREDITH (_Love in the Valley_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The blessed Damozel leaned out
    From the gold bar of Heaven;
  Her eyes were deeper than the depth
    Of waters stilled at even;
  She had three lilies in her hand,
    And the stars in her hair were seven.

  Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
    No wrought flowers did adorn,
  But a white rose of Mary’s gift,
    For service meetly worn;
  Her hair that lay along her back
    Was yellow like ripe corn.

                           D. G. ROSSETTI (_The Blessed Damozel_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  When as in silk my Julia goes,
  Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
  The liquefaction of her clothes!

                           ROBERT HERRICK (_Upon Julia’s Clothes_),

    The six quotations above are from a series of word-pictures
    (see p. 85).

       *       *       *       *       *

Whatever else may or may not work on through eternity, we are bound to
believe that the love, which moved the Father to redeem the world at such
infinite cost, must work on, while there is one pang in the universe,
born of sin, which can touch the Divine pity, or one wretched prodigal in
rags and hunger far from the home and the heart of God.

                                                      REV. BALDWIN BROWN.

Canon Farrar is not happy in his rejoinder to the argument that to cast a
doubt on the endlessness of punishment is to invalidate the argument for
the endlessness of bliss, since both rest on exactly the same Biblical
sanction. There are three replies, cumulatively exhaustive, which he has
failed to adduce.... (Firstly, evil and temptation are banished from
heaven; Second, the two arguments do _not_ rest on the same Biblical
sanction) ... Thirdly, the difference of the two eternities, heaven and
hell, consists in the presence or absence of God. Let us put α for each
of those eternities or aeons, and θ to denote Him. The assertion of the
equality of the two, then, is that α + θ = α - θ, which can stand only if
θ = 0, the postulate of atheism.

                                            REV. R. F. LITTLEDALE, D.C.L.

    Both these passages come from an Article in the _Contemporary_
    for April, 1878.

    As this book is partly intended to revive the memories of
    forty years ago, I include these out of the passages in my
    commonplace book which refer to the intense struggle that then
    raged over the question of Eternal Punishment. Surely no other
    word, since the world began, raised so tremendous an issue,
    created such conflict and caused so much heart-burning as the
    one word αἰώνιος.

    (Liddell and Scott, 1901, gives the following meanings for
    αἰώνιος: _lasting for an age_, _perpetual_, _everlasting_,
    _eternal_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

I thank God, and with joy I mention it, I was never afraid of Hell, nor
never grew pale at the description of that place. I have so fixed my
contemplations on Heaven, that I have almost forgot the Idea of Hell, and
am afraid rather to lose the joys of the one, than endure the misery of
the other: to be deprived of them is a perfect Hell, and needs, methinks,
no addition to compleat our afflictions. That terrible term hath never
detained me from sin, nor do I owe any good action to the name thereof.
I fear GOD, yet am not afraid of Him: His Mercies make me ashamed of my
sins, before His Judgments afraid thereof.

                        SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) (_Religio Medici_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Ne nous imaginons pas que l’enfer consiste dans ces étangs de feu et de
soufre, dans ces flammes éternellement dévorantes, dans cette rage, dans
ce désespoir, dans cet horrible grincement de dents. L’enfer, si nous
l’entendons, c’est péché même: l’enfer, c’est d’être éloigné de Dieu.

                                                     BOSSUET (1627-1704).

    (Let us not imagine that hell consists in those lakes of fire
    and brimstone, in those eternally-devouring flames, in that
    rage, in that despair, in that horrible gnashing of teeth.
    Hell, if we understand it aright, is sin itself: hell consists
    in being banished from God.)

       *       *       *       *       *

... Sir Henry Wotton’s celebrated answer to a priest in Italy, who asked
him, “Where was your religion to be found before Luther?” “My religion
was to be found there—where yours is not to be found now—in the written
word of God.” In Selden’s _Table Talk_ we have the following more witty
reply made to the same question: “Where was America an hundred or six
score years ago?”

                                  BOSWELL’S _Life of Johnson_, VIII, 176.

    I do not wish to introduce sectarian questions, but these
    answers are interesting and clever. The next quotation is
    pro-Catholic.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the horrible time of the Borgia Pope, Alexander VI, a French
priest and a Jew became very intimate friends. The priest, very anxious
for the future welfare of his friend, urged him to be received into the
church: and the Jew promised to earnestly consider this advice. The
priest, however, gave up all hope on learning that the Jew was called by
his business to Rome, where he would see the unutterably monstrous life
of the Pope and clergy. To his surprise the Jew on his return announced
that he wished to be baptized, saying that a religion, which could still
exist in spite of such abominations, must be the true religion.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

    I noted this from an old French book, but the real story must
    be the earlier one of Boccaccio (1315-1375). Alexander Borgia
    was Pope, 1492-1503.

       *       *       *       *       *

I verily believe that, if the knife were put into my hand, I should not
have strength and energy enough to stick it into a Dissenter.

                                                            SYDNEY SMITH.

    Shortly before his death in 1844 he gave this as a singular
    proof of his declining strength! (See _Memoir_ by his daughter,
    Lady Holland).

       *       *       *       *       *

  A hundred times when, roving high and low,
  I have been harassed with the toil of verse,
  Much pains and little progress, and at once
  Some lovely Image in the song rose up
  Full-formed like Venus rising from the sea.

                           W. WORDSWORTH (_Prelude, Bk. IV_).

    The “Prelude” is extremely interesting as a poet’s
    autobiography.

       *       *       *       *       *

LONG EXPECTED

  O many and many a day before we met,
  I knew some spirit walked the world alone,
  Awaiting the Belovèd from afar;
  And I was the anointed chosen one
  Of all the world to crown her queenly brows
  With the imperial crown of human love.
  I knew my sunshine somewhere warmed the world,
  And I should reach it, in His own good time
  Who sendeth sun, and dew, and love for all....

  Earth, with her thousand voices, talked of thee—
  Sweet winds, and whispering leaves, and piping birds,
  The hum of happiness in summer woods,
  And the light dropping of the silver rain;
  And standing as in God’s own presence-chamber.
  When silence lay like sleep upon the world,
  And it seemed rich to die, alone with Night,
  Like Moses ’neath the kisses of God’s lips,
  The stars have trembled thro’ the holy hush,
  And smiled down tenderly, and read to me
  The love hid for me in a budding breast,
  Like incense folded in a young flower’s heart.

                           GERALD MASSEY

    “Rich to die” is reminiscent of Keats’ _Ode to a Nightingale_:

      Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
        To cease upon the midnight with no pain.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Come back, come back”; behold with straining mast
  And swelling sail, behold her steaming fast;
  With one new sun to see her voyage o’er,
  With morning light to touch her native shore,
        “Come back, come back.”

  “Come back, come back”; across the flying foam,
  We hear faint far-off voices call us home,
  “Come back,” ye seem to say; “Ye seek in vain;
  We went, we sought, and homeward turned again.
          Come back, come back.”

  “Come back, come back”; and whither back or why?
  To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes to try;
  Walk the old fields; pace the familiar street;
  Dream with the idlers, with the bards compete.
          “Come back, come back.”

  “Come back, come back”; and whither and for what?
  To finger idly some old Gordian knot,
  Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to cleave,
  And with much toil attain to half-believe.
          “Come back, come back.”

  “Come back, come back”; yea back, indeed, do go
  Sighs panting thick, and tears that want to flow;
  Fond fluttering hopes upraise their useless wings,
  And wishes idly struggle in the strings;
          “Come back, come back.”...

  “Come back, come back!”
  Back flies the foam; the hoisted flag streams back;
  The long smoke wavers on the homeward track,
  Back fly with winds things which the winds obey—
  The strong ship follows its appointed way.

                           A. H. CLOUGH (_Songs in Absence_).

    I have ventured to put quotation marks in the above to make
    the meaning clear at first view. Also—but that italics seldom
    look well in a poem—I would have written the last two lines as
    follows:

      _Back_ fly with winds _things which the winds obey_—
      The _strong_ ship follows its appointed way.

       *       *       *       *       *

  When thou must home to shades of underground,
    And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,
  The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
    White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
  To hear the stories of thy finished love
  From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move

  Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
    Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
  Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
    And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake:
  When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
  Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

                           THOMAS CAMPION.

       *       *       *       *       *

A QUESTION

To Fausta.

  Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
          Like the wave;
  Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men
    Love lends life a little grace,
    A few sad smiles; and then,
    Both are laid in one cold place,
          In the grave.

  Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die
          Like spring flowers;
  Our vaunted life is one long funeral.
    Men dig graves with bitter tears
    For their dead hopes; and all,
    Mazed with doubts and sick with fears,
          Count the hours.

  We count the hours! These dreams of ours,
          False and hollow,
  Do we go hence and find they are not dead?
    Joys we dimly apprehend,
    Faces that smiled and fled,
    Hopes born here, and born to end,
          Shall we follow?

                           MATTHEW ARNOLD.

       *       *       *       *       *

        Dead! that is the word
  That rings through my brain till it crazes!
    Dead, while the mayflowers bud and blow,
    While the green creeps over the white of the snow,
  While the wild woods ring with the song of the bird,
    And the fields are a-bloom with daisies.

        See! even the clod
  Thrills, with life’s glad passion shaken!
    The vagabond weeds, with their vagrant train,
    Laugh in the sun, and weep in the rain,
  The blue sky smiles like the eye of God,
    Only my dead do not waken.

        Dead! There is the word
  That I sit in the darkness and ponder!
    Why should the river, the sky and the sea
    Babble of summer and joy to me,
  While a strong, true heart, with its pulse unstirred,
    Lies hushed in the silence yonder?

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

      Our voices one by one
      Fail in the hymn begun;
  Our last sad song of Life is done,
      Our first sweet song of Death.

                           EDMUND GOSSE (_Encomium Mortis_).

    This poem appeared in early editions of _On viol and Flute_,
    but is now omitted from Mr. Gosse’s poems.

       *       *       *       *       *

  There is one God supreme over all gods, diviner than mortals,
  Whose form is not like unto man’s, and as unlike his nature;
  But vain mortals imagine that gods like themselves are begotten,
  With human sensations and voice and corporeal members;
  So, if oxen or lions had hands and could work in man’s fashion,
  And trace out with chisel or brush their conception of Godhead,
  Then would horses depict gods like horses, and oxen like oxen,
  Each kind the divine with its own form and nature endowing.

                           XENOPHANES OF COLOPHON (About 570 B.C.).

    I do not know whose paraphrase this is; it was prefixed by
    Tyndall to his Belfast Address, 1874. He probably imagined that
    these lines contained an argument in favour of materialism; but
    on the contrary the Greek philosopher affirms the existence of
    a supreme God. All that he says is that the conception of him
    as resembling a mortal in his physical attributes is wrong.

    At the back of Tyndall’s mind was no doubt the prevalent idea
    that any “anthropomorphic” conception of the _nature_ of the
    Deity is necessarily absurd. But there is nothing unreasonable
    in believing that His nature, though immeasurably superior,
    is nevertheless _akin_ to our own. The argument is that the
    source or power of the world must be greater than the highest
    thing it has produced, the mind of man; and that it must more
    nearly resemble the higher than the lower of its products. In
    particular it is impossible for us to believe that our moral
    ideas of truth, justice, right and wrong, etc., can differ at
    all in _kind_, however much in _degree_, from those of God.
    So also our _reason_ must be akin to His _insight_. Such a
    belief should be regarded, not as “anthropomorphic,” but as
    (in a sense different from that of Clifford and Harrison) a
    “deification of man”—the recognition of the Divine that is in
    him.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
    And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
  Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
  And tread softly and speak low,
    For the old year lies a-dying....

  Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
  Step from the corpse, and let him in
  That standeth there alone,
    And waiteth at the door.
    There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend
    And a new face at the door, my friend,
      A new face at the door.

                           TENNYSON (_The Death of the Old Year_).

       *       *       *       *       *

To see the soul as she really is, not as we now behold her, marred by
communion with the body and other miseries, you must contemplate her
with the eye of reason, in her original purity—and then her beauty
will be revealed.... We must remember that we have seen her only in a
condition which may be compared to that of the sea-god Glaucus, whose
original image can hardly be discerned because his natural members are
broken off and crushed and damaged by the waves in all sorts of ways, and
incrustations have grown over them of seaweed and shells and stones, so
that he is more like some monster than his own natural form. And the soul
which we behold is in a similar condition, disfigured by ten thousand
ills. But not there, Glaucon, not there must we look.

Where then!

At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what society
and converse she seeks in virtue of her near kindred with the immortal
and eternal and divine; also how different she would become if wholly
following this superior principle, and borne by a divine impulse out of
the ocean in which she now is, and disengaged from the stones and shells
and things of earth and rock which in wild variety spring up around her
because she feeds upon earth, and is overgrown by the good things of this
life as they are termed: then you would see her as she is, and know ...
what her nature is.

                        PLATO (_Republic_, Bk. 10, Jowett’s translation).

    Apart from the intrinsic interest of such a passage, the
    picture of the old sea-god, with long hair and long beard, his
    body ending in a scaly tail, battered about by the waves, and
    overgrown with seaweed and shells, is very curious. Without
    discussing how far the great philosopher himself or some other
    advanced thinkers believed in such divinities, it must be
    remembered that to the Greeks generally the gods were very real
    personages.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Youth’s quick and warm, old age is slow and tame,
  And only Heaven can fairly halve their blame.
  To-day the passionate roses breathe and blow
  And ask no counsel from to-morrow’s snow,
  Whose fretwork sparkles to the winter moon
  White, as if roses never flushed in June.

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ah, gracious powers! I wish you would send me an old aunt—a maiden
aunt—an aunt with a lozenge on her carriage and a front of light,
coffee-coloured hair—how my children should work work-bags for her,
and my Julia and I would make her comfortable! Sweet—sweet vision!
Foolish—foolish dream!

                                               THACKERAY (_Vanity Fair_).

       *       *       *       *       *

IDENTITY.

  Somewhere—in desolate wind-swept space—
    In Twilight-land—in No-Man’s land—
  Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
      And bade each other stand.

  “And who are you?” cried one a-gape,
    Shuddering in the gloaming light.
  “I know not,” said the second Shape,
      “I only died last night!”

                           THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Veil not thy mirror, sweet Amine,
  Till night shall also veil each star!
  Thou seeest a twofold marvel there:
    The only face so fair as thine,
    The only eyes that, near or far,
    Can gaze on thine without despair.

                           J. C. MANGAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Has anyone ever pinched into its pillulous smallness the cobweb of
pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?

                                            GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

       *       *       *       *       *

TO R.K.

  As long I dwell on some stupendous
  And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
  Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrendous
  Demoniaco-seraphic
  Penman’s latest piece of graphic.

                           BROWNING.

  Will there never come a season
    Which shall rid us from the curse
  Of a prose which knows no reason
    And an unmelodious verse:
  When the world shall cease to wonder
    At the genius of an Ass,
  And a boy’s eccentric blunder
    Shall not bring success to pass:

  When mankind shall be delivered,
    From the clash of magazines,
  And the inkstand shall be shivered
    Into countless smithereens:
  When there stands a muzzled stripling,
    Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
  When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
    And the Haggards Ride no more.

                           JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.

    “R.K.” is Rudyard Kipling, but what was the “boy’s eccentric
    blunder” that brought him success I do not know. Stephen in
    this instance showed a want of judgment. The books Kipling had
    then produced, _Plain Tales from the Hills_, _Departmental
    Ditties_, and the six little books, _Soldiers Three_, etc.,
    all written before the age of twenty-four, should have been
    sufficient to show that the author was certainly not a
    stripling to be “muzzled.” Stephen’s misjudgment was, however,
    trivial when we remember how many important writers have failed
    to understand and appreciate the most beautiful poems. Jeffrey
    (1773-1850) thought to the end of his days that of the poets of
    his time Keats and Shelley would die and Campbell and Rogers
    alone survive. Shelley was _very_ unfortunate in his critics.
    Matthew Arnold and Carlyle also disparaged him, Theodore Hook
    said “Prometheus Unbound” was properly named as no one would
    think of binding it; and worst of all was Emerson. He said
    Shelley was not a poet, had no imagination and his muse was
    uniformly imitative (“Thoughts on Modern Literature”); his
    poetry was ‘rhymed English’ which ‘had no charm’ (“Poetry
    and Imagination”). Just as amazing was the article in _The
    Edinburgh Review_, 1816, on Coleridge’s volume containing
    “Christabel,” “Kubla Khan,” etc. This article, usually
    attributed to Hazlitt, and certainly having Jeffrey’s sanction,
    said: “We look upon this publication as one of the most notable
    pieces of impertinence of which the press has lately been
    guilty; and one of the boldest experiments that have as yet
    been made upon the patience or understanding of the public.” De
    Quincey said the style of Keats “belonged essentially to the
    vilest collections of waxwork filigree or gilt gingerbread.”
    Other instances are Swinburne’s abuse of George Eliot and
    Walt Whitman, Carlyle’s brutality towards Lamb, Jeffrey’s
    savage attack on Wordsworth (the famous “This will never do”
    article—although it was not so very inexcusable), Edward
    Fitzgerald’s letter that Mrs. Browning’s death was a relief
    to him (“No more Aurora Leighs, thank God!”), Samuel Rogers’
    statement that he “could not relish Shakespeare’s sonnets,” and
    Steevens’ far worse condemnation of them, and indeed the list
    could be extended indefinitely. On the other hand, unmerited
    praise was given by whole generations of writers to poems
    which are now properly forgotten. In face of such facts it is
    somewhat of a mystery why the best things _do_ survive. See
    next quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

If it be true, and it can scarcely be disputed, that nothing has been for
centuries consecrated by public admiration, without possessing in a high
degree some kind of sterling excellence, it is not because the average
intellect and feeling of the majority of the public are competent in any
way to distinguish what is really excellent, but because all erroneous
opinion is inconsistent, and all ungrounded opinion transitory; so that
while the fancies and feelings which deny deserved honour, and award
what is undue, have neither root nor strength sufficient to maintain
consistent testimony for a length of time, the opinions formed on
right grounds by those few who are in reality competent judges, being
necessarily stable, communicate themselves gradually from mind to mind,
descending lower as they extend wider, until they leaven the whole lump,
and rule by absolute authority, even where the grounds and reasons for
them cannot be understood. On this gradual victory of what is consistent
over what is vacillating, depends the reputation of all that is highest
in art and literature.

                                   JOHN RUSKIN (_Modern Painters_, I, 1).

    This is an excellent suggestion in explanation of the question
    raised in the preceding note. It is also interesting because
    of the youth of this great writer at the time. Ruskin was born
    in 1819, and the volume was _published_ in 1843, when he was
    twenty-four. Because of his youth, it was thought inadvisable
    to give his name as author, and, therefore, the book was
    published as “by an Oxford Graduate.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The ages have exulted in the manners of a youth, who owed nothing to
fortune, and who was hanged at the Tyburn of his nation, who, by the pure
quality of his nature, shed an epic splendour around the facts of his
death, which has transfigured every particular into an universal symbol
for the eyes of mankind. This great defeat is hitherto our highest fact.

                                          EMERSON (_Essay on Character_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                The best of men
  That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer;
  A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
  The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

                           THOMAS DEKKER (1570-1641).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Thou with strong prayer and very much entreating
    Willest be asked, and Thou shalt answer then,
  Show the hid heart beneath creation beating,
    Smile with kind eyes, and be a man with men.

  Were it not thus, O King of my salvation,
    Many would curse to Thee, and I for one,
  Fling Thee thy bliss and snatch at thy damnation,
    Scorn and abhor the shining of the sun.

  Ring with a reckless shivering of laughter
    Wroth at the woe which Thou hast seen so long;
  Question if any recompense hereafter
    Waits to atone the intolerable wrong.

                           F. W. H. MYERS (1843-1901.) (_Saint Paul_).

    _Willest be asked_, “requirest to be asked,” as in “God willeth
    Samuel to yield unto the importunity of the people” (1 Sam.
    viii., in margin).

    _Saint Paul_ was written for the Seatonian prize for religious
    English verse, Cambridge, about 1866, but failed to secure the
    prize!

       *       *       *       *       *

(Speaking of future state) “Those who are neither good nor bad, or are
too insignificant for notice, will be dropt entirely. This is my opinion.
It is consistent with my idea of God’s justice, and with the reason that
God has given me, and I gratefully know that He has given me a large
share of that Divine gift”(!)

                                          THOMAS PAINE (_Age of Reason_).

       *       *       *       *       *

SIXTEEN CHARACTERISTICS OF LOVE (ΑΓΑΠΗ).

     1. It is long-suffering.
     2.    is kind.
     3.    envieth not.
     4.    vaunteth not itself.
     5.    is not puffed up.
     6.    doth not behave itself unseemly.
     7.    seeketh not its own.
     8.    is not easily provoked.
     9.    thinketh no evil.
    10.    rejoiceth not in iniquity.
    11.    rejoiceth in the truth.
    12.    beareth all things.
    13.    believeth all things.
    14.    hopeth all things.
    15.    endureth all things.
    16.    never faileth.

                                                ST. PAUL (_1 Cor._ xiii.)

    Ἀγάπη, brotherly love, “_Though I have all knowledge and all
    faith, though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and
    though I give my body to be burned, and have not ἀγάπη, it
    profiteth me nothing._” (1 Cor. xiii, 2).

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Eighth Century B.C., in the heart of a world of idolatrous
polytheists, the Hebrew prophets put forth a conception of religion
which appears to be as wonderful an inspiration of genius as the art of
Pheidias or the science of Aristotle. “And what doth the Lord require of
thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy
God?”[20]

                                        T. H. HUXLEY (_Essays_, IV, 161).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The best of all we do and are,
    Just God, forgive.

                           WORDSWORTH (_Thoughts near the Residence of
                           Burns_).

       *       *       *       *       *

LOST DAYS.

  The lost days of my life until to-day,
    What were they, could I see them on the street
  Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat
    Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
  Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?
    Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
    Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
  The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?

  I do not see them there; but after death
    God knows I know the faces I shall see,
  Each one a murdered self, with low last breath.
    “I am thyself,—what hast thou done to me?”
  “And I—and I—thyself,” (lo! each one saith,)
    “And thou thyself to all eternity!”

                           D. G. ROSSETTI.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Count that day lost, whose low descending sun
  Views from thy hand no worthy action done.

                           ANON.

       *       *       *       *       *

BIRTHDAYS.

  “Time is the stuff of life”—then spend not thy days while they last
  In dreams of an idle future, regrets for a vanished past;
  The tombstones lie thickly behind thee, but the stream still hurries
    thee on,
  New worlds of thought to be traversed, new fields to be fought and won.
  Let work be thy measure of life—then only the end is well—
  The birthdays we hail so blithely are strokes of the passing bell.

                           W. E. H. LECKY.

    “Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that
    is the stuff life is made of.” (Franklin, _Poor Richard’s
    Almanack_, 1757.)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Nothing is of greater value than a single day.

                           GOETHE (_Spruche im Prosa_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Tears for the passionate hearts I might have won,
    Tears for the age with which I might have striven,
  Tears for a hundred years of work undone,
    Crying like blood to Heaven.

                           WM. ALEXANDER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  My life, my beautiful life, all wasted;
    The gold days, the blue days, to darkness sunk;
  The bread was here, and I have not tasted:
    The wine was here, and I have not drunk.

                           RICHARD MIDDLETON.

    I do not find these lines in Middleton’s collected works, but I
    think they are his.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And the nightingale thought, “I have sung many songs,
    But never a one so gay,
  For he sings of what the world will be
    When the years have died away.”

                           TENNYSON (_The Poet’s Song_).

    This often-quoted verse does not give the highest view of
    poetry, as Tennyson’s own poems show. The poet sings of a
    Universe,

          Which moves with light and life informed,
      Actual, divine and true.

    He sings of Nature, Man, God, Immortality. (This note is from
    an early letter of Hodgson’s. His quotation is from _The
    Prelude_, Bk. XIV.)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Why are Time’s feet so swift and ours so slow!

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

Who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in all England, that passeth
all the rest in doing his office? It is the Devil. He is the most
diligent preacher of all other, he is never out of his diocese, ye shall
never find him unoccupied, ye shall never find him out of the way, call
for him when you will; he is ever at home, the diligentest preacher in
all the Realm; ye shall never find him idle, I warrant you.... He is no
lordly loiterer, but a busy ploughman, so that among all the pack of them
the Devil shall go for my money! Therefore, ye prelates, learn of the
Devil to be diligent in doing of your office. If you will not learn of
God nor good men: for shame learn of the Devil.

                        BISHOP LATIMER (_Sermon on the Ploughers_, 1549).

       *       *       *       *       *

APPRECIATION.

  To the sea-shell’s spiral round
  ’Tis your heart that brings the sound:
  The soft sea-murmurs, that you hear
  Within, are captured from your ear.

  You do poets and their song
  A grievous wrong,
  If your own soul does not bring
  To their high imagining
  As much beauty as they sing.

                           THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

In the present day it is not easy to find a well-meaning man among our
more earnest thinkers, who will not take upon himself to dispute the
whole system of redemption, because he cannot unravel the mystery of
the punishment of sin. But can he unravel the mystery of the punishment
of NO sin? Can he entirely account for all that happens to a cab-horse?
Has he ever looked fairly at the fate of one of those beasts as it is
dying—measured the work it has done, and the reward it has got—put his
hand upon the bloody wounds through which its bones are piercing, and
so looked up to Heaven with an entire understanding of Heaven’s ways
about the horse? Yet the horse is a fact—no dream—no revelation among
the myrtle trees by night; and the dust it dies upon, and the dogs
that eat it, are facts; and yonder happy person, whose the horse was,
till its knees were broken over the hurdles; who had an immortal soul
to begin with, and wealth and peace to help forward his immortality;
who has also devoted the powers of his soul, and body, and wealth, and
peace, to the spoiling of houses, the corruption of the innocent, and the
oppression of the poor; and has, at this actual moment of his prosperous
life, as many curses waiting round about him in calm shadow, with their
death-eyes fixed upon him, biding their time, as ever the poor cab-horse
had launched at him in meaningless blasphemies, when his failing feet
stumbled at the stones,—this happy person shall have no stripes,—shall
have only the horse’s fate of annihilation! Or, if other things are
indeed reserved for him, Heaven’s kindness or omnipotence is to be
doubted therefore!

We cannot reason of these things. But this I know—and this may by all men
be known—that no good or lovely thing exists in this world without its
correspondent darkness; and that the universe presents itself continually
to mankind under the stern aspect of warning, or of choice, the good and
the evil set on the right hand and the left.

                                  John Ruskin (_Modern Painters_, V, 19).

    It is one of the arguments in Plato’s _Phaedo_ that the soul
    must survive, since otherwise terribly wicked and cruel men
    would escape retribution; annihilation would be a good thing
    for them.

       *       *       *       *       *

  All creatures and all objects, in degree,
  Are friends and patrons of humanity.
  There are to whom the garden, grove and field
  Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield;
  Who would not lightly violate the grace
  The lowliest flower possesses in its place,
  Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive,
  Which nothing less than Infinite Power could give.

                           WORDSWORTH (_Humanity_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Every man is not a proper Champion for Truth, nor fit to take up the
Gauntlet in the cause of Verity: many, from the ignorance of these
Maximes, and an inconsiderate Zeal unto Truth, have too rashly charged
the troops of Error, and remain as Trophies unto the enemies of Truth. A
man may be in as just possession of Truth as of a City and yet be forced
to surrender; ’tis therefore far better to enjoy her with peace than to
hazzard her on a battle.

                                    SIR THOMAS BROWNE (_Religio Medici_).

       *       *       *       *       *

“Very well,” cried I, “that’s a good girl; I find you are perfectly
qualified for making converts, and so go help your mother to make a
gooseberry pye.”

                                    GOLDSMITH (_The Vicar of Wakefield_).

       *       *       *       *       *

              White-handed Hope,
  Thou hovering Angel girt with golden wings.

                           MILTON (_Comus_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Hope, folding her wings, looked backward and became Regret.

                                   GEORGE ELIOT (_Silas Marner_, ch. 15).

       *       *       *       *       *

By desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know what it
is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against
evil—widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness
narrower.

                                    GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_, ch. 39).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin!
  Here is custom come your way;
  Take my brute, and lead him in,
  Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay....

  I am old, but let me drink;
    Bring me spices, bring me wine;
  I remember, when I think,
    That my youth was half divine....

  Fill the cup, and fill the can:
    Have a rouse before the morn:
  Every moment dies a man,
    Every moment one is born....

  Chant me now some wicked stave,
    Till thy drooping courage rise,
  And the glow-worm of the grave
    Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes....

  Change, reverting to the years,
    When thy nerves could understand
  What there is in loving tears,
    And the warmth of hand in hand....

  Fill the can, and fill the cup:
    All the windy days of men
  Are but dust that rises up,
    And is lightly laid again.

                           TENNYSON (_The Vision of Sin_).

    _Change_—i.e., change the subject. Many verses are omitted for
    the sake of brevity.

       *       *       *       *       *

A world without a contingency or an agony could have no hero and no
saint, and enable no Son of Man to discover that he was a Son of God. But
for the suspended plot, that is folded in every life, history is a dead
chronicle of what was known before as well as after; art sinks into the
photograph of a moment, that hints at nothing else; and poetry breaks the
cords and throws the lyre away. There is no Epic of the certainties; and
no lyric without the surprise of sorrow and the sigh of fear. Whatever
touches and ennobles us in the lives and in the voices of the past is a
divine birth from human doubt and pain. Let then the shadows lie, and
the perspective of the light still deepen beyond our view; else, while
we walk together, our hearts will never burn within us as we go, and the
darkness as it falls, will deliver us into no hand that is Divine.

                             JAS. MARTINEAU (_Hours of Thought_, 1, 328).

    The subject of the sermon is the _uncertainties_ of life, the
    perils and catastrophies that cannot be foreseen or provided
    for, death, disease, and other ills which may fall upon us at
    any moment, the crises that arise in the history of men and
    nations. It is by reason of these that _character_ is formed.
    If everything happened by known rule, and could be predicted
    as surely as the movements of the stars, we should have no
    affections or emotions and would be mere creatures of habit.

    From a recent book of poems, _The Lily of Malud_, by J. C.
    Squire, I take the following musical verse. (“The Stronghold”
    is where pain, hate, and all unpleasant things are excluded and
    peace only reigns.)

          But O, if you find that castle,
          Draw back your foot from the gateway,
          Let not its peace invite you,
          Let not its offerings tempt you,
      For faded and decayed like a garment,
      Love to a dust will have fallen,
      And song and laughter will have gone with sorrow,
      And hope will have gone with pain;
      And of all the throbbing heart’s high courage
          Nothing will remain.

    Martineau not only did important work in philosophy, but he
    was also eminent as a moral teacher. Taking together his
    originality, sublimity of soul, and beauty of expression,
    the sermons in _Hours of Thought_ and other similar writings
    are the finest product of modern religious thought. They
    indeed stand among the best productions of our _literature_,
    and should be read even by those (if there are any such
    persons) who love literature and thought but are indifferent
    to religion. To illustrate this, I choose—almost at random—a
    passage where the thought itself has no interest outside
    religion (_Hours of Thought_, II. 334):—

    Worship is the free offering of ourselves to God; ever renewed,
    because ever imperfect. It expresses the consciousness that
    we are His by right, yet have not duly passed into His hand;
    that the soul has no true rest but in Him, yet has wandered in
    strange flights until her wing is tired. It is her effort to
    return home, the surrender again of her narrow self-will, her
    prayer to be merged in a life diviner than her own. It is at
    once the lowliest and loftiest attitude of her nature: we never
    hide ourselves in ravine so deep; yet overhead we never see the
    stars so clear and high. The sense of saddest estrangement, yet
    the sense also of eternal affinity between us and God meet and
    mingle in the act; breaking into the strains, now penitential
    and now jubilant, that, to the critic’s reason, may sound at
    variance but melt into harmony in the ear of a higher love.
    This twofold aspect devotion must ever have, pale with weeping,
    flushed with joy; deploring the past, trusting for the future;
    ashamed of what is, kindled by what is meant to be; shadow
    behind, and light before. Were we haunted by no presence of sin
    and want, we should only browse on the pasture of nature; were
    we stirred by no instinct of a holier kindred, we should not be
    drawn towards the life of God.

       *       *       *       *       *

GROWN UP.

  My son is straight and strong,
    Ready of lip and limb;
  ’Twas the dream of my whole life long
    To bear a son like him.

  He has griefs I cannot guess,
    He has joys I cannot know:
  I love him none the less—
    With a man it should be so.

  But where, where, where
    Is the child so dear to me,
  With the silken-golden hair
    Who sobbed upon my knee?

                           ELIZABETH WATERHOUSE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  For her alone the sea-breeze seemed to blow,
  For her in music did the white surf fall,
  For her alone the wheeling birds did call
  Over the shallows, and the sky for her
  Was set with white clouds far away and clear,
      E’en as her love, this strong and lovely one,
      Who held her hand, was but for her alone.

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED (_Perseus and Andromeda_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  He cometh not a king to reign;
    The world’s long hope is dim;
  The weary centuries watch in vain
    The clouds of heaven for Him.

  And not for sign in heaven above
    Or earth below they look,
  Who know with John His smile of love,
    With Peter His rebuke.

  In joy of inward peace, or sense
    Of sorrow over sin,
  He is His own best evidence
    His witness is within.

  The healing of His seamless dress,
    Is by our beds of pain;
  We touch Him in life’s throng and press,
    And we are whole again.

  O Lord and Master of us all!
    Whate’er our name or sign,
  We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,
    We test our lives by Thine....

  Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,
    What may Thy service be?—
  Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,
    But simply following Thee.

  We faintly hear, we dimly see,
    In differing phrase we pray;
  But, dim or clear, we own in Thee,
    The Light, the Truth, the Way!

                           JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (_Our Master_).

    Many verses are omitted from this poem for want of space, and
    the last two are transposed in order.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ’Tis weary watching wave by wave,
    And yet the Tide heaves onward,
  We climb, like Corals, grave by grave,
    That pave a pathway sunward;

  We are driven back, for our next fray
    A newer strength to borrow,
  And, where the Vanguard camps To-day,
    The Rear shall rest To-morrow.

                           GERALD MASSEY (_To-day and To-morrow_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Where gods are not, spectres rule.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where children are is a golden age.

       *       *       *       *       *

A people, like a child, is a separate educational problem.

                                                                 NOVALIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once in an age, God sends to some of us a friend who loves in us, _not_ a
false imagining, an unreal character—but, looking through all the rubbish
of our imperfections, loves in us the divine ideal of our nature—loves,
not the man that we are, but the angel that we may be. Such friends seem
inspired by a divine gift of prophecy—like the mother of St. Augustine,
who, in the midst of the wayward, reckless youth of her son, beheld him
in a vision, standing, clothed in white, a ministering priest at the
right hand of God—as he has stood for long ages since. Could a mysterious
foresight unveil to us this resurrection form of the friends with whom we
daily walk, compassed about with mortal infirmity, we should follow them
with faith and reverence through all the disguises of human faults and
weaknesses, “waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God.”

                         HARRIET BEECHER STOWE (_The Minister’s Wooing_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace
  To look through and behind this mask of me,
  (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly
  With their rains) and behold my soul’s true face,
  The dim and weary witness of life’s race,—
  Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
  Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,
  The patient angel waiting for a place
  In the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,
  Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,
  Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,
  Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—
  Nothing repels thee, ... Dearest, teach me so
  To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

                           E. B. BROWNING (_Sonnets from the Portuguese_).

    Here two fine thoughts of Mrs. Stowe and Mrs. Browning are
    inspired by the vision of Monica, the saintly mother of the
    great St. Augustine (354-430).

    This is a good illustration of the need of notes. Without a
    reference to St. Monica’s vision, I think that readers would be
    repelled, rather than attracted, by Mrs. Browning’s sonnet. It
    does not accord with one’s sense of modesty that a lady should
    say to her lover, “My unattractive person and incurable illness
    turned other men away, but you saw that, behind all this, I was
    ‘a patient _angel_ waiting for a place in the new Heavens.’” I
    myself could not understand how Mrs. Browning could write and
    her husband could publish this poem, until Hodgson, in one of
    his letters to me, referred to “the use made by Mrs. Browning
    of St. Monica’s vision in one of her sonnets.”

    The sonnet is not quoted as one of the finest of the series.

    I have placed Mrs. Stowe’s quotation first for an obvious
    reason; but _The Minister’s Wooing_ was published in 1859,
    while the sonnet appeared in 1847.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Death is the ocean of immortal rest; ...
  Where shines ’mid laughing waves a far-off isle for me

  Why fear? The light wind whitens all the brine,
    And throws fresh foam upon the marble shores;
    Or it may be that strong and strenuous oars
  Must force the shallop o’er the hyaline;
    But, welcome utter calm or bitter blast,—
  The voyage will be done, the island reached at last.

  ...

  Will it be thus when the strange sleep of Death
    Lifts from the brow, and lost eyes live again?
    Will morning dawn on the bewildered brain,
  To cool and heal? And shall I feel the breath
    Of freshening winds that travel from the sea,
  And meet thy loving, laughing eyes, Earine?

  ...

  O virgin world! O marvellous far days!
    No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitter
    Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter
  In happy eyes. Decay alone decays;
    A moment—death’s dull sleep is o’er and we
  Drink the immortal morning air, Earine.

                           MORTIMER COLLINS.

       *       *       *       *       *

We live in a world, where one fool makes many fools, but one wise man
only a few wise men.

                                                             LICHTENBERG.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O Lady! We receive but what we give,
  And in our life alone does Nature live:
  Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
    And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
  Than that inanimate cold world allowed
  To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
    Ah, from the soul itself must issue forth
  A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
    Enveloping the Earth—
  And from the soul itself must there be sent
    A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
  Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_Dejection_).

    See note to next quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

TELLING STORIES.

  A little child He took for sign
  To them that sought the way Divine.

  And once a flower sufficed to show
  The whole of that we need to know.

  Now here we lie, the child and I,
  And watch the clouds go floating by,

  Just telling stories turn by turn....
  Lord, which is teacher, which doth learn?

                           H. D. LOWRY.

    As Coleridge says in the last quotation, “We receive but what
    we give.” We bring with us the mind that sees, and the feelings
    and emotions with which we contemplate the universe; and, so
    far as use, habit, and other causes still the activity and
    lessen the receptivity of the mind and spirit, the world around
    us becomes less instinct with life and beauty.

    Putting aside the question whether, as Wordsworth says in his
    great Ode,

      Trailing clouds of glory do we come
      From God, who is our home,

    it will be familiar to anyone who has a sympathetic,
    appreciative sense that the _child’s_ outlook on the world
    around him is very different from our own. It has in him a more
    intense emotional reaction. He sees it with a freshness and
    wonder unfelt by us, because our sensibility is blunted and
    less vivid. And for the same reason that we trust our faculties
    in their prime rather than in their degeneration, so the fresh
    and clear emotional response of a child’s nature represents
    more _truthful_ appreciation than our own. Our sensibility is
    blunted, not only by use and habit, but also by the hardening
    and coarsening experiences of our lives; and also again by the
    development of intellect, which grows largely at the expense
    of the emotions. We lose the transparent soul of the child,
    his simple faith and trusting nature. To anyone who cannot
    _feel_ the difference between the child’s outlook and his own,
    this will convey no meaning—and words cannot assist him. It
    is as if one tried to describe love to a person who has never
    loved, or a religious experience to one who has never had such
    an experience, indeed, in both love and religious experience,
    there is the same child-like attitude of pure emotion; and
    hence Christ’s comparison of His true followers to “little
    children.” Poetry, music, love of nature, and the highest art
    produce in us at times the same indefinable feeling and give
    us back for evanescent periods the fresh, clear, emotional
    sensibility of a child.

    In Edward Fitzgerald’s _Euphranor_, at the point where
    Wordsworth’s ode is being discussed, the following passage is
    interesting:—

    “I have heard tell of another poet’s saying that he knew of
    no human outlook so solemn as that from an infant’s eyes;
    and how it was from those of his own he learned that those
    of the Divine Child in Raffaelle’s Sistine Madonna were not
    overcharged with expression, as he had previously thought they
    might be.”

    “Yes,” said I, “that was on the occasion, I think, of his
    having watched his child one morning _worshipping the sunbeam
    on the bedpost_—I suppose the worship of wonder.... If but
    the philosopher or poet could live in the child’s brain for a
    while!”

    (The poet referred to was Tennyson, see Memoir by his son, the
    baby in question, Vol. I., 357).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REVELATION

  An idle poet, here and there,
    Looks round him; but, for all the rest,
  The world, unfathomably fair,
    Is duller than a witling’s jest.

  Love wakes men, once a life-time each;
    They lift their heavy heads and look;
  And, lo, what one sweet page can teach
    They read with joy, then shut the book.

  And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,
    And most forget: but, either way,
  That, and the Child’s unheeded dream,
    Is all the light of all their day.

                           COVENTRY PATMORE (1823-1896).

       *       *       *       *       *

The normal process of life contains moments as bad as any of those which
insane melancholy is filled with. The lunatic’s visions of horror are
all drawn from the material of daily fact. Our civilization is founded
on the shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a lonely
spasm of helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you arrive
there yourself![21] To believe in the carnivorous reptiles of geologic
times is hard for our imagination—they seem too much like mere museum
specimens. Yet there is no tooth in any one of those museum-skulls that
did not daily, through long years of the foretime, hold fast to the
body struggling in despair of some fated living victim. Forms of horror
just as dreadful to their victims, if on a smaller spatial scale, fill
the world about us to-day. Here on our very hearths and in our gardens
the infernal cat plays with the panting mouse, or holds the hot bird
fluttering in her jaws. Crocodiles and rattlesnakes and pythons are at
this moment vessels of life as real as we are; their loathsome existence
fills every minute of every day that drags its length along, and whenever
they or other wild beasts clutch their living prey, the deadly horror
which an agitated melancholiac feels is the literally right reaction on
the situation.

                 WILLIAM JAMES (_The Varieties of Religious Experience_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Et in Arcadia ego.

(I too have been in Arcady.)

                                                                    ANON.

    Arcadia was a mountainous district in Greece which was taken
    to be the deal of pastoral simplicity and rural happiness—as
    in Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_ and other literature. It was
    famous for its musicians and a favourite haunt of Pan.

    The saying is best known from the fine landscape in the Louvre
    by N. Poussin (1594-1665). In part of the landscape is a tomb
    on which these words are written, and some young people are
    seen reading them. I learn, however, from _King’s Classical and
    Foreign Quotations_ that the words had been previously written
    on a picture by Bart. Schidone (1570-1615), where two young
    shepherds are looking at a skull.

    The meaning intended was that _death_ came even to the joyous
    shepherds of Arcady. But the quotation is now used in a more
    general sense. “I too had my golden days of youth and love and
    happiness.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It often happens that those are the best people, whose characters have
been most injured by slanderers; as we usually find that to be the
sweetest fruit which the birds have been pecking at.

                                                          ALEXANDER POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are many flowers of heavenly origin in this world; they do
not flourish in this climate but are properly heralds, clear-voiced
messengers of a better existence: Religion is one; Love is another.

                                                                 NOVALIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON DYING

  I always made an awkward bow.

                           KEATS.

       *       *       *       *       *

On n’a pas d’antécédent pour cela. Il faut improviser—c’est donc si
difficile. (Death admits of no rehearsal.)

                                                                   AMIEL.

       *       *       *       *       *

C’est le maître jour; c’est le jour juge de tous les autres. (It is the
master-day; the day that judges all the others.)

                                                               MONTAIGNE.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Will she return, my lady? Nay:
  Love’s feet, that once have learned to stray,
  Turn never to the olden way.

    Ah, heart of mine, where lingers she?
  By what live stream or saddened sea?
  What wild-flowered swath of sungilt lea

    Do her feet press, and are her days
  Sweet with new stress of love and praise,
  Or sad with echoes of old lays?

                           JOHN PAYNE (_Light o’ Love_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                    I search but cannot see
  What purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it tries
  Conclusions with, unless the fruit of victories
  Stay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its own
  For ever, by some mode whereby shall be made known
  The gain of every life.
  ...
  I say, I cannot think that gains—which will not be
  Except a special soul had gained them—that such gain
  Can ever be estranged, do aught but appertain
  Immortally, by right firm, indefeasible,
  To who performed the feat, through God’s grace and man’s will.

                           R. BROWNING (_Fifine at the Fair_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Nature, they say, doth dote
    And cannot make a man
    Save on some worn-out plan
  Repeating us by rote.

                           J. R. LOWELL (_Ode at Harvard Commemoration_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Die when I may, I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I
always plucked a thistle and planted a flower, where I thought a flower
would grow.

                                                         ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why describe our life-history as a state of waking rather than of sleep?
Why assume that sleep is the acquired, vigilance the normal condition?
It would not be hard to defend the opposite thesis. The newborn infant
might urge with cogency that his habitual state of slumber was primary,
as regards the individual, ancestral as regards the race; resembling
at least, far more closely than does our adult life, a primitive or
protozoic habit. “Mine,” he might say, “is a centrally stable state. It
would need only some change in external conditions (as the permanent
immersion in a nutritive fluid) to be safely and indefinitely maintained.
Your waking state, on the other hand, is centrally unstable. While you
talk and bustle around me you are living on your physiological capital,
and the mere prolongation of vigilance is torture and death.”

A paradox such as this forms no part of my argument; but it may remind us
that physiology at any rate hardly warrants us in speaking of our waking
state as if that alone represented our true selves, and every deviation
from it must be at best a mere interruption. Vigilance in reality is but
one of two co-ordinate phases of our personality, which we have acquired
or differentiated from each other during the stages of our long evolution.

                                F. W. H. MYERS (_Multiplex Personality_).

    This is from an article in _The Nineteenth Century_ for
    November, 1886, in which Myers urged the study of the
    trance-personalities that exhibit themselves under hypnotism.
    In his _Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death_
    his views on sleep may be very briefly summarized as follows:
    In the low forms of animal life there is an undifferentiated
    state, neither sleep nor waking, and this is also seen in our
    prenatal and earliest infantile life. In life generally the
    waking time can exist only for brief periods continuously.
    We cannot continue life without resort to the fuller
    vitality which sleep brings to us. Again, from the original
    undifferentiated state, our waking life has been developed
    by practical needs; the faculties required for our earthly
    life then become intensified, but by natural selection other
    faculties and sensations (including those which connect us with
    the spiritual world) are dropped out of our consciousness.
    The state of sleep cannot be regarded as the mere _absence of
    waking faculties_. In this state we have some faint glimmer of
    the other faculties and sensations in various forms—dreams,
    somnambulism, etc. Myers then develops the theory that the
    relations of hysteria and _genius_ to ordinary life correspond
    to those of somnambulism and hypnotic trance to sleep; and
    he arrives at the question of self-suggestion and hypnotism
    generally.

    Thus in sleep there are, _first_, certain physiological changes
    (including a greater control of the physical organism, as
    seen in the muscular powers of somnambulists); no length of
    time spent lying down awake in darkness and silence will give
    the recuperative effect that even a few moments of sleep will
    give. But also, _secondly_, we find existing in sleep the other
    faculties withdrawn from use in ordinary waking life. Thus
    during sleep we find memory revived, problems unexpectedly
    solved, poems like “Kubla Khan” composed, and many intense
    sensations and emotions experienced. Beyond these powers again
    Myers finds in sleep still higher powers which seem to connect
    us with the spiritual world. Hence the advisability of studying
    the phenomena of sleep and investigating it _experimentally_ by
    employing hypnotism.

    William James adopted much the same view as Myers (see, for
    example, _The Varieties of Religious Experience_). But much
    has been written of late about sub-consciousness and about
    dreams; and the tendency is rather to follow Martineau’s view
    of mental development—that the lower nervous centres are
    unconscious “habits” deposited from the old intelligence (see
    p. 304). Thus, for instance, memories of the past would be
    recorded in the sub-conscious, but there is nothing to be found
    there _of a higher character_ than in the conscious self. In
    sleep, the waking control being removed, our dreams reveal
    impulses and desires that have been inhibited or kept under
    in waking life, but do not reveal anything of the _higher_
    indicated by Myers. However, although it is too large a subject
    to discuss here, there is a vast deal yet to be explained,
    as, for example, inspiration, and what we used to call
    “unconscious cerebration,” and the amazing results of hypnotism
    and suggestion. Also who or what is it that _composes_ the
    dream-story, or who or what _makes us_ act or dream the story?

       *       *       *       *       *

Without good nature man is but a better kind of vermin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Extreme self-lovers will set a man’s house on fire, though it were but to
roast their eggs.

                                                                   BACON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
  Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
  And where the land she travels from? Away,
  Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

  On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face,
  Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace,
  Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch below
  The foaming wake far widening as we go.

  On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,
  How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!
  The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
  Exults to hear, and scorns to wish it past.

  Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
  Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
  And where the land she travels from? Away,
  Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

                           A. H. CLOUGH (_Songs in Absence_)

    The Ship is the ship of life. The first line is taken from
    Wordsworth’s sonnet, “Where lies the land to which yon Ship
    must go.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  The brooding East with awe beheld
  Her impious younger world.
  The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d,
  And on her head was hurled.

  The East bowed low before the blast
  In patient, deep disdain;
  She let the legions thunder past,
  And plunged in thought again.

                           M. ARNOLD (_Obermann Once More_)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Learn to win a lady’s faith
    Nobly as the thing is high,
  Bravely as for life and death,
    With a loyal gravity.

                           E. B. BROWNING (_The Lady’s Yes_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CORAL REEF

      In my dreams I dreamt
      Of a coral reef—
  Far away, far, far away,
  Where seas were lulled and calm,
    A place of silver sand.
      Truly a lovely land,
      Truly a lovely dream,
      Truly a peaceful scene—
  When, like a flash, through all the sea
      There shone a gleam.
  Rising like Venus from her wat’ry bed
  Rose a young mermaid with her hair unkempt,
  Beautiful hair! light as a golden leaf,
  Shining like Phoebus at the break of day.
    And she tossed and shook her lovely head,
  Shook off drops more precious, far, than pearls.
      To a coral rock she slowly went,
      Slowly floated like a graceful swan;
      Combed her hair that hung in yellow curls
        Till the evening shadows ’gan to fall;
  Then she gave one look round, that was all,
    Rose—and then, her figure curved, arms bent
    Above her head—a flash! and she was gone;
  And ripples in wide circles rise and fall,
  Spreading and spreading still, where she has been.

                           BETTY BRAY, January 1918. Aged 11.

    See Note on page 155.

       *       *       *       *       *

BENEATH MY WINDOW

    Beneath my window, roses red and white
    Nod like a host of flitting butterflies;
    But, faded by the day, one ev’ry night
    Shakes its soft petals to the ground, and dies.
  And that is why I see, when night doth pass,
  Tears in her sisters’ eyes, and on the grass.

                           BETTY BRAY, 1920. Aged 13.

       *       *       *       *       *

MUSIC

  Three wondrous things there are upon the earth,
  Three gentle spirits, that I love full well,
  Three glorious voices, which by far excel
  Even the silver-throated Philomel.

    For not in sound alone lies music’s worth,
  But rather in the feeling that it brings,
  Whether of joy, or peace, or dreaminess.

    And when I hear the rain soft, softly beat,
    Singing with low, sweet voice, and musical,
  I think of all the tears that ever fell
  In perfect happiness, or deep distress,
  And so it brings a pang, half sad, half sweet,
  Into my heart.

      Then, when the sparkling rill
    Dances between the sunny banks, and sings
    For very joy, all dimpling with delight,
  O all the happy laughter ’neath the sky
  Rings sweet and clear, and makes the world more bright.

      And, when the sun has sunk beneath the sea
      And vanished from the glory of the west,
      Leaving the peaceful eve to melt to night,—
  O then it is the loveliest voice of all,
  The gentle night-wind softly sings to me,
  Tender and low, as sweetest lullaby
  As ever hushed a weary head to rest:
  On, on it sings, until from drowsiness
  My tired eyes softly close, and all is still.

                           BETTY BRAY, 1920 Aged 13.

    See Note on page 155.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MARTYR

  When night fell softly on the silent city,
  A little white moth thro’ my window came
  Out of the darkness and the shadows dim,
  Seeking the brightness of my candle’s flame.
  Around and round the lighted wick he flew,
  Winging his wonderful and curious flight;
  And near, and still more near, the circles grew....
  And then—the flame no more was bright for him.
  Then all my heart went out in sudden pity
  To that small martyr, who had sought for light,
  And found—his death. O he was fair to die.
      I rose and snuffed the candle with a sigh.

                           BETTY BRAY, September 26, 1920. Aged 14 years.

    These fresh, clear, spontaneous verses have a special value.
    They bring us a promise of Spring—the message that we may still
    hope for a revival of English Poetry.

    Therefore, I have included them (in this third edition)
    although they are outside the general scope of my book.

    Miss Betty Bray has been writing since she was seven years of
    age. She writes with great facility and has already filled two
    manuscript books. Her verses are entirely her own, no defects
    being pointed out or other assistance or guidance given her.

    She was born on June 11th, 1906. She is the daughter of Mr.
    Denys de Saumarez Bray, C.S.I., and the grand-niece of my late
    partner the Hon. Sir John Bray, K.C.M.G., who was Premier of
    South Australia. Her grandfather was born in Adelaide.

       *       *       *       *       *

              Thus with the year
  Seasons return; but not to me returns
  Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
  Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,
  Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
  But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
  Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
  Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
  Presented with a universal blank
  Of nature’s works to me expung’d and ras’d,
  And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

                           MILTON (_Paradise Lost_).

    Milton refers to his blindness in this and other passages—as in
    the well known sonnet.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ATTAINMENT

  You love? That’s high as you shall go;
    For ’tis as true as Gospel text,
  Not noble then is never so,
    Either in this world or the next.

                           COVENTRY PATMORE (_The Angel in the House_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  For one fair Vision ever fled
    Down the waste waters day and night,
  And still we follow where she led,
    In hope to gain upon her flight.
  Her face was evermore unseen,
    And fixt upon the far sea-line;
  But each man murmured, “O my Queen,
    I follow till I make thee mine!”

  And now we lost her, now she gleamed
    Like Fancy made of golden air.
  Now nearer to the prow she seemed
    Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair,
  Now high on waves that idly burst
    Like Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea,
  And now, the bloodless point reversed,
    She bore the blade of Liberty.

                           TENNYSON (_The Voyage_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  King Stephen was a worthy peere,
    His breeches cost him but a crowne;
  He held them sixpence all too deare
    Therefore he called the taylor lowne,                           rascal
  He was a wight of high renowne
    And thouse but of a low degree,                               thou art
  It’s pride that putts the countrye downe,
    Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

                           PERCY’S _Reliques_.

    The poor man wants a new cloak, but his wife objects.

    The verse is sung by Iago (_Othello_, Act II., Sc. 3), the
    words being a little different.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOVE’S LAST MESSAGES

  Merry, merry little stream,
    Tell me, hast thou seen my dear?
  I left him with an azure dream,
    Calmly sleeping on his bier—
          But he has fled!

  “I passed him in his churchyard bed—
  A yew is sighing o’er his head,
  And grass-roots mingle with his hair.”

          What doth he there?
  O cruel, can he lie alone?
  Or in the arms of one more dear?
  Or hides he in that bower of stone,
          To cause, and kiss away my fear?

  “He doth not speak, he doth not moan—
  Blind, motionless, he lies alone;
  But, ere the grave-snake fleshed his sting,
  This one warm tear he bade me bring
          And lay it at thy feet
          Among the daisies sweet.”

  Moonlight whisperer, summer air,
    Songster of the groves above,
  Tell the maiden rose I wear
    Whether thou hast seen my love.

  “This night in heaven I saw him lie,
    Discontented with his bliss;
    And on my lips he left this kiss,
  For thee to taste and then to die.”

                           T. L. BEDDOES (1803-1849).

    Beddoes intended to destroy this poem, but it was published
    without his knowledge. This is one of the cases where artists
    have shown themselves incapable critics of their own work.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O Earth so full of dreary noises!
  O men with wailing in your voices!
  O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!
  O strife, O curse that o’er it fall!
  God strikes a silence through you all
      And giveth His beloved sleep.

                           E. B. BROWNING (_The Sleep_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Give all to love;
  Obey thy heart;
  Friends, kindred, days,
  Estate, good-fame,
  Plans, credit, and the Muse,—
  Nothing refuse
  ...
  Cling with life to the maid;
  But when the surprise,
  First vague shadow of surmise
  Flits across her bosom young
  Of a joy apart from thee,
  Free be she, fancy-free;
  Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem
  Nor the palest rose she flung
  From her summer diadem.

  Though thou loved her as thyself,
  As a self of purer clay,
  Though her parting dims the day,
  Stealing grace from all alive;
    Heartily know,
    When half-gods go
    The gods arrive.

                           R. W. EMERSON (_Give all to Love_).

       *       *       *       *       *

On Dreamthorp centuries have fallen, and have left no more trace than
have last winter’s snowflakes. This commonplace sequence and flowing
on of life is immeasurably affecting. That winter morning when Charles
lost his head in front of the banqueting-hall of his own palace, the
icicles hung from the eaves of the houses here, and the clown kicked the
snowballs from his clouted shoon, and thought but of his supper when,
at three o’clock, the red sun set in the purple mist.... Battles have
been fought, kings have died, history has transacted itself; but, all
unheeding and untouched, Dreamthorp has watched apples-trees redden,
and wheat ripen, and smoked its pipe, and quaffed its mug of beer, and
rejoiced over its newborn children, and with proper solemnity carried its
dead to the churchyard.

                                          ALEXANDER SMITH (_Dreamthorp_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                      O moon, tell me,
  Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
  Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
  Do they above love to be loved, and yet
  Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess?
  Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

                           SIR P. SIDNEY.

    “Do they call ungratefulness a virtue?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Quixotism, or Utopianism: that is another of the devil’s pet words. I
believe the quiet admission which we are all of us so ready to make,
that, because things have long been wrong, it is impossible they should
ever be right, is one of the most fatal sources of misery and crime from
which this world suffers. Whenever you hear a man dissuading you from
attempting to do well, on the ground that perfection is “Utopian,” beware
of that man. Cast the word out of your dictionary altogether.

                   JOHN RUSKIN (_Lectures on Architecture and Painting_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Two angels guide
  The path of man, both aged and yet young,
  As angels are, ripening through endless years.
  On one he leans: some call her Memory,
  And some Tradition; and her voice is sweet,
  With deep mysterious accord: the other,
  Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams
  A light divine and searching on the earth,
  Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields,
  Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew
  Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp
  Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked
  But for Tradition; we walk evermore
  To higher paths, by brightening Reason’s lamp.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_Spanish Gypsy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Coleridge, I have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance:
not one Christian: not one but undervalues Christianity—singly, what am I
to do? Wesley (have you read his life?) was he not an elevated character?
Wesley has said “Religion is not a solitary thing.” Alas! it necessarily
is so with me, or next to solitary.

   CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) (_Letter to S. T. Coleridge, Jan. 10, 1797_).

    Poor lovable Charles Lamb! When he wrote this he was only
    twenty-one years of age, he had already been himself confined
    in an asylum, and now his sister in a moment of madness had
    killed her mother. When afterwards he was allowed to take care
    of Mary, he had still to take her back to the asylum from time
    to time, as a fresh attack of mania began to manifest itself.
    The picture of the weeping brother and sister on their way to
    the asylum is dreadfully sad. The passage seems interesting
    because of Lamb’s reference to Wesley.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain:
    Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain:
  As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.

                           KEATS (_The Eve of St. Agnes_).

    Madeline is lying asleep in bed—but the last line could be used
    in quite another sense as prettily expressing _rejuvenation_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Beneath the moonlight and the snow
    Lies dead my latest year;
  The winter winds are wailing low
    Its dirges in my ear.

  I grieve not with the moaning wind
    As if a loss befell;
  Before me, even as behind,
    God is, and all is well!

                           J. G. WHITTIER (_My Birthday_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  If on my theme I rightly think,
  There are five reasons why men drink:—
  Good wine; a friend; or being dry;
  Or lest we should be by and by;
  Or—any other reason why.

                           HENRY ALDRICH (1647-1710).

    _Autres temps, autres moeurs!_ Aldrich was Dean of Christ
    Church, Oxford, when he wrote these lines.

       *       *       *       *       *

INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF CUPID

  Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître;
  Il l’est, le fut, ou le doit être.

  (Whatso’er thou art, thy master see!
  He was, or is, or is to be.)

                           VOLTAIRE.

       *       *       *       *       *

UP-HILL

  Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
    Yes, to the very end.
  Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
    From morn to night, my friend.

  But is there for the night a resting-place?
    A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
  May not the darkness hide it from my face?
    You cannot miss that inn.

  Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
    Those who have gone before.
  Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
    They will not keep you standing at that door.

  Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
    Of labour you shall find the sum[22]
  Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
    Yea, beds for all who come.

                           CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A pebble in the streamlet scant
    Has turned the course of many a river,
  A dewdrop in the baby plant
    Has warped the giant oak for ever.

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  But now he walks the streets,
  And he looks at all he meets
      Sad and wan,
  And he shakes’ his feeble head,
  That it seems as if he said,
      “They are gone.”

  The mossy marbles rest
  On the lips that he has prest
      In their bloom,
  And the names he loved to hear
  Have been carved for many a year
      On the tomb.

  My grandmamma has said—
  Poor old lady, she is dead
      Long ago,—
  That he had a Roman nose,
  And his cheek was like a rose
      In the snow.

  But now his nose is thin.
  And it rests upon his chin
      Like a staff.
  And a crook is in his back,
  And a melancholy crack
      In his laugh....

                           O. W. HOLMES (_The Last Leaf_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know!

                           JOHN KEATS (_Ode on a Grecian Urn_).

    Matthew Arnold says of this: “No, it is not all; but it is
    true, deeply true, and we have deep need to know it.... To see
    things in their beauty is to see things in their truth, and
    Keats knew it. ‘What the Imagination seizes on as Beauty must
    be Truth,’ he says in prose.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Were it not sadder, in the years to come,
    To feel the hand-clasp slacken for long use,
    The untuned heart-strings for long stress refuse
  To yield old harmonies, the songs grow dumb
    For weariness, and all the old spells lose
  The first enchantment? Yet this they must be:
  Love is but mortal, save in memory.

                           JOHN PAYNE (_A Farewell_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Aux coeurs blessés—l’ombre et le silence.

(For the wounded heart—shade and silence.)

                                       BALZAC (_Le Médecin de Campagne_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The huge mass of black crags that towered at the head of the gloomy
defile was exactly what one would picture as the enchanted castle of the
evil magician, within sight of which all vegetation withered, looking
from over the desolate valley of ruins to the barren shore strewed with
its sad wreckage, and the wild ocean beyond....

The land-crabs certainly looked their part of goblin guardians of the
approaches to the wicked magician’s fastness. They were fearful as the
firelight fell on their yellow cynical faces, fixed as that of the
sphinx, but fixed in a horrid grin. Those who have observed this foulest
species of crab will know my meaning. Smelling the fish we were cooking
they came down the mountains in thousands upon us. We threw them lumps of
fish, which they devoured with crab-like slowness, yet perseverance.

It is a ghastly sight, a land-crab at his dinner. A huge beast was
standing a yard from me; I gave him a portion of fish, and watched him.
He looked at me straight in the face with his outstarting eyes, and
proceeded with his two front claws to tear up his food, bringing bits
of it to his mouth with one claw, as with a fork. But all this while he
never looked at what he was doing; his face was fixed in one position,
staring at me. And when I looked around, lo! there were half a dozen
others all steadily feeding, but with immovable heads turned to me with
that fixed basilisk stare. It was indeed horrible, and the effect was
nightmarish in the extreme. While we slept that night they attacked us,
and would certainly have devoured us, had we not awoke; and did eat holes
in our clothes. One of us had to keep watch, so as to drive them from the
other two, otherwise we should have had no sleep.

Imagine a sailor cast alone on this coast, weary, yet unable to sleep a
moment on account of these ferocious creatures. After a few days of an
existence full of horror he would die raving mad, and then be consumed in
an hour by his foes. In all Dante’s Inferno there is no more horrible a
suggestion of punishment than this.

                             E. F. KNIGHT (_The Cruise of the “Falcon”_).

    The scene is in the Island of Trinidad, off the coast of Brazil.

       *       *       *       *       *

          ... Nor the end of love is sure,
  (Alas! how much less sure than anything!)
    Whether the little love-light shall endure
  In the clear eyes of her we loved in Spring.

  Or if the faint flowers of remembering
    Shall blow, we know not: only this we know,—
  Afar Death comes with silent steps and slow.

                           JOHN PAYNE (_Salvestra_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The stars of midnight shall be dear
  To her; and she shall lean her ear
  In many a secret place
  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
  And beauty born of murmuring sound
  Shall pass into her face.

                           W. WORDSWORTH (_Three Years She Grew_).

       *       *       *       *       *

As the art of life is learned, it will be found at last that all lovely
things are also necessary: the wild flower by the wayside, as well as the
tended corn; and the wild birds and creatures of the forest, as well as
the tended cattle: because man doth not live by bread alone, but also by
the desert manna; by every wondrous word and unknowable work of God.

                                                             JOHN RUSKIN.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Alas! the long gray years have vanquished me,
    The shadow of the inexorable days!
  I am grown sad and silent: for the sea
    Of Time has swallowed all my pleasant ways.
  I am grown weary of the years that flee
  And bring no light to set my bound hope free,
    No sun to fill the promise of old Mays.

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOVE

Cet égoisme à deux.

                                                                DE STAËL.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the torment of one, the felicity of two, the strife and enmity of
three.

                                                       WASHINGTON IRVING.

       *       *       *       *       *

I confess that I do not see why the very existence of an invisible
world may not in part depend on the personal response which any one of
us may make to the religious appeal. God himself, in short, may draw
vital strength and increase of very being from our fidelity. For my
own part, I do not know what the sweat and blood and tragedy of this
life mean, if they mean anything short of this. If this life be not a
real fight, in which something is eternally gained for the universe
by success, it is no better than a game of private theatricals from
which one may withdraw at will. But it _feels_ like a real fight,—as if
there were something really wild in the universe which we, with all our
idealities and faithfulnesses, are needed to redeem; and first of all
to redeem our own hearts from atheisms and fears. For such a half-wild,
half-saved universe our nature is adapted. The deepest thing in our
nature is this dumb region of the heart in which we dwell alone with our
willingnesses and unwillingnesses, our faiths and fears.... In these
depths of personality the sources of all our outer deeds and decisions
take their rise. Here is our deepest organ of communication with the
nature of things; and compared with these concrete movements of our soul
all abstract statements and scientific arguments—the veto, for example,
which the strict positivist pronounces upon our faith—sound to us like
mere chatterings of the teeth.

                                 WILLIAM JAMES (_Is Life Worth Living?_).

    (Mr. T. R. Glover in _The Jesus of History_ points out that
    when Christ said “Ye are they that have continued with me in my
    temptations” (Luke xxii, 26), He meant that the disciples had
    _helped Him_ by their fidelity.)

    The following is from Professor Hobhouse’s _Questions of
    War and Peace_, repeating what he had set out at length in
    his _Development and Purpose_ (I take the quotation from
    _The Spectator_ review, as the book is not yet procurable in
    Australia):

    “I think, therefore, that we must go back into ourselves for
    faith, and away from ourselves into the world for reason.
    The deeper we go into ourselves the more we throw off forms
    and find the assurance not only that the great things exist,
    but that they are the heart of our lives, and, since after
    all we are of one stock, they must be at the heart of your
    lives as well as mine. You say there are bad men and wars and
    cruelties and wrong, I say all these are the collision of
    undeveloped forms. What is the German suffering from but a
    great illusion that the State is something more than man, and
    that power is more than justice! Strip him of this and he is
    a man like yourself, pouring out his blood for the cause that
    he loves, and that you and I detest. Probe inwards, then, and
    you find the same spring of life everywhere and it is good.
    Look outwards, and you find, as you yourself admit the slow
    movement towards a harmony which just means that these impulses
    of primeval energy come, so to say, to understand one another.
    Every form they take as they grow will provoke conflict,
    perish, and be cast aside until the whole unites, and there
    you have the secret of your successive efforts and failures
    which yet leave something behind them. God is not the creator
    who made the world in six days, rested on the seventh and saw
    that it was good. He is growing in the actual evolution of the
    world.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  And since (man) cannot spend and use aright
    The little time here given him in trust.
  But wasteth it in weary undelight
    Of foolish toil and trouble, strife and lust.
  He naturally claimeth to inherit
  The everlasting Future, that his merit
    May have full scope; as surely is most just.

                           JAMES THOMSON (_The City of Dreadful Night_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The moving waters at their priest-like task
  Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores.

                           JOHN KEATS (_His Last Sonnet_, 1820).

       *       *       *       *       *

  With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
    And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;
  Love caught me in his silken net,
    And shut me in his golden cage.

  He loves to sit and hear me sing.
    Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
  Then stretches out my golden wing,
    And mocks my loss of liberty.

                           W. BLAKE (_Song_).

    This poem was written before Blake was _fourteen_ years of age.

       *       *       *       *       *

                      When the fight was done,
  When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
  Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
  Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
  Fresh as a bridegroom....
  He was perfumèd like a milliner;
  And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held
  A pouncet-box. And still he smiled and talked;
  And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
  He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
  To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
  Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

                           SHAKESPEARE (_1 Henry IV._, i. 3).

       *       *       *       *       *

  ... High-kilted perhaps, as once at Dundee I saw them,
  Petticoats up to the knees, or even, it might be, above them
  Matching their lily-white legs with the clothes that they trod in the
    wash-tub!
  ...
  ... In a blue cotton print tucked up over striped linsey-woolsey,
  Barefoot, barelegged he beheld her, with arms bare up to the elbows,
  Bending with fork in her hand in a garden uprooting potatoes!

                           A. H. CLOUGH (_The Bothie of Tober-na Vuolich_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  As I came through the desert thus it was,
  As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire
  Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire;
  The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath
  Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death;
  Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold
  Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold:
      But I strode on austere;
      No hope could have no fear.

                           JAMES THOMSON (_The City of Dreadful Night_).

    The five quotations above are from a series of word-pictures
    (see p. 85).

       *       *       *       *       *

SHE COMES AS COMES THE SUMMER NIGHT

  She comes as comes the summer night,
    Violet, perfumed, clad with stars,
  To heal the eyes hurt by the light
    Flung by Day’s brandish’d scimitars.
  The parted crimson of her lips
    Like sunset clouds that slowly die
  When twilight with cool finger-tips
    Unbraids her tresses in the sky.

  The melody of waterfalls
    Is in the music of her tongue,
  Low chanted in dim forest halls
    Ere Dawn’s loud bugle-call has rung.
  And as a bird with hovering wings
    Halts o’er her young one in the nest,
  Then droops to still his flutterings,
    She takes me to her fragrant breast.

  O star and bird at once thou art,
    And Night, with purple-petall’d charm,
  Shining and singing to my heart,
    And soothing with a dewy calm.
  Let Death assume this lovely guise,
    So darkly beautiful and sweet,
  And, gazing with those starry eyes,
    Lead far away my weary feet.

  And that strange sense of valleys fair
    With birds and rivers making song
  To lull the blossoms gleaming there,
    Be with me as I pass along.
  Ah! lovely sisters, Night and Death,
    And lovelier Woman—wondrous three,
  “Givers of Life,” my spirit saith,
    Unfolders of the mystery.

  Ah! only Love could teach me this,
    In memoried springtime long since flown;
  Red lips that trembled to my kiss,
    That sighed farewell, and left me lone.
  O Joy and Sorrow intertwined,—
    A kiss, a sigh, and blinding tears,—
  Yet ever after in the wind,
    The bird-like music of the spheres!

                           FRANK S. WILLIAMSON.

    This is from the author’s “Purple and Gold,” a book of poems
    published in Melbourne (Thomas C. Lothian, publisher).

       *       *       *       *       *

No indulgence of passion destroys the spiritual nature so much as
respectable selfishness.

                                        G. MACDONALD (_Robert Falconer_).

       *       *       *       *       *

WHEN LOVE MEETS LOVE

  When love meets love, breast urged to breast,
    God interposes,
  An unacknowledged guest,
    And leaves a little child among our roses.

  O, gentle hap!
  O, sacred lap!
  O, brooding dove!
  But when he grows
  Himself to be a rose,
  God takes him—Where is then our love?
  O, where is all our love?

       *       *       *       *       *

BETWEEN OUR FOLDING LIPS

  Between our folding lips
  God slips
  An embryon life, and goes;
  And this becomes your rose.
  We love, God makes: in our sweet mirth
  God spies occasion for a birth.
  _Then is it His, or is it ours?_
  I know not—He is fond of flowers.

                           T. E. BROWN.

    Compare the well-known lines by George MacDonald:

      Where did you come from, baby dear?
      Out of the everywhere into here....

      How did they all[23] just come to be you?
      God thought about me, and so I grew.

    The suggestion that we are the result of God’s thought appears
    elsewhere in MacDonald, as in _Robert Falconer_:

    If God were _thinking_ me—ah! But if He be only _dreaming_ me,
    I shall go mad.

    And in _The Marquis of Lossie_:

    I want to help you to grow as beautiful as God meant you to be
    when He thought of you first.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Some things are of that Nature as to make
  One’s fancy checkle, while his Heart doth ake.

                           JOHN BUNYAN.

    Checkle = chuckle.

       *       *       *       *       *

  My days are in the yellow leaf;
    The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
  The worm, the canker, and the grief
    Are mine alone!

                           LORD BYRON (_On my Thirty-sixth Year_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  ’Tis a very good world to live in,
  To spend, and to lend, and to give in;
  But to beg, or to borrow, or ask for our own
  ’Tis the very worst world that ever was known.

                           J. BROMFIELD.

    Often ascribed to the Earl of Rochester. See _Notes and
    Queries_ July 18, 1896.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Dead years have yet the fire of life
    In Memory’s holy urn;
  Her altars, heaped with frankincense
    Of bygone summers, burn;
  And, when in everlasting night
    We see yon sun decline,
  Deep in the soul his purple flames
    Eternally will shine.

                           ALBERT JOSEPH EDMUNDS (b. 1857) (_The Living
                           Past_).

    Mr. Edmunds, when this was written in 1880, was a young English
    poet and spiritualist, but has since settled in Philadelphia.
    He has written a number of works, the principal being _Buddhist
    and Christian Gospels now First Compared from the Originals_.

    In 1883 he was cataloguing a library at Sunderland, and came
    across books on the Alps, etc., by a Rev. Leslie Stephen.
    He wrote to the publishers to find out if they were by the
    same writer as the Leslie Stephen who had written on Ethics.
    Sir (then Mr.) Leslie Stephen had just been appointed Clark
    Lecturer at Cambridge. He replied to Edmunds, “I am one
    person,” adding that he had given up holy orders. Edmunds
    replied:

      To Mr. Leslie Stephen, Sir,
        Confound your personality;
      I did, and now must here, aver
        Belief was not reality.

      I hope my slip may be excused,
        And doom this time decided not,
      For, though the _persons_ I confused,
        Your _substance_ I divided not.

      Now thanks to you, my mind’s relieved
        From mystified plurality,
      For, in your courteous note received,
        You’ve unified _duality_.

      Your Alpine thoughts will elevate
        Old Cantab’s flat vicinity,
      And give her church another _state_
        By unifying _Trinity_!

      You’ve left, you say, the fold of strife,
        Where desperate _charges_ never end;
      Not handsome _living_, handsome _life_
        Henceforth will make you _reverend_.

      I’m Edmunds, Millfield, Sutherland,
        Where souls in sulphur barter, sir;
      But, please excuse an ending grand—
        My name to rhyme’s a Tartar, sir.

       *       *       *       *       *

SPIRITUALISM

  Only a rising billow,
    Only a deep sigh drawn
  By the great sea of chaos
    Before Creation’s dawn.

  Only a little princess
    Spelling the words of kings;
  Only the Godhead’s prattle
    In Sinai mutterings!

  The crowd mistakes and fears it,
    And Aaron has ignored,
  But Moses, far above them,
    Is talking with the Lord!

                           ALBERT JOSEPH EDMUNDS.

    See note to previous quotation. This poem was written in 1883.

    Although I preserved these verses, I may add that I had no
    interest whatever in spiritualism, permeated as it was with
    childishness and fraud. But, nevertheless, it (together with
    the so-called “Theosophy”) led to the happy result that the
    Society for Psychical Research was founded in 1882. Although
    spiritualism did good in this way, its unhappy associations
    do harm to the Society and hamper it in the important work it
    has carried on during the last thirty-eight years. Popular
    prejudice continues to associate it with the old spiritualism,
    and in consequence no proper attention is paid to its
    _intensely interesting_ and most valuable investigations.
    For example, there are, apart from Public Libraries and
    Universities, only six members or associates in the whole of
    Australia! And yet, besides important work in other directions,
    it must be admitted by any open-minded person that the evidence
    collected by the Society that the dead (by telepathy or
    otherwise) communicate with the living is unanswerable.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had catched a great cold, had he had no other clothes to wear than the
skin of a bear not yet killed.

                                                           THOMAS FULLER.

    This refers to the French proverb, “_Il ne faut pas vendre la
    peau de l’ours avant de l’avoir tué_,” or, as we say, “Do not
    count your chickens before they are hatched.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Habit dulls the senses and puts the critical faculty to sleep. The
fierceness and hardness of ancient manners is apparent to us, but the
ancients themselves were not shocked by sights which were familiar
to them. To us it is sickening to think of the gladiatorial show, of
the massacres common in Roman warfare, of the infanticide practised
by grave and respectable citizens, who did not merely condemn their
children to death, but often in practice, as they well knew, to what
was still worse—a life of prostitution and beggary. The Roman regarded
a gladiatorial show as we regard a hunt; the news of the slaughter of
two hundred thousand Helvetians by Cæsar or half a million Jews by Titus
excited in his mind a thrill of triumph; infanticide committed by a
friend appeared to him a prudent measure of household economy.

                                          SIR J. R. SEELEY (_Ecce Homo_).

    It is still more important to realize that the exposure of
    children was a recognized practice also among the Greeks, and
    that no one, not even Plato, their noblest philosopher, saw
    anything wrong in it. It is only by letting the mind dwell
    on such facts as these, until their significance is fully
    appreciated, that we can realize the width and depth of the
    great gulf that separates the Pagan and the Christian, the
    ancient and the modern world. Take this one fact only: imagine
    the Greek father looking at his helpless babe and coldly
    deciding that to rear it will be inconvenient,[24] or that
    there are already enough children to divide the inheritance,
    or that the child is sickly or deformed, or that its person
    offends his idea of beauty—and then consigning his own
    offspring to slavery, prostitution, or death! (The child would
    either die or be picked up to be reared for some such purpose.)
    Even in the very imperfect state of our own civilization, we at
    least have children’s hospitals and crèches, and are inflamed
    with righteous rage when even an _unknown_ baby is ill-treated.
    (We, indeed, go further, and have laws and societies for
    prevention of cruelty to _animals_.)

    The consideration of such a fact leads us also to inquire as
    to the relations of husband and wife, seeing that the woman
    would have at least the affection for her offspring that is
    common among the lower animals. We then find that the modern
    chivalrous idea of womanhood was unknown to the Greeks; the
    wife was not educated, and was considered an inferior being;
    she was married mainly in order to provide sons to carry out
    certain ritual observances necessary for the father’s welfare
    after death; she was kept in an almost Eastern seclusion (and
    therefore had to improve her pallid complexion by paint); she
    would associate mainly with the children and slaves. We also
    find that fidelity of the husband to the wife was neither
    required nor _esteemed_; and that there was little marital love
    or family life. (Plato in his model Republic would abolish both
    the latter, for there was to be promiscuity of women, and all
    children were to be brought up by the State.)

    Considering further this practice of exposing children, we
    realize that it indicates _the want of pity for the helpless
    and suffering_, which is seen among the lower animals (but
    with exceptions even among them). From this we may reasonably
    infer that the Greeks would show little humanity in treating
    other helpless or suffering people, the sick or distressed,
    dependents or slaves, conquered enemies or others in their
    power. (In this respect, however, they, as an intellectual
    people, would subject themselves to and be controlled by
    necessary _social_ laws and _practical_ considerations; and
    also, as a fact, they at times showed generosity to a valiant
    foe.) Again we can infer that, where even the spirit of mercy
    was so wanting, the gospel of _love_ could not possibly exist,
    and that the Greeks lived on a far lower _moral_ plane than
    ours. These questions are far too large to discuss in this
    book, and I must leave them to be dealt with elsewhere.

    But, even from this very small portion of the available
    evidence, we can arrive at three resulting facts: _First_,
    that when in translations from the Greek we find such words as
    “kindness,” “love,” “morality,” “purity,” “virtue,” “religion,”
    etc., they have for us a far larger and higher content than the
    Greek words in the original; _secondly_, that therefore, the
    reader must get incorrect impressions of Greek literature and
    thought; and, _thirdly_, that truly marvellous as the Greeks
    were in art and literature, the current conception of them as a
    noble-minded and refined people is erroneous.

    In referring to the Greeks, one needs to limit the people and
    period, and I am referring to the great age of the Attic or
    Athenian Greeks, say the Fifth Century, B.C. There would, of
    course, be gradations of character among them, and, no doubt,
    some would be kind-hearted, others would have affection for
    their wives, and so on. But this can only be assumption, for
    there is little in their literature to support it. This will
    be seen if the evidence adduced by Mr. Livingstone (“The Greek
    Genius,” pp. 117-122) is carefully and critically examined.
    (His references to Homer, who lived in a far distant age must
    be omitted.) Also the fact that Herodotus, in the course of his
    narrative, tells us that some men of another state had a moment
    of compassion for a baby whom they were about to slay, does not
    prove in the slightest degree that he was himself humane. The
    wording of Mr. Livingstone’s translation, p. 118, “It happened
    _by a divine chance_ that the baby smiled, etc.,” would appear
    to confirm this view of his; but the Greek words simply mean
    that a god by chance intervened. Knowing what we do of the
    Greek gods, that intervention would certainly not be actuated
    by any kindly feeling towards the infant—the object presumably
    was that the child should live to fulfil the destiny prophesied
    by the Delphic Oracle. (Herodotus was a typical Greek to whom
    the world was peopled with gods, and he sees them constantly
    interposing in human affairs.) As regards the exposure of
    children, the point is that _it was a recognized and common
    practice, duly sanctioned by law, and never condemned by any
    writer_. Indeed Plato and Aristotle definitely approve of it,
    and in Plato’s Ideal Republic the weakly and deformed children
    were to be killed by the State.

    As regards the current conception of the Greeks, Shelley in his
    “Preface to Hellas” describes them as “those glorious beings
    whom the imagination almost refuses to figure to itself as
    belonging to our kind.” Similar statements could be gathered
    from innumerable English and European writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PACE THAT KILLS

  The gallop of life was once exciting,
    Madly we dashed over pleasant plains,
  And the joy, like the joy of a brave man fighting,
    Poured in a flood through our eager veins,
  Hot youth is the time for the splendid ardour,
    That stamps and startles, that throbs and thrills
  And ever we pressed our horses harder,
    Galloping on at the pace that kills!

  So rapid the pace, so keen the pleasure,
    Scarcely we paused to glance aside,
  As we mocked the dullards, who watched at leisure
    The frantic race that we chose to ride.
  Yes, youth is the time when a master-passion,
    Or love or ambition, our nature fills;
  And each of us rode in a different fashion—
    All of us rode at the pace that kills!

  And vainly, O friends, ye strive to bind us;
    Flippantly, gaily, we answer you:—
  “Should _atra cura_[25] jump up behind us,
    Strong are our steeds and can carry two!”
  But we find the road, so smooth at morning,
    Rugged at night ’mid the lonely hills;
  And all too late we recall the warning
    Weary at last of the pace that kills....

  The gallop of life was just beginning;
    Strength we wasted in efforts vain;
  And now, when the prizes are worth the winning,
    We’ve scarcely the spirit to ride again!
  The spirit, forsooth! ’Tis our strength has failed us,
    And sadly we ask, as we count our ills,
  “What pitiful, pestilent folly ailed us?
    _Why_ did we ride at the pace that kills?”

                           W. J. PROWSE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cato said ‘he had rather people should inquire why he had not a statue
erected to his memory, than why he had.’

                                         PLUTARCH (_Political Precepts_).

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL.

  I stood one shining morning, where
  The last pines stand on Montanvert,
  Gazing on giant spires that grow
  From the great frozen gulfs below.

  How sheer they soared, how piercing rose
  Above the mists, beyond the snows!
  No thinnest veil of vapour hid
  Each sharp and airy pyramid.

  No breeze moaned there, nor cooing bird,
  Deep down the torrent raved, unheard,
  Only the cow-bells’ clang, subdued,
  Shook in the fields below the wood.

  The vision vast, the lone large sky,
  The kingly charm of mountains high,
  The boundless silence, woke in me
  Abstraction, reverence, reverie.

  Days dawned that felt as wide away
  As the far peaks of silvery grey,
  Life’s lost ideal, love’s last pain
  In those full moments throbbed again.

  And a much differing scene was born
  In my mind’s eye on that blue morn;
  No splintered snowy summits there
  Shot arrowy heights in crystal air:

  But a calm sunset slanted still
  O’er hoary crag and heath-flushed hill,
  And at their foot, by birchen brake
  Dimpled and smiled an English lake.

  I roamed where I had roamed before
  With heart elate in years of yore,
  Through the green glens by Rotha side,
  Which Arnold loved, where Wordsworth died.

  That flower of heaven, eve’s tender star,
  Trembled with light above Nab Scar;
  And from his towering throne aloft
  Fairfield poured purple shadows soft.

  The tapers twinkled through the trees
  From Rydal’s bower-bound cottages,
  And gentle was the river’s flow,
  Like love’s own quivering whisper low.

  One held my arm will walk no more
  On Loughrigg steeps by Rydall shore,
  And a sweet voice was speaking clear—
  Earth had no other sound so dear.

  Her words were, as we passed along,
  Of noble sons of truth and song—
  Of Arnold brave, and Wordsworth pure.
  And how their influences endure.

  “They have not left us—are not dead”
  (The earnest voice beside me said,)
  “For teacher strong and poet sage
  Are deeply working in the age.

  “For aught we know they now may brood
  O’er this enchanted solitude,
  With thought and feeling more intense
  Than we in the blind life of sense.”...

  Those tones are hushed, that light is cold,
  And we (but not the world) grow old;
  The joy, “the bloom of young desire,”
  The zest, the force, the strenuous fire,

  Enthusiasms bright, sublime,
  That heaven-like made that early time:—
  These all are gone: must faith go too?
  Is truth too lovely to be true?

  In nature dwells no kindling soul?
  Moves no vast life throughout the whole?
  Are not thought, knowledge, love’s sweet might,
  Shadows of substance infinite?

  Shall rippling river, bow of rain,
  Blue mountains, and the bluer main.
  Red dawn, gold sundown, pearly star
  Be fair, _nor something fairer far_?

  That awful hope, so deep, that swells
  At the keen clash of Easter bells
  Is _it_ a waning moon, that dies
  As morn-like lights of science rise?

  By all that yearns in art and song,
  By the vague dreams that make men strong,
  By memory’s penance, by the glow
  Of lifted mood poetic,—No!

  No! by the stately forms that stand
  Like angels in yon snowy land;
  No! by the stars that, pure and pale,
  Look down each night on Rydal-vale.

                           J. TRUMAN.

    Wordsworth lived at Rydal Mount. These verses were published in
    _Macmillan’s_, 1879.

    “_Nor something fairer far._” In Sir F. Younghusband’s
    _Kashmir_ (1911) there is another suggestion, supplementary to
    this: “There came upon me this thought, which doubtless has
    occurred to many another besides myself—why the scene should so
    influence me and yet make no impression on the men about me.
    Here were men with far keener eyesight than my own, and around
    me were animals with eyesight keener still.... Clearly it is
    not the eye, but the soul that sees. But then comes the still
    further reflection: what may there not be staring _me_ straight
    in the face which I am as blind to as the Kashmir stags are to
    the beauties amidst which they spend their entire lives? The
    whole panorama may be vibrating with beauties man has not yet
    the soul to see. Some already living, no doubt, see beauties
    that we ordinary men cannot appreciate. It is only a century
    ago that mountains were looked upon as hideous. And in the
    long centuries to come may we not develop a soul for beauties
    unthought of now? Undoubtedly we must. And often in reverie
    on the mountains I have tried to imagine what still further
    loveliness they may yet possess for men.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He that dies in an earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded in hot
blood, who for the time scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind,
fixed and bent upon somewhat that is good, doth best avert the dolours of
death.

                                                                   BACON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Underneath this stone doth lie
  As much beauty as could die;
  Which in life did harbour give
  To more virtue than doth live.

                           BEN JONSON (_Epigram_ CXXIV).

    As Dr. Johnson said; “In lapidary inscriptions a man is not
    upon oath.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“En Angleterre,” said a cynical Dutch diplomatist, “numéro deux va chez
numéro un, pour s’en glorifier auprès de numéro trois.”

(In England, Number Two goes to Number One’s house in order to boast
about it to Number Three.)

                                        LAURENCE OLIPHANT (_Piccadilly_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how—
    With this blue air, blue sea,
  This yellow sand, that grassy brow,
    All isolating me—

  Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart,
    My thoughts to thine draw near;
  But thou canst fill who mad’st my heart,
    Who gay’st me words must hear.

  Thou mad’st the hand with which I write,
    The eye that watches slow
  Through rosy gates that rosy light
    Across thy threshold go,

  Those waves that bend in golden spray,
    As if thy foot they bore:
  I think I know thee, Lord, to-day,
    Shall know thee evermore.

  I know thy father, thine and mine:
    Thou the great fact hast bared:
  Master, the mighty words are thine—
    Such I had never dared!

  Lord, thou hast much to make me yet—
    Thy father’s infant still:
  Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set,
    That I may grow thy will.

  My soul with truth clothe all about,
    And I shall question free:
  The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt,
    In that fear doubteth thee.

                           G. MACDONALD (_The Disciple_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Our ideas, like the children of our youth, often die before us, and our
minds represent to us those tombs to which we are fast approaching—where,
though the brass and marble may remain, the inscriptions are effaced by
time and the imagery moulders away.

                                                  JOHN LOCKE (1632-1704).

    What makes such a passage attractive is its use of poetic
    imagery; and yet Locke had no regard for poetry. See next
    quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

If these may be any reasons against children’s making Latin themes at
school, I have much more to say, and of more weight, against their making
verses—verses of any sort. For if he has no genius to Poetry, ’tis the
most unreasonable thing in the world to torment a child and waste his
time about that which can never succeed; and if he have a poetic vein,
’tis to me the strangest thing in the world that the father should desire
or suffer it to be cherished or improved. Methinks the parents should
labour to have it stifled and suppressed as much as may be; and I know
not what reason a father can have to wish his son a poet, who does not
desire to have him bid defiance to all other callings and business....
For it is very seldom seen that any one discovers mines of gold or silver
in Parnassus.... Poetry and Gaming usually go together.... If, therefore,
you would not have your son the fiddle to every jovial company, without
whom the Sparks could not relish their wine, nor know how to pass an
afternoon idly; if you would not have him to waste his time and estate to
divert others, and contemn the dirty acres left him by his ancestors, I
do not think you will very much care he should be a Poet.

     JOHN LOCKE (1632-1704) (_Some Thoughts Concerning Education_, 1693).

    Locke was writing during the dreary Dryden period, when poetry
    had so greatly degenerated since the brilliant Elizabethan
    epoch. He himself evidently had no interest in poetry. We
    know that he did not appreciate Milton (whose _Paradise Lost_
    appeared in 1667, when Locke was in his prime).

    Compare with the above quotation p. 357.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Weeping, we hold Him fast, who wept
    For us, we hold Him fast,
  And will not let Him go, except
    He bless us first or last.

                           CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

       *       *       *       *       *

INDWELLING.

  If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,
  Like to a shell dishabited,
  Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,
  And say, “This is not dead,”
  And fill thee with Himself instead:

  But thou art all replete with very _thou_.
  And hast such shrewd activity,
  That, when He comes, He says, “This is enow
  Unto itself—’Twere better let it be:
  It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.”

                           T. E. BROWN (1830-1897).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh! ever thus from childhood’s hour,
    I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;
  I never loved a tree or flower,
    But ’twas the first to fade away.
  I never nursed a dear gazelle
    To glad me with its soft black eye,
  But when it came to know me well,
    And love me, it was sure to die!

                           THOMAS MOORE (_Lalla Rookh_).

    As in other cases mentioned in the Preface, I find that these
    lines, so familiar in my day, appear to be unknown to younger
    men.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON BLACKSTONE’S COMMENTARIES.

In taking leave of our Author (Sir William Blackstone) I finish gladly
with this pleasing peroration: a scrutinizing judgment, perhaps, would
not be altogether satisfied with it; but the ear is soothed by it, and
the heart is warmed.

                 JEREMY BENTHAM (1748-1832) (_A Fragment of Government_).

    I think it worth while quoting from my notes this amusing piece
    of sarcasm aimed by a young man of twenty-eight at the most
    renowned legal writer of the time. _A Fragment of Government_
    (1776), the first of Bentham’s works, not only showed the utter
    folly of Blackstone’s praise of the English constitution, but
    also laid the foundation of political science. (The passage,
    which the quotation refers to, is in Sec. 2 of the Introduction
    to the _Commentaries_, “Thus far as to the right of the supreme
    power to make law ... public tranquillity.”)

    Not only was the English constitution a subject of eulogy in
    Bentham’s day, but also English law, then in a most barbarous
    state, was alleged to be the perfection of human reason!
    Through the efforts of this great and original thinker
    many dreadful abuses were removed, but it is a remarkable
    illustration of the blind strength of English conservatism that
    his wise counsel has not yet been followed in many exceedingly
    important directions.

    In the seventy-eighty period, with which this book mainly deals
    there was a strong agitation for law reform, which had some
    results.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the boast of Augustus, that he found Rome of brick and left it
of marble. But how much nobler will be our Sovereign’s boast when he
shall have it to say that he found law dear, and left it cheap; found
it a sealed book—left it a living letter; found it the patrimony of the
rich—left it the inheritance of the poor; found it the two-edged sword
of craft and oppression—left it the staff of honesty and the shield of
innocence!

                LORD BROUGHAM (1778-1868) (_Speech in Parliament_, 1828).

    It would indeed be a proud boast—but not one of these objects
    has yet been achieved.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Lord Ellenborough was trying one of the Government charges against
Horne Tooke, he found occasion to praise the impartial manner in which
justice is administered. “In England, Mr. Tooke, the law is open to all
men, rich or poor.” “Yes, my lord,” answered the prisoner, “and so is the
London Tavern.”

                                        HENRY S. LEIGH (_Jeux d’Esprit_).

    The same story is told in Rogers’ _Table Talk_, but a
    different judge is named. (Probably both are wrong, but it
    is immaterial.) The London Tavern was where Horne Tooke’s
    Constitutional Society met, and must have been often referred
    to during the trial; but of course the meaning simply is that
    the throne of justice cannot be approached with an empty purse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Revenons à nos moutons.

(Let us return to our sheep.)

                  (_La Farce de Maistre Pierre Patelin_, Anon. 15 Cent.).

    In the farce, a cloth merchant, who is suing his shepherd for
    stolen sheep, discovers also that the attorney on the other
    side is a man who had robbed him of some cloth. Dropping the
    charge against the shepherd, he begins accusing the lawyer
    of his offence; and, to recall him to the point, the judge
    impatiently interrupts him with _Sus revenons à nos moutons_,
    “Come, let us get back to our sheep.”

    Compare Martial VI, 19: “My suit has nothing to do with
    assault, or battery, or poisoning, but is about three goats,
    which, I complain, have been stolen by my neighbour. This the
    judge desires to have proved to him; but you, with swelling
    words and extravagant gestures, dilate on the Battle of Cannae,
    the Mithridatic war, and the perjuries of the insensate
    Carthaginians, the Syllae, the Marii, and the Mucii. It is
    time, Postumus, to say something about my three goats.”

    The reference to the French play I owe to _King’s Classical and
    Foreign Quotations_.

       *       *       *       *       *

(The wife of a poor man deserted him for another man, and he married
again. On being convicted for bigamy Mr. Justice Maule sentenced him as
follows:) Prisoner at the bar: You have been convicted of the offence
of bigamy, that is to say, of marrying a woman while you had a wife
still alive, though it is true she has deserted you and is living in
adultery with another man. You have, therefore, committed a crime against
the laws of your country, and you have also acted under a very serious
misapprehension of the course which you ought to have pursued. You
should have gone to the ecclesiastical court and there obtained against
your wife a decree _a mensa et thoro_. You should then have brought an
action in the courts of common law and recovered, as no doubt you would
have recovered, damages against your wife’s paramour. Armed with these
decrees, you should have approached the legislature and obtained an Act
of Parliament which would have rendered you free and legally competent to
marry the person whom you have taken on yourself to marry with no such
sanction. It is quite true that these proceedings would have cost you
many hundreds of pounds, whereas you probably have not as many pence.
_But the law knows no distinction between rich and poor._ The sentence
of the court upon you, therefore, is that you be imprisoned for one day,
which period has already been exceeded, as you have been in custody since
the commencement of the assizes.

                                             SIR W. H. MAULE (1788-1858).

    This fine piece of irony, well known to lawyers, materially
    helped to end the old bad state of the law of divorce. We need
    more men of the same stamp to draw attention to other abuses.

       *       *       *       *       *

Is this pleading causes, Cinna? Is this speaking eloquently to say nine
words in ten hours? Just now you asked with a loud voice for four more
clepsydrae.[26] What a long time you take to say nothing, Cinna!

                                                         MARTIAL VIII, 7.

    In Racine’s comedy, _Les Plaideurs_, Act III, Sc. III, a prolix
    advocate begins his speech by referring to the Creation of the
    world. “_Avocat, passons au déluge_” (Let us get along to the
    Deluge), says the judge. See also _The Merchant of Venice_, Act
    I, Sc. I:—

    Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing; more than any man
    in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in
    two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them;
    and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.

       *       *       *       *       *

“There’s nae place like hame,” quoth the de’il, when he found himself in
the Court o’ Session.

                                                        SCOTTISH PROVERB.

    I understand that the original wording was “‘Hame’s hamely,’
    quoth the de’il, etc.” Perhaps the only English Institution
    which the Hindu appreciates is that of English Law—_but not
    as a system of Justice_. To his acute mind it is a remarkably
    clever and most ingenious _gambling game_. It is said that two
    Hindus will even fabricate mutual complaints, the one against
    the other, to bring before the Courts—and that it is almost
    equivalent to a patent of nobility to have had a case taken to
    the Privy Council. The following incident actually happened to
    a friend of mine who was Resident in a Native State. Sitting
    in his judicial capacity he reproved a Hindu gentleman for
    his excessive litigiousness. The latter retorted that it was
    a case of the pot calling the kettle black; that he had seen
    the Resident put his rupees on the totalisator the day before;
    and the British race-course wasn’t a bit more of a gamble than
    the British Law Courts. For his part he preferred to have his
    flutter on the latter.

       *       *       *       *       *

BALDER’S RETURN TO EARTH[27]

    He sat down in a lonely land
      Of mountain, moor, and mere,
    And watch’d, with chin upon his hand,
      Dark maids that milk’d the deer.

    And while the sun set in the skies,
      And stars shone in the blue,
    They sang sweet songs, till Balder’s eyes
      Were sad with kindred dew.

    He passed along the hamlets dim
      With twilight’s breath of balm,
    And whatsoe’er was touch’d by him
      Grew beautiful and calm....

    He came unto a hut forlorn
      As evening shadows fell,
    And saw the man among the corn,
      The woman at the well.

    And entering the darken’d place,
      He found the cradled child;
    Stooping he lookt into its face,
      Until it woke and smiled!

    Then Balder passed into the night
      With soft and shining tread,
    The cataract called upon the height,
      The stars gleam’d overhead.

    He raised his eyes to those cold skies
      Which he had left behind,—
    And saw the banners of the gods
      Blown back upon the wind.

    He watched them as they came and fled,
      Then his divine eyes fell.
    “I love the green Earth best,” he said,
      “And I on Earth will dwell!” ...

  Then Balder said, “The Earth is fair, and fair
  Yea fairer than the stormy lives of gods,
  The lives of gentle dwellers on the Earth;
  For shapen are they in the likenesses
  Of goddesses and gods, and on their limbs
  Sunlight and moonlight mingle, and they lie
  Happy and calm in one another’s arms
  O’er-canopied with greenness; and their hands
  Have fashioned fire that springeth beautiful
  Straight as a silvern lily from the ground,
  Wondrously blowing; and they measure out
  Glad seasons by the pulses of the stars.”...

    And Balder bends above them, glory-crown’d.
    Marking them as they creep upon the ground.
    Busy as ants that toil without a sound,
      With only gods to mark.

    But list! O list! what is that cry of pain,
    Faint as the far-off murmur of the main?
    Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again!
      “Lo! Death makes all things dark!”

    Ay me, it is the earthborn souls that sigh,
    Coming and going underneath the sky;
    They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry—
      O Balder, bend, and hark!...

    (Oh, listen! listen!) “Blessed is the light,
    We love the golden day, the silvern night, ...

      “And yet though life is glad and love divine,
    This Shape we fear is here i’ the summer shine,—
    He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,
      And soon he leaves us stark.

    “He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep,
    He finds us as we sow and as we reap,
    He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—
      Ah, Death makes all things dark.”

    Bright Balder cried, “Curst be this thing
      Which will not let man rest,
    Slaying with swift and cruel sting
      The very babe at breast!

    “On man and beast, on flower and bird,
      He creepeth evermore;
    Unseen he haunts the Earth; unheard
      He crawls from door to door.

    “I will not pause in any land,
      Nor sleep beneath the skies,
    Till I have held him by the hand
      And gazed into his eyes!”...

  He sought him on the mountains bleak and bare
    And on the windy moors;
  He found his secret footprints everywhere,
    Yea, ev’n by human doors.

  All round the deerfold on the shrouded height
    The starlight glimmer’d clear;
  Therein sat Death, wrapt round with vapours white
    Touching the dove-eyed deer.

    And thither Balder silent-footed flew,
      But found the Phantom not;
    The rain-wash’d moon had risen cold and blue
      Above that lonely spot.

    Then as he stood and listen’d, gazing round
      In the pale silvern glow,
    He heard a wailing and a weeping sound
      From the wild huts below.

    He marked the sudden flashing of the lights
      He heard cry answering cry—
    And lo! he saw upon the silent heights
      A shadowy form pass by.

    Wan was the face, the eyeballs pale and wild,
      The robes like rain wind-blown,
    And as it fled it clasp’d a naked child
      Unto its cold breast-bone.

    And Balder clutch’d its robe with fingers weak
      To stay it as it flew—
    A breath of ice blew chill upon his cheek,
      Blinding his eyes of blue.

    ’Twas Death! ’twas gone!—All night the shepherds sped,
      Searching the hills in fear;
    At dawn they found their lost one lying dead
      Up by the lone black mere.

    ...

                           R. BUCHANAN (_Balder the Beautiful_).

    I retain this extract from Buchanan’s poem for the reason set
    out in the preface.

       *       *       *       *       *

  How many an acorn falls to die
    For one that makes a tree!
  How many a heart must pass me by
    For one that cleaves to me!

  How many a suppliant wave of sound
    Must still unheeded roll,
  For one low utterance that found
    An echo in my soul.

                           JOHN BANISTER TABB (b. 1845)

    I have “Compensation” as the title of these verses, but it must
    surely be incorrect. If a man passes through life unrecognised
    by kindred souls, it is the reverse of ‘compensation’ to him if
    he also fails to recognise other sympathetic natures.

    The author is, or was, an American Catholic priest.

       *       *       *       *       *

  What we gave, we have;
  What we spent, we had;
  What we left, we lost.

                           (_Epitaph on Earl of Devonshire_, about
                           1200 A.D.)

       *       *       *       *       *

ALL SUNG

  What shall I sing when all is sung
    And every tale is told,
  And in the world is nothing young
    That was not long since old?

  Why should I fret unwilling ears
    With old things sung anew
  While voices from the old dead year
    Still go on singing too?

  A dead man singing of his maid
    Makes all my rhymes in vain,
  Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,
    And mine shall sing again.

  Why should I strive thro’ weary moons
    To make my music true?
  Only the dead men know the tunes
    The live world dances to.

                           R. LE GALLIENNE.

    Mr. le Gallienne was not the first to complain that poetic
    subjects were exhausted. A recent _Spectator_ quotes the
    following from Choerilus, a Samian poet of the Fifth Century,
    B.C. (2,000 years before Shakespeare): “Happy was the follower
    of the muses in that time, when the field was still virgin
    soil. But now when all has been divided up and the arts have
    reached their limits, we are left behind in the race, and, look
    where’er we may, there is no room anywhere for a new-yoked
    chariot to make its way to the front.” (St. John Thackeray,
    _Anthologia Graeca_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Go out into the woods and valleys, when your heart is rather harassed
than bruised, and when you suffer from vexation more than grief. Then
the trees all hold out their arms to you to relieve you of the burthen
of your heavy thoughts; and the streams under the trees glance at you
as they run by, and will carry away your trouble along with the fallen
leaves; and the sweet-breathing air will draw it off together with the
silver multitudes of the dew. But let it be with anguish or remorse in
your heart that you go forth into Nature, and instead of your speaking
her language, you make her speak yours. Your distress is then infused
through all things and clothes all things, and Nature only echoes and
seems to authenticate your self-loathing or your hopelessness. Then you
find the device of your sorrow on the argent shield of the moon, and see
all the trees of the field weeping and wringing their hands with you,
while the hills, seated at your side in sackcloth, look down upon you
prostrate, and reprove you like the comforters of Job.

            ROBERT ALFRED VAUGHAN (1823-1857) (_Hours with the Mystics_).

    If this fine writer had lived, much might have been expected of
    him. He is one of the many instances of “the fatal thirty-fours
    and thirty-sevens.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  First man appeared in the class of inorganic things,
  Next he passed therefrom into that of plants,
  For years he lived as one of the plants,
  Remembering nought of his inorganic state so different;
  And, when he passed from the vegetive to the animal state,
  He had no remembrance of his state as a plant,
  Except the inclination he felt to the world of plants,
  Especially at the time of spring and sweet flowers;
  Like the inclination of infants towards their mothers,
  Which know not the cause of their inclination to the breast.
  Again, the great Creator, as you know,
  Drew man out of the animal into the human state.
  Thus man passed from one order of nature to another,
  Till he became wise and knowing and strong as he is now.
  Of his first souls he has now no remembrance,
  And he will be again changed from his present soul.[28]

                           MASNAIR (Bk. IV) of Jalal ad Din (13th century).

       *       *       *       *       *

The gases gather to the solid firmament; the chemic lump arrives at the
plant and grows; arrives at the quadruped and walks; arrives at the man
and thinks.

                                           EMERSON (_Uses of Great Men_).

       *       *       *       *       *

HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING

    From his shoulder Hiawatha
  Took the camera of rosewood,
  Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
  This he perched upon a tripod—
  Crouched beneath its dusky cover—
  Stretched his hand, enforcing silence—
  Said, “Be motionless, I beg you!”
  Mystic, awful was the process.
    All the family in order
  Sat before him for their pictures:
  Each in turn, as he was taken,
  Volunteered his own suggestions,
  His ingenious suggestions.
    First the Governor, the Father:
  He suggested velvet curtains
  Looped about a massy pillar;
  And the corner of a table,
  Of a rosewood dining-table.
  He would hold a scroll of something,
  Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
  He would keep his right-hand buried
  (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
  He would contemplate the distance
  With a look of pensive meaning,
  As of ducks that die in tempests.
    Grand, heroic was the notion:
  Yet the picture failed entirely:
  Failed, because he moved a little,
  Moved, because he couldn’t help it,
    Next, his better half took courage;
  _She_ would have her picture taken,
  She came dressed beyond description,
  Dressed in jewels and in satin
  Far too gorgeous for an empress.
  Gracefully she sat down sideways,
  With a simper scarcely human,
  Holding in her hand a bouquet
  Rather larger than a cabbage.
  All the while that she was sitting,
  Still the lady chattered, chattered,
  Like a monkey in the forest,
  “Am I sitting still?” she asked him
  “Is my face enough in profile?
  Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
  Will it come into the picture?”
  And the picture failed completely.
    Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab
  He suggested curves of beauty,
  Curves pervading all his figure,
  Which the eye might follow onward,
  Till they centered in the breast-pin,
  Centered in the golden breast-pin.
  He had learnt it all from Ruskin
  And perhaps he had not fully
  Understood his author’s meaning;
  But, whatever was the reason,
  All was fruitless, as the picture
  Ended in an utter failure.
    Next to him the eldest daughter:
  She suggested very little,
  Only asked if he would take her
  With her look of “passive beauty.”
    Her idea of passive beauty
  Was a squinting of the left-eye,
  Was a drooping of the right-eye,
  Was a smile that went up sideways
  To the corner of the nostrils.
    Hiawatha, when she asked him,
  Took no notice of the question,
  Looked as if he hadn’t heard it;
  But, when pointedly appealed to,
  Smiled in his peculiar manner,
  Coughed and said it “didn’t matter,”
  Bit his lip and changed the subject.
    Nor in this was he mistaken,
  As the picture failed completely.
    So in turn the other sisters.
    Last, the youngest son was taken:
  Very rough and thick his hair was,
  Very round and red his face was,
  Very dusty was his jacket,
  Very fidgety his manner.
  And his overbearing sisters
  Called him names he disapproved of:
  Called him Johnny, “Daddy’s Darling,”
  Called him Jacky, “Scrubby School-boy.”
  And, so awful was the picture,
  In comparison the others
  Seemed, to his bewildered fancy,
  To have partially succeeded.
    Finally my Hiawatha
  Tumbled all the tribe together,
  (“Grouped” is not the right expression).
  And, as happy chance would have it,
  Did at last obtain a picture
  Where the faces all succeeded:
  Each came out a perfect likeness.
    Then they joined and all abused it,
  Unrestrainedly abused it,
  As “the worst and ugliest picture
  They could possibly have dreamed of.
  Giving one such strange expressions—
  Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
  Really any one would take us
  (Any one that did not know us)
  For the most unpleasant people!”
  (Hiawatha seemed to think so,
  Seemed to think it not unlikely).
  All together rang their voices,
  Angry, loud, discordant voices,
  As of dogs that howl in concert,
  As of cats that wail in chorus.
    But my Hiawatha’s patience,
  His politeness and his patience,
  Unaccountably had vanished,
  And he left that happy party.
  Neither did he leave them slowly,
  With the calm deliberation,
  The intense deliberation
  Of a photographic artist:
  But he left them in a hurry,
  Left them in a mighty hurry,
  Stating that he would not stand it,
  Stating in emphatic language
  What he’d be before he’d stand it.
  Thus departed Hiawatha.

                           LEWIS CARROLL (C. L. Dodgson) 1832-1898.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a man’s death
hallows him anew to us; as if life were not sacred too,—as if it were
comparatively a light thing to fail in love and reverence to the brother
who has to climb the whole toilsome steep with us, and all our tears and
tenderness were due to the one who is spared that hard journey.

                                     GEORGE ELIOT (_Janet’s Repentance_).

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been said by Schiller, in his letters on aesthetic culture, that
the sense of beauty never farthered the performance of a single duty.

Although this gross and inconceivable falsity will hardly be accepted
by any one in so many terms, seeing that there are few so utterly lost
but that they receive, and know that they receive, at certain moments,
strength of some kind, or rebuke from the appealings of outward things;
and that it is not possible for a Christian man to walk across so much
as a rood of the natural earth, with mind unagitated and rightly poised,
without receiving strength and hope from stone, flower, leaf or sound,
nor without a sense of a dew falling upon him out of the sky; though I
say this falsity is not wholly and in terms admitted, yet it seems to
be partly and practically so in much of the doing and teaching even of
holy men, who in the recommending of the love of God to us, refer but
seldom to those things in which it is most abundantly and immediately
shown; though they insist much on his giving of bread, and raiment, and
health (which he gives to all inferior creatures), they require us not
to thank him for that glory of his works which he has permitted us alone
to perceive: they tell us often to meditate in the closet, but they send
us not, like Isaac, into the fields at even; they dwell on the duty of
self-denial, but they exhibit not the _duty of delight_.[29]

                             JOHN RUSKIN (_Modern Painters_, III, I, XV).

       *       *       *       *       *

            Not on the vulgar mass
            Called “work” must sentence pass,
  Things done, that took the eye and had the price;
            O’er which, from level stand,
            The low world laid its hand,
  Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

            But all, the world’s coarse thumb
            And finger failed to plumb,
  So passed in making up the main account;
            All instincts immature,
            All purposes unsure,
  That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man’s amount:

            Thoughts hardly to be packed
            Into a narrow act,
  Fancies that broke through language and escaped;
            All, I could never be,
            All, men ignored in me,
  This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped,

            So, take and use thy work:
            Amend what flaws may lurk,
  What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
            My times be in Thy hand!
            Perfect the cup as planned!
  Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same.

                           ROBERT BROWNING (_Rabbi ben Ezra_).

    “All (that) I could never be, All (that) man ignored in me.”
    All that the world could not know, a man’s thoughts, desires,
    and intentions, all that he wished or tried to be or do,
    although unknown to his fellows, have their value in God’s
    eyes. Man is the Cup, whose shape (i.e., character) has been
    formed by the wheel of the great Potter, God. See further as to
    this Eastern metaphor.

    The late Mrs. A. W. Verrall, widow of Doctor Verrall and
    herself a brilliant scholar, pointed out in the _Proceedings_
    of the Society for Psychical Research, June, 1911, a probable
    connection between “Rabbi ben Ezra,” and “Omar Khayyam,” and
    I do not think that her interesting views have been published
    elsewhere.

    Both poems centre round the idea of man as a Cup, but treat the
    metaphor from very different standpoints. Omar’s cup (quoting
    from the first edition) is to be filled with “Life’s Liquor”
    (ii), with “Wine! _Red_ Wine!” (vi), with what “clears To-Day
    of past regrets” (xx); the object is to drown the memory of the
    fact that “without asking” we are “hurried hither” and “hurried
    hence” (xxx); the “Ruby Vintage” is to be drunk “with old
    Khayyam,” and “when the Angel with his darker Draught draws up”
    to us we are to take that draught without shrinking (xlviii).
    On the other hand Rabbi ben Ezra’s Cup is to be used by the
    great Potter. We are told to look “not down but up! to uses of
    a cup” (30). The Rabbi asks “God who mouldest men ... to take
    and use His work” (32) and the ultimate purpose of the Cup,
    when it has been made “perfect as planned,” is to slake the
    thirst of the Master.

    The comparison of man to the Clay of the Potter in both poems
    is not sufficient in itself to show any connection between
    them. Such a comparison is found, as Fitzgerald reminds us, “in
    the Literature of the World from the Hebrew Prophets to the
    present time”[30]; and it is as appropriately employed by the
    Hebrew as by the Persian thinker. But Mrs. Verrall has other
    grounds:

    The little pamphlet in its brown wrapper containing the
    _Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_ was first published by Edward
    Fitzgerald in 1859, and, as is well known, attracted so little
    attention that, although there were only 250 copies, it found
    its way into the two-penny boxes of the book-sellers, (It now
    sells for about £50!) But, nevertheless, the poem was eagerly
    read and enthusiastically praised by a small group, among whom
    were Swinburne and Rossetti. In 1861 Robert Browning came to
    live in London, and often saw Rossetti, who was his friend.
    It is, therefore, very improbable that he did not learn of the
    poem, which had so impressed Rossetti. In 1864 “Rabbi ben Ezra”
    was published in the volume called _Dramatis Personae_.

    Again, there is intrinsic evidence that Browning intended a
    direct refutation of Omar’s theory of life. Compare verses 26
    and 27 of “Rabbi ben Ezra” with verses xxxvi and xxxvii of
    “Omar Khayyam” (first edition).

    Omar says that he “watched the Potter thumping his wet clay,”
    and, thereupon advises:

      Ah, fill the Cup;—what boots it to repeat
      How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
        Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday,
      Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!

    Rabbi ben Ezra says:

        ... Note that Potter’s wheel.
      That metaphor!

    and proceeds:

            Thou, to whom fools propound,
            When the wine makes its round,
      “Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize To-day!”

            Fool! all that is, at all,
            Lasts ever, past recall;
      Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.

    Although the “carpe diem” (“seize to-day”) theory of life is no
    doubt common to all literatures, the cumulative effect of Mrs.
    Verrall’s argument is strong, although not conclusive.

    As regards the above verses, compare the next quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

  From Thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, Thy dread Sabaoth:
  _I_ will?—the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth
  To look that, even that, in the face too? Why is it I dare
  Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair?
  This:—’tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do!

                           R. BROWNING (_Saul_).

    _Sabaoth_, armies, hosts. “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of
    Sabaoth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Let the thick curtain fall;
  I better know than all
  How little I have gained.
  How vast the unattained.

  Not by the page word-painted
  Let life be banned or sainted;
  Deeper than written scroll
  The colours of the soul.

  Sweeter than any sung
  My songs that found no tongue;
  Nobler than any fact
  My wish that failed of act.

                           J. G. WHITTIER (_My Triumph_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Between the great things that we _cannot_ do, and the small things we
_will_ not do, the danger is that we shall do nothing.

                                                ADOLPH MONOD (1802-1856).

       *       *       *       *       *

Reputation is what men and women think of us; Character is what God and
the angels know of us.

                                                            THOMAS PAINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love is the Amen of the Universe.

                                                                 NOVALIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

He (Dr. Johnson) would not allow Scotland to derive any credit from Lord
Mansfield, for he was educated in England. “Much,” said he, “may be made
of a Scotchman, if he be caught young.”

                                             BOSWELL (_Life of Johnson_).

       *       *       *       *       *

(A Mr. Strahan, a Scotchman, asked Dr. Johnson what he thought of
Scotland) “That it is a very vile country to be sure, Sir,” returned for
answer Dr. Johnson. “Well, Sir!” replied the other, somewhat mortified,
“God made it.” “Certainly he did,” answered Mr. Johnson again, “but we
must always remember that _he made it for Scotchmen_.”

                                             MRS. PIOZZI (_Johnsoniana_).

    These are the two best of Johnson’s chaffing jibes against
    Scotchmen. The neatness of the latter is, to my mind, spoilt by
    the words at the end, which I have omitted: “and—comparisons
    are odious, Mr. Strahan,—but God made hell.” The following
    may also be quoted as showing both Johnson and that clever
    charlatan, Wilkes, quizzing Boswell (year 1781):

    _Wilkes_: “Pray, Boswell, how much may be got in a year by an
    advocate at the Scotch bar?”

    _Boswell_: “I believe two thousand pounds.”

    _Wilkes_: “How can it be possible to spend that money in
    Scotland?”

    _Johnson_: “Why, Sir, the money may be spent in _England_;
    but there is a harder question. If one man in Scotland gets
    possession of two thousand pounds, what remains for all the
    rest of the nation?”

    Many Scotchmen undoubtedly enjoy chaff against themselves and
    their country, and I think this was so with Boswell. It is a
    phase of social psychology that needs explaining.

    In these jokes Johnson was, consciously or not, influenced by
    the fine Royalist poet, John Cleveland (1613-1658); but the
    latter was very much in earnest. He detested the Scotch for
    fighting against Charles I. His references to Scotland in _The
    Rebel Scot_ are wonderfully clever:—

      A land that brings in question and suspense
      God’s omnipresence.

    And again:—

      Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom;
      Not forced him wander, but confined him home!

       *       *       *       *       *

God is present by His essence; which, because it is infinite, cannot
be contained within the limits of any place; and because He is of an
essential purity and spiritual nature, He cannot be undervalued by being
supposed present in the places of unnatural uncleanness: because, as the
sun, reflecting upon the mud of strands and shores, is unpolluted in its
beams, so is God not dishonoured when we suppose Him in every one of His
creatures, and in every part of every one of them.

                            JEREMY TAYLOR (_Holy Living_, Ch. 1, Sec. 3).

    There is an old Scottish proverb, “The sun is no waur for
    shining on the midden.”

       *       *       *       *       *

I dare say Alexander the Great was somewhat staggered in his plans of
conquest by Parmenio’s way of putting things. “After you have conquered
Persia what will you do?” “Then I shall conquer India.” “After you have
conquered India, what will you do?” “Conquer Scythia.” “And after you
have conquered Scythia, what will you do?” “Sit down and rest.” “Well,”
said Parmenio to the conqueror, “why not sit down and rest now?”

                   A. K. H. BOYD (_The Recreations of a Country Parson_).

    I include this because it is a good short paraphrase
    of the actual story of Pyrrhus and Cineas (_Plutarch’s
    Lives_—“_Pyrrhus_”) and because of the curious absurdity of
    attributing such philosophic advice to the warrior, Parmenio.
    This general was the only one of Alexander’s old advisers who
    urged him to invade Asia! (_Plutarch’s Lives_—“_Alexander_”).

       *       *       *       *       *

Sorrow and care and anxiety may quite well live in Elizabethan cottages,
grown over with honeysuckle and jasmine; and very sad eyes may look forth
from windows around which roses twine.

                   A. K. H. BOYD (_The Recreations of a Country Parson_).

    This book had a great vogue, but not sufficient merit to
    preserve it from oblivion.

       *       *       *       *       *

CANADIAN BOAT-SONG

_From the Gaelic._

  Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
    Sing long ago the song of other shores—
  Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
    All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:

  CHORUS.

  _Fair these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand;_
  _But we are exiles from our father’s land._

  From the lone sheiling of the misty island
    Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas—
  Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
    And we in dreams behold the Hebrides:
  _Fair these broad meads, etc._

  We ne’er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
    Where ’tween the dark hills creeps the small clear stream,
  In arms around the patriarch banner rally,
    Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam:
  _Fair these broad meads, etc._

  When the bold kindred, in the time long vanish’d,
    Conquered the soil and fortified the keep,—
  No seer foretold the children would be banish’d,
    That a degenerate Lord might boast his sheep;
  _Fair these broad meads, etc._

  Come foreign rage—let Discord burst in slaughter!
    O then for clansmen true, and stern claymore—
  The hearts that would have given their blood like water,
    Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar.
  _Fair these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand;_
  _But we are exiles from our fathers’ land._

    The authorship of these verses is uncertain, but it probably
    lies between John Galt, author of _Annals of the Parish_, and
    Lockhart, son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott. The verses were
    quoted by Professor Wilson (Christopher North) in his _Noctes
    Ambrosianae_ in _Blackwood_, Sept., 1829, but, because Wilson
    was not the author, they are not reproduced in his collected
    works (_Blackwood_, 1855).

    _A degenerate Lord_, &c. This refers to the eviction of the
    Highland crofters and cottars. In 1829 the Duke of Hamilton had
    just cleared the population out of the Isle of Arran.

    _Sheiling_ or _Shealing_, a hut used by shepherds, fishermen,
    or others for shelter when at work at a distance from home.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
  Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

                           TENNYSON (_Locksley Hall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  If thou wouldst have high God thy soul assure
  That she herself shall as herself endure,
  Shall in no alien semblance, thine and wise,
  Fulfil her and be young in Paradise,
  One way I know; forget, forswear, disdain
  Thine own best hopes, thine utmost loss and gain,
  Till when at last thou scarce rememberest now
  If on the earth be such a man as thou,
  Nor hast one thought of self-surrender,—no,
  For self is none remaining to forego,—
  If ever, then shall strong persuasion fall
  That in thy giving thou hast gained thine all,
  Given the poor present, gained the boundless scope,
  And kept thee virgin for the further hope....
  When all base thoughts like frighted harpies flown
  In her own beauty leave the soul alone;
  When Love,—not rosy-flushed as he began,
  But Love, still Love, the prisoned God in man,—
  Shows his face glorious, shakes his banner free,
  Cries like a captain for Eternity:—
  O halcyon air across the storms of youth,
  O trust him, he is true, he is one with Truth!
  Nay, is he Christ? I know not; no man knows
  The right name of the heavenly Anterôs,—
  But here is God, whatever God may be,
  And whomsoe’er we worship, this is He.

                           F. W. MYERS (_The Implicit Promise of
                           Immortality_).

    Anterôs is the god of mutual love, who punishes those who do
    not return the love of others, as otherwise his brother Erôs,
    god of love, will be unhappy.

    The fine poem from which this is quoted represents one of the
    phases of Myers’ experience. It was published in 1882, but
    written about ten years before. He had then lost his faith in
    Christianity, but believed in a future life on grounds based
    partly upon philosophy and partly on “vision.” He had those
    moments of exaltation when, as he says:

      The open secret flashes on the brain,
      As if one almost guessed it, almost knew
      Whence we have sailed and voyage whereunto.

    For entrance into the future life, Love and complete
    Self-surrender are the best equipment for the soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

  But all through life I see a Cross,
    Where sons of God yield up their breath:
  There is no gain except by loss,
    There is no life except by death,
    There is no vision but by Faith.
  Nor glory but by bearing shame,
  Nor Justice but by taking blame;
    And that Eternal Passion saith,
  “Be emptied of glory and right and name.”

                           W. C. SMITH (_Olrig Grange_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Life is short, and we have not too much time for gladdening the lives of
those who are travelling the dark road with us. Oh, be swift to love,
make haste to be kind.

                                                       AMIEL’S _Journal_.

       *       *       *       *       *

SELF-SACRIFICE

  What though thine arm hath conquered in the fight,—
    What though the vanquished yield unto thy sway,
    Or riches garnered pave thy golden way,—
  Not therefore hast thou gained the sovran height
  Of man’s nobility! No halo’s light
    From these shall round thee shed its sacred ray;
    If these be all thy joy,—then dark thy day,
  And darker still thy swift approaching night!

  But if in thee more truly than in others
    Hath dwelt Love’s charity;—if by thine aid
    Others have passed above thee, and if thou,
  Though victor, yieldest victory to thy brothers,
    Though conquering conquered, and a vassal made—
    Then take thy crown, well mayst thou wear it now.

                           SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

We bury decay in the earth; we plant in it the perishing; we feed it with
offensive refuse: but nothing grows out of it that is not clean; it gives
us back life and beauty.

                         CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (_My Summer in a Garden_).

       *       *       *       *       *

SOUL’S BEAUTY

  Under the arch of Life, where love and death,
    Terror and mystery guard her shrine, I saw
    Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
  I drew it in as simply as my breath.
  Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath,
    The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
    By sea or sky or woman, to one law,
  The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.
  This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise
    Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee
      By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat
      Following her daily of thy heart and feet,
    How passionately and irretrievably,
  In what fond flight, how many ways and days!

                           D. G. ROSSETTI.

    Although Rossetti was not a classical student, he seems here
    to have arrived at the Platonic idea of an abstract Beauty, of
    whose essence are all beautiful things, “sea or sky or woman.”
    Love and death, terror and mystery guard her, as a goddess on
    her throne, and all lovers of the beautiful are worshippers at
    her shrine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thinking is only a dream of feeling; a dead feeling; a pale-grey, feeble
life.

                                                                 NOVALIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

A whetstone cannot cut, but it makes iron sharp, and gives it a keen edge.

                                                ISOCRATES (436-338 B.C.).

    This is quoted in Plutarch’s _Lives_. Isocrates was asked why
    he taught rhetoric so much and yet spoke so rarely; and this
    was his reply. Horace (_Ars Poetica_ 304) playfully says that
    he is no longer able to write verses but he will teach others
    to write, adding “a whetstone is not used for cutting, but is
    used for sharpening steel nevertheless.”

    The career of Isocrates, “that old man eloquent,”[31] is
    extremely interesting. He preserved his energy and his
    influence to the end of his long life of 98 years.

       *       *       *       *       *

  From too much love of living,
    From hope and fear set free,
  We thank with brief thanksgiving
    Whatever gods there be
  That no life lives for ever;
  That dead men rise up never;
  That even the weariest river
    Winds somewhere safe to sea.

                           SWINBURNE (_The Garden of Proserpine_).

    A very musical expression of a very ugly thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Women never betray themselves to men as they do to each other.

                                            GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RETREAT

  Happy those early days, when I
  Shined in my Angel-infancy!
  Before I understood this place
  Appointed for my second race,
  Or taught my soul to fancy aught
  But a white celestial thought:
  When yet I had not walk’d above
  A mile or two from my first Love,
  And looking back, at that short space,
  Could see a glimpse of His bright face:
  When on some gilded cloud or flower
  My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
  And in those weaker glories spy
  Some shadows of eternity:
  Before I taught my tongue to wound
  My Conscience with a sinful sound,
  Or had the black art to dispense
  A several sin to ev’ry sense,
  But felt through all this fleshly dress
  Bright shoots of everlastingness.

  O how I long to travel back,
  And tread again that ancient track!
  That I might once more reach that plain
  Where first I left my glorious train;
  From whence th’ enlighten’d spirit sees
  That shady City of Palm-trees!
  But ah! my soul with too much stay
  Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
  Some men a forward motion love,
  But I by backward steps would move;
  And when this dust falls to the urn,
  In that state I came, return.

                           HENRY VAUGHAN (1621-1695).

    I include this poem, although it is in the anthologies, because
    from my own experience a young reader will not see its beauty
    without some words of explanation. It is the precursor of the
    greatest ode ever written, Wordsworth’s _Ode on Intimations
    of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood_.
    Wordsworth, Vaughan, and many others believe that we had a
    separate existence before we came into this world (and there is
    much in the experience of each of us to warrant that belief).
    Wordsworth says:

      Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
      The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
        Hath had elsewhere its setting,
        And cometh from afar.

    But in order to appreciate either Wordsworth’s or Vaughan’s
    poem it is not necessary to have this belief in a past separate
    existence—it is enough to realize that

      Trailing clouds of glory do we come
        From God, who is our home.

       *       *       *       *       *

One may see the small value God has for riches by the people He gives
them to.

                                                          ALEXANDER POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  There’s a fancy some lean to and others hate—
  That, when this life is ended, begins
  New work for the soul in another state,
  Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins:
  Where the strong and the weak, this world’s congeries,
  Repeat in large what they practised in small,
  Through life after life in unlimited series;
  Only the scale’s to be changed, that’s all.

  Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen
  By the means of Evil that Good is best,
  And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven’s serene,—
  When our faith in the same has stood the test—
  Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod,
  The uses of labour are surely done;
  There remaineth a rest for the people of God:
  And I have had troubles enough, for one.

                           R. BROWNING (_Old Pictures in Florence_).

    Browning in his last poem, the well-known “Epilogue,” speaks
    with another voice. He wishes his friends to think of him after
    death as he was when alive:—

      One who never turned his back but marched breast-forward.
      Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
              Sleep to wake.

      No, at noonday in the bustle of man’s work-time
              Greet the unseen with a cheer!
      Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,
      “Strive and thrive!” cry, “Speed,—fight on, fare ever,
              There as here!”

    F. W. H. Myers wrote:—

    We need a summons to no houri-haunted paradise, no passionless
    contemplation, no monotony of prayer and praise; but to endless
    advance by endless effort, and, if need be, by endless pain. Be
    it mine, then, to plunge among the unknown Destinies—to dare
    and still to dare!

    Emerson’s heaven also was

      Built of furtherance and pursuing,
      Not of spent deeds, but of doing.

                           (“Threnody.”)

       *       *       *       *       *

In life, Love comes first. Indeed, _we_ only come because Love calls for
us. We find it waiting with outstretched arms on arrival. Love is the
beginning of everything.

                                     F. W. BOREHAM (_Faces in the Fire_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Our daies are full of dolor and disease,
  Our life afflicted with incessant paine,
  That nought on earth may lessen or appease.
  Why then should I desire here to remaine?
  Or why should he that loves me, sorie bee
  For my deliverence, or at all complaine
  My good to hear, and tóward joyes to see?

                           EDMUND SPENSER (_Daphnaïda_).

    _Tóward_, “approaching.”

       *       *       *       *       *

My closing remark is as to avoiding debates that are in their very nature
interminable.... There is a certain intensity of emotion, interest, bias
or prejudice if you will, that can neither reason nor be reasoned with.
On the purely intellectual side, the disqualifying circumstances are
complexity and vagueness. If a topic necessarily hauls in numerous other
topics of difficulty, the essay may do something for it, but not the
debate. Worst of all is the presence of several large, ill-defined, and
unsettled terms. A not unfrequent case is a combination of the several
defects, each, perhaps, in a small degree. A tinge of predilection or
party, a double or triple complication of doctrines, and one or two hazy
terms will make a debate that is pretty sure to end as it began. Thus
it is that a question, plausible to appearance, may contain within it
capacities of misunderstanding, cross-purposes, and pointless issues,
sufficient to occupy the long night of Pandemonium, or beguile the
journey to the nearest fixed star.

                     ALEXANDER BAIN (_Contemporary Review, April, 1877_).

    From an address to the Edinburgh University Philosophical
    Society.

       *       *       *       *       *

Diogenes, seeing Neptune’s temple with votive pictures of those saved
from wreck, says, “Yea, but where are they painted, that have been
drowned?”

                                                                   BACON.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM

  I saw her at the County Ball:
    There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
  Gave signal sweet in that old hall
    Of hands across and down the middle,
  Hers was the subtlest spell by far
    Of all that set young hearts romancing;
  She was our queen, our rose, our star;
    And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!

  Through sunny May, through sultry June,
    I loved her with a love eternal;
  I spoke her praises to the moon,
    I wrote them to the Sunday Journal:
  My mother laugh’d: I soon found out
    That ancient ladies have no feeling;
  My father frown’d: but how should gout
    See any happiness in kneeling?...

  She smiled on many, just for fun,—
    I knew that there was nothing in it;
  I was the first—the only one
    Her heart had thought of for a minute.—
  I knew it, for she told me so,
    In phrase which was divinely moulded;
  She wrote a charming hand,—and oh!
    How sweetly all her notes were folded!
  ...
  We parted; months and years roll’d by
    We met again four summers after:
  Our parting was all sob and sigh;
    Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:
  For in my heart’s most secret cell
    There had been many other lodgers;
  And she was not the ball-room’s Belle,
    But only—Mrs. Something Rogers!

                           W. M. PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

A canon of my own in judging verses is that no man has a right to put
into metre what he can as well say out of metre. To which I may add, as
a corollary, that _a fortiore_ he has no right to put into metre what he
can better say out of metre.

                                   W. S. LILLY (_Essay on George Eliot_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Aujourd’hui, ce qui ne vaut pas la peine d’être dit, on le chante.

(Now-a-days when a thing is not worth saying they sing it—_i.e._ put it
in a song.)

                    BEAUMARCHAIS (_Le Barbier de Séville_, Act I. Sc. I.)

       *       *       *       *       *

I do not know whether I gave you at any time the details of my work here,
or the principles upon which I have been proceeding.... Some of the work
set down includes Ancient Ethics—which is almost entirely grossly wrong
and great rubbish also. This part I have persistently refused to get
up, not because I disliked it, but because it is decidedly injurious
to warp and twist the brain by impressing it with wrong thoughts and
systems—just as it would be insane in the polisher of a mirror to think
it would reflect the external world more truly, if he gave it a dint
here, a scratch there, a bulge in another place, and so forth. It would
take me too long to describe the details. Suffice it to say that one of
the examiners in Mental Philosophy and in Moral and Political Philosophy
is an old, _blind_ (literally) man of the old school, who gave a very
abnormally large amount of questions relating to Ancient Ethics, and an
abnormally large amount to the _early_ part of English Ethics—leaving
hardly any marks to be scored by thorough understanding and ability to
use the principles of the subjects.

The consequence was that those, who had crammed up the earlier text-books
and could reproduce them, had an enormous advantage. This old fogey
moreover is strongly anti-Spencerian. Indeed I heard that he had objected
to my answers because “there was too much of Spencer and myself!” So
that instead of _criticism and originality_, he avowedly preferred _mere
reproduction_, a good example of the slavishness of that method of
examination predominant mostly, which, as Spencer wrote to me some time
ago, is devised for testing a man’s “power of acquisition instead of
using that which has been acquired.”

                      RICHARD HODGSON (1855-1905) (_Letter, Dec., 1881_).

    This letter was written to me from Cambridge, when Hodgson
    (see Preface) had found his immediate prospects blasted by
    the results of the Moral Science Tripos. No one was placed in
    the First Class and he (although at the head of the Tripos)
    only in the Second Class. This meant that he had no hope of
    a Fellowship, which would have enabled him to go on with
    original work in philosophy, and he would have to employ his
    time in earning a livelihood. Added to this was the cruel
    disappointment to his family and friends.

    Hodgson was one of the most gifted men that Australia has
    produced. He had completed his M.A. and LL.D. courses in
    Melbourne by 1877, when he was twenty-two years of age, and
    then, discarding the profession of the law, left for Cambridge
    to read Mental and Moral Science. While still an undergraduate
    there he had written an article in reply to T. H. Green, and
    submitted it to Herbert Spencer, who highly approved of it,
    and sent it to the _Contemporary_. However, as stated above,
    Hodgson’s immediate future depended on the result of the
    examination. (He was at the time preparing one of the articles
    he contributed to _Mind_, and had in view further original
    work.)

    When the result of the Tripos appeared, Henry Sidgwick and Venn
    who were then Lecturers and by far the best Moral Science men
    in Cambridge, came to sympathize with Hodgson, on the unfair
    result. They urged him to go to Germany so that he might
    acquire that perfect command of the German language which was
    necessary for his philosophic work. On learning that he was not
    in a position to do this, Sidgwick insisted—as he said, “in
    the interests of philosophy”—on defraying _the whole of the
    expenses_ of Hodgson’s residence in Germany. As he insisted
    strongly, Hodgson accepted the offer, and went to Jena, armed
    with a very flattering letter of introduction from Herbert
    Spencer to Haeckel.

    Almost immediately after his return from Germany the Society
    for Psychical Research was founded, and Hodgson joined it. He
    came to the conclusion that the work of this Society was more
    important than any other study, while probably it would also
    be of fundamental assistance to philosophy. He went out to
    India in 1884, and thoroughly exposed Madame Blavatsky and her
    “Theosophy,” and, from about 1886, devoted the rest of his life
    to Psychical Research. Although maintaining his reading and
    his intimacy with Henry Sidgwick, William James, and others,
    his services practically became lost to philosophy. This,
    however, does not affect the important fact illustrated by the
    Tripos incident. We learn what ineptitude can exist in a great
    university, and what grave results must necessarily follow
    therefrom.

    Although Hodgson was writing under stress of a grievous
    calamity (yet with a dauntless heart—see verse on Dedication
    page), his remarks on Ancient Ethics are not, in my opinion,
    exaggerated.

    Herbert Spencer’s remark to Hodgson about examinations may also
    be noted.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Prometheus._ And thou, O Mother Earth!
    _Earth._ I hear, I feel
  Thy lips are on me, and their touch runs down
  Even to the adamantine central gloom
  Along these marble nerves; ’tis life, ’tis joy,
  And, through my withered, old, and icy frame
  The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down
  Circling. Henceforth the many children fair
  Folded in my sustaining arms; all plants,
  And creeping forms, and insects rainbow-winged,
  And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human shapes,
  Which drew disease and pain from my wan bosom
  Draining the poison of despair, shall take
  And interchange sweet nutriment.

                           SHELLEY (_Prometheus Unbound_, III, 3).

    In Shelley’s great poem, Prometheus is not merely the Titan
    who, having stolen fire from heaven to benefit man, was chained
    to a pillar while an eagle tore at his vitals, he is the
    spirit of humanity. Man has (through superstition) given the
    god, Zeus, great powers which he uses to enslave and oppress
    man’s own mind and body. Ultimately the god is overthrown,
    Prometheus, the spirit of man, is released, and the world
    enters upon its progress towards perfection.

    This and the following quotations are from a collection of
    references to Mother-Earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,
  Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,
  Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won thee!...
  Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embracement.
  Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold instincts.
  Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;
  Laughed on their shores the wide seas; the yearning ocean swelled upward;
  Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing
    mountains,
  Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_Hymn to the Earth_).

    An imitation of Stolberg’s _Hymne an die Erde_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
    The sweet buds every one,
  When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
    As she dances about the sun.

                           SHELLEY (_The Cloud_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  For Nature ever faithful is
  To such as trust her faithfulness.
  When the forest shall mislead me,
  When the night and morning lie,
  When sea and land refuse to feed me,
  ’Twill be time enough to die.
  Then will yet my mother yield
  A pillow in her greenest field
  Nor the June flowers scorn to cover
  The clay of their departed lover.

                           EMERSON (_Woodnotes_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Long have I loved what I behold,
  The night that calms, the day that cheers;
  The common growth of mother-earth
  Suffices me—her tears, her mirth,
  Her humblest mirth and tears.

                           WORDSWORTH (_Peter Bell_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  So mayst thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop
  Into thy mother’s lap.

                           MILTON (_Paradise Lost_, XI, 535).

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG OF PROSERPINE.

  Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth
    Thou from whose immortal bosom
  Gods, and men, and beasts have birth,
    Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,
  Breathe thine influence most divine
  On thine own child, Proserpine.

  If with mists of evening dew
    Thou dost nourish these young flowers
  Till they grow, in scent and hue,
    Fairest children of the Hours,
  Breathe thine influence most divine
  On thine own child, Proserpine.

                           SHELLEY.

    Proserpine, daughter of Ceres, whilst gathering flowers with
    her playmates at Enna in Sicily, was carried off by Pluto, also
    called Dis, god of the dead. (For two-thirds, or, according to
    later writers, one-half of each year, she returns to the earth,
    bringing spring and summer.)

                  That fair field
      Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
      Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
      Was gathered; which cost Ceres all that pain
      To seek her through the world.

                           (_Paradise Lost_, IV, 269).

       *       *       *       *       *

  And ... the rich winds blow,
  And ... the waters go,
  And the birds for joy, and the trees for prayer,
  Bowing their heads in the sunny air....
  All make a music, gentle and strong,
  Bound by the heart into one sweet song;
  And amidst them all, the mother Earth
  Sits with the children of her birth....
  Go forth to her from the dark and the dust
  And weep beside her, if weep thou must;
  If she may not hold thee to her breast,
  Like a weary infant, that cries for rest;
  At least she will press thee to her knee
  And tell a low, sweet tale to thee,
  Till the hue to thy cheek, and the light to thine eye
  Strength to thy limbs, and courage high
  To thy fainting heart return amain.

                           G. MACDONALD (_Phantastes_).

    _Hold thee to her breast_, give rest in death.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ne deeth, allas; ne wol nat han my life;         will not take
  Thus walke I, lyk a restèlees caityf,            restless wretch
  And on the ground, which is my modres gate,      mother’s
  I knokke with my staf, both erly and late,
  And seyè, “levè moder, leet me in!               say, “Dear mother
  Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin!    waste away”
  Allas! whan shul my bonès be at reste?”

                           CHAUCER (1340-1400) (_The Pardoner’s Tale_).

       *       *       *       *       *

          Like a shadow thrown
  Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,
  Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay
  For noontide solace on the summer grass,
  The warm lap of his mother earth.

                           WORDSWORTH (_Excursion_ VII, 286).

       *       *       *       *       *

        And O green bounteous Earth!
  Bacchante Mother! stern to those
  Who live not in thy heart of mirth;
  Death shall I shrink from, loving thee?
  Into the breast that gives the rose
      Shall I with shuddering fall?

                           G. MEREDITH (_Ode to the Spirit of Earth in
                           Autumn_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

  He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
    From the deep cool bed of the river:
  The limpid water turbidly ran,
  And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
  And the dragon-fly had fled away,
    Ere he brought it out of the river.

  High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
    While turbidly flowed the river;
  And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
  With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
  Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
    To prove it fresh from the river....

  “This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,
  (Laughed while he sat by the river,)
  “The only way, since gods began
  To make sweet music, they could succeed.”
  Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
    He blew in power by the river.

  Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
    Piercing sweet by the river!
  Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
  The sun on the hill forgot to die,
  And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
    Came back to dream on the river.

  Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
    To laugh as he sits by the river,
  Making a poet out of a man:
  The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—
  For the reed which grows nevermore again
    As a reed with the reeds in the river.

                           E. B. BROWNING

       *       *       *       *       *

There is little merit in inventing a happy idea, or attractive situation,
so long as it is only the author’s voice which we hear. As a being whom
we have called into life by magic arts, as soon as it has received
existence, acts independently of the master’s impulse, so the poet
creates his persons, and then watches and relates what they do and
say. Such creation is poetry in the literal sense of the term, and its
possibility is an unfathomable enigma. The gushing fullness of speech
belongs to the poet, and it flows from the lips of each of his magic
beings in the thoughts and words peculiar to its nature.

                                 NIEBUHR (_Letters_, &c., Vol. III, 196).

       *       *       *       *       *

Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the
determination of the will. A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.”
The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a
fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind,
awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the
colour of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the
conscious portions of our nature are unprophetic either of its approach
or its departure. Could this influence be durable in its original purity
and force, it is impossible to predict the greatness of the results;
but, when composition begins, inspiration is already on the decline, and
the most glorious poetry that has ever been communicated to the world is
probably a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of the poet.

                                         SHELLEY (_A Defence of Poetry_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                Who would loose,
  Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
  Those thoughts that wander through eternity,
  To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
  In the wide womb of uncreated night?

                           MILTON (_Paradise Lost_ ii., 146)

    “Loose”—by committing suicide.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the white block of marble shines so solid and so costly, who
remembers that it was once made up of decaying shell and rotting bones
and millions of dying insect-lives, pressed to ashes ere the rare stone
was?

                                                             (_Chandos_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The madness that starves and is silent for an idea is an insanity,
scouted by the world and the gods. For it is an insanity
unfruitful—except to the future. And for the future, who cares—save those
madmen themselves?

       *       *       *       *       *

... The gods that most of all have pity on man, the gods of the Night and
of the Grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our eyes are set to the light, but our feet are fixed in the mire.

                                                        (_Folle-Farine_).

       *       *       *       *       *

“If the cucumber be bitter, throw it away,” says Antoninus: do the same
with a thought.... There is no cucumber so heavy that one cannot throw it
over some wall.

                                                     OUIDA (_Tricotrin_).

    Antoninus, 120-180 A.D., the Roman emperor and Stoic
    philosopher, usually known by his first two names Marcus
    Aurelius, is the author of the well-known _Meditations_. The
    quotation is from Bk. VIII., “The gourd is bitter; drop it,
    then! There are brambles in the path; then turn aside! It is
    enough. Do not go on to argue, Why pray have these things a
    place in the world?” etc.

    These quotations from Ouida may serve to illustrate the saying
    of Pliny the Elder, “No book is so bad but some good may be
    got out of it” (Pliny’s Letters, III., 10)—a saying which was
    no doubt true until printing let loose on the world such a
    multitude of worthless writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHEN WE ALL ARE ASLEEP

  When He returns, and finds the World so drear—
    All sleeping,—young and old, unfair and fair,
  Will He stoop down and whisper in each ear,
    “Awaken!” or for pity’s sake forbear,—
    Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stare
  Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
    How shall I comfort them in their despair,
  If they cry out, ‘Too late! let us sleep here’?”
  Perchance He will not wake us up, but when
    He sees us look so happy in our rest,
  Will murmur, “Poor dead women and dead men!
    Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.
  Wherefore awake them into life again?
    Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.”

                           R. BUCHANAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHORUS

  Before the beginning of years
    There came to the making of man
  Time, with a gift of tears;
    Grief, with a glass that ran;
  Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
    Summer, with flowers that fell;
  Remembrance fallen from heaven,
    And madness risen from hell;
  Strength without hands to smite;
    Love that endures for a breath;
  Night, the shadow of light,
    And life, the shadow of death.

  And the high gods took in hand
    Fire, and the falling of tears,
  And a measure of sliding sand
    From under the feet of the years;
  And froth and drift of the sea;
    And dust of the labouring earth;
  And bodies of things to be
    In the houses of death and of birth;
  And wrought with weeping and laughter,
    And fashioned with loathing and love,
  With life before and after
    And death beneath and above,
  For a day and a night and a morrow,
    That his strength might endure for a span
  With travail and heavy sorrow,
    The holy spirit of man.
  From the winds of the north and the south
    They gathered as unto strife;
  They breathed upon his mouth,
    They filled his body with life;
  Eyesight and speech they wrought
    For the veils of the soul therein,
  A time for labour and thought,
    A time to serve and to sin;
  They gave him light in his ways,
    And love, and a space for delight,
  And beauty and length of days,
    And night, and sleep in the night.
  His speech is a burning fire;
    With his lips he travaileth;
  In his heart is a blind desire,
    In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
  He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
    Sows, and he shall not reap;
  His life is a watch or a vision
    Between a sleep and a sleep.

                           SWINBURNE (_Atalanta in Calydon_).

       *       *       *       *       *

She (the ship of Odysseus) came to the limits of the world, to the deep
flowing Oceanus. There is the land and the city of the Cimmerians,
shrouded in mist and cloud, and never does the shining sun look down on
them with his rays, neither when he climbs up the starry heavens, nor
when again he turns earthward from the firmament, but deadly night is
outspread over miserable mortals. Thither we came and ran the ship ashore
and took out the sheep; but for our part we held on our way along the
stream of Oceanus, till we came to the place which Circe had declared to
us.

There Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims, but I drew my sharp
sword from my thigh, and dug a pit, as it were a cubit in length and
breadth, and about it poured a drink-offering to all the dead, first with
mead and thereafter with sweet wine and for the third time with water....
When I had besought the tribes of the dead with vows and prayers, I took
the sheep and cut their throats over the trench, and the dark blood
flowed forth, and lo, the spirits of the dead that be departed gathered
them from out of Erebus. Brides and youths unwed, and old men of many
and evil days, and tender maidens with griefs yet fresh at heart; and
many there were, wounded with bronze-shod spears, men slain in fight with
their bloody mail about them. And these many ghosts flocked together from
every side about the trench with a wondrous cry, and pale fear gat hold
on me.... I drew the sharp sword from my thigh and sat there, suffering
not the strengthless heads of the dead to draw nigh to the blood, ere I
had word of Teiresias....

Anon came up the soul of my mother dead, Anticleia, the daughter of
Autolycus, the great-hearted, whom I left alive when I departed for
sacred Ilios. At the sight of her I wept, and was moved with compassion,
yet even so, for all my sore grief, I suffered her not to draw nigh to
the blood, ere I had word of Teiresias.

Anon came the soul of Theban Teiresias, with a golden sceptre in his
hand, and he knew me and spake unto me: “Son of Laertes of the seed
of Zeus, Odysseus of many devices, what seekest thou _now_, wretched
man—wherefore hast thou left the sunlight and come hither to behold the
dead and a land desolate of joy? Nay, hold off from the ditch and draw
back thy sharp sword, that I may drink of the blood and tell thee sooth.”
So spake he, and I put up my silver-studded sword into the sheath, and
when he had drunk the dark blood, even then did the noble seer speak unto
me....

                       ODYSSEY, Bk. XI. (_Butcher & Lang’s translation_).

    In this weird scene Odysseus is summoning the shade of
    Teiresias from the under-world. He has with his sword to keep
    off the host of spirits, including that of his own mother, whom
    the spilt blood has attracted—and the hero is himself terrified
    at the awful spectacle.

    What adds to the interest of such a passage is that to the
    ancient Greeks this was no imaginary picture but a statement of
    actual facts. It will be observed that the dead live in a dark
    land, “desolate of joy.”

    To the little-travelled Greeks the ocean was a _river_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  For—see your cellarage!
    There are forty barrels with Shakespeare’s brand
  Some five or six are abroach: the rest
  Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test
  What yourselves call best of the very best!
    How comes it that still untouched they stand?
  Why don’t you try tap, advance a stage
  With the rest in cellarage?
  For—see your cellarage!
    There are four big butts of Milton’s brew,
  How comes it you make old drips and drops
  Do duty, and there devotion stops?
  Leave such an abyss of malt and hops
    Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?
  You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!
  Free him from cellarage!

                           R. BROWNING (_Epilogue to Pacchiarotto and
                           other Poems_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Though the seasons of man full of losses
    Make empty the years full of youth,
  If but one thing be constant in crosses,
    Change lays not her hand upon truth;
  Hopes die, and their tombs are for token
    That the grief as the joy of them ends
  Ere time that breaks all men has broken
    The faith between friends.

  Though the many lights dwindle to one light,
    There is help if the heaven has one;
  Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight
    And the earth dispossessed of the sun,
  They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,
    When, refreshed as a bride and set free,
  With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,
    Night sinks on the sea.

                           SWINBURNE (_Dedication, 1865_).

    It is hardly possible for a younger generation to realize the
    almost intoxicating effect produced upon us by Swinburne’s new
    melodies. Although the _Poems and Ballads_ were largely erotic,
    the curious fact is that we were too much carried away by the
    beauty and swing of his verse to trouble about the sensual
    element in it. That element was in itself an _artificial_
    production and not a reflection of the poet’s own emotions, for
    he was free from sensuality. It was with us more a question of
    _music_. Swinburne himself preferred a musical word or line
    to one that would more aptly express his meaning; and in the
    “Dedication,” from which the above verses are quoted, several
    lines will not bear analysis. However, this was one of our
    favourites among his poems.

      O daughters of dreams and of stories
        That life is not wearied of yet,
      Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,
        Félise and Yolande and Juliette,
      Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,
        When sleep, that is true or that seems,
      Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,
        O daughters of dreams?

      They are past as a slumber that passes,
        As the dew of a dawn of old time;
      More frail than the shadows on glasses,
        More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.
      As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,
        When their hollows are full of the night,
      So the birds that flew singing to me-ward
        Recede out of sight.

    He asks that his wild “storm-birds of passion” may find a home
    in our calmer world:—

      In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,
        Will you spare not a space for them there
      Made green with the running of rivers
        And gracious with temperate air;
      In the fields and the turreted cities,
        That cover from sunshine and rain
      Fair passions and bountiful pities
        And loves without stain?

      In a land of clear colours and stories,
        In a region of shadowless hours,
      Where earth has a garment of glories
        And a murmur of musical flowers;
      In woods where the spring half uncovers
        The flush of her amorous face,
      By the waters that listen for lovers
        For these is there place?

      Though the world of your hands be more gracious
        And lovelier in lordship of things
      Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious
        Warm heaven of her imminent wings,
      Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,
        For the love of old loves and lost times;
      And receive in your palace of painting
        This revel of rhymes.

    Then come the final verses quoted above. These are somewhat
    detached in meaning from the rest, and form a sort of _Envoi_:
    “Whatever changes or passes, there is always some beautiful
    thing that survives.”

    As might be expected Swinburne was much parodied (and indeed
    in the _Heptalogia_ and in the poems lately published he
    parodied himself). The above poem has been cleverly parodied
    by a lawyer, Sir Frederick Pollock. (Although parodies go as
    far back as the Fifth Century B.C. I know of no other lawyer
    who, _qua_ lawyer, has successfully taken a hand in the game.)
    In his parody Pollock’s subject was the great changes effected
    by the Judicature Act, when the old Courts of Common Law,
    Chancery, and others were consolidated into one Supreme Court,
    and the various classes of business assigned to different
    “Divisions.” Also owing to changes in procedure, much of the
    old technical learning became obsolete. His last verse is as
    follows (compare with the second verse quoted above):

      Though the Courts that were manifold dwindle
        To divers Divisions of one,
      And no fire from your face may rekindle
        The light of old learning undone,
      We have suitors and briefs for our payment,
        While, so long as a Court shall hold pleas,
      We talk moonshine with wigs for our raiment,
        Not sinking the fees.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wulf died, as he had lived, a heathen. Placidia, who loved him well, as
she loved all righteous and noble souls, had succeeded once in persuading
him to accept baptism. Adolf himself acted as one of his sponsors; and
the old warrior was in the act of stepping into the font, when he turned
suddenly to the bishop and asked, ‘Where were the souls of his heathen
ancestors?’ “In hell,” replied the worthy prelate. Wulf drew back from
the font, and threw his bearskin cloak around him—“He would prefer,
if Adolf had no objection, to go to his own people.” And so he died
unbaptized, and went to his own place.

                                            CHARLES KINGSLEY (_Hypatia_).

    This story appears in several old chronicles (_Notes and
    Queries, 7th Ser. X, 33_), but the name should be Radbod. He
    was Duke or Chief of the Frisians, and the episode probably
    occurred in Heligoland, from which island he ruled his people.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am thankful for small mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends
who expects everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything
is less than the best; and I found that I begin at the other extreme,
expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate goods....
In the morning I awake, and find the old world, wife, babes and mother,
Concord and Boston, the dear old spiritual world, and even the dear old
devil not far off. If we will take the good we find, asking no questions,
we shall have heaping measures. The great gifts are not got by analysis.
Everything good is on the highway.

                                   R. W. EMERSON (Essay on _Experience_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The bee draws forth from fruit and flower
  Sweet dews, that swell his golden dower;
  But never injures by his kiss
  Those who have made him rich in bliss.

  The moth, though tortured by the flame,
  Still hovers round and loves the same:
  Nor is his fond attachment less:
    “Alas!” he whispers, “can it be,
  Spite of my ceaseless tenderness,
    That I am doomed to death by thee?”

                           AZY EDDIN ELMOGADESSI (_L. S. Costello’s
                           translation_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  A pine-tree stands all lonely
    On a northern hill-top bare,
  And, wrapped in its snowy mantle,
    It slumbers peacefully there.

  Its dreams are of a palm-tree,
    Far-off in the morning land,
  Which in lone silence sorrows
    On a burning, rocky strand.

                           HEINRICH HEINE (1797-1856)

       *       *       *       *       *

                Many a time
  At evening, when the earliest stars began
  To move along the edges of the hills,
  Rising or setting, would he stand alone
  Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake.
  ... Then in that silence, while he hung
  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
  Has carried far into his heart the voice
  Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
  Would enter unawares into his mind,
  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
  Into the bosom of the steady lake.

                           WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude_, Bk. V).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER

  FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

  “Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
  Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;
  Bleak blows the blast—your hat has got a hole in’t,
                    So have your breeches!

  “Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
  Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road,
  what hard work ’tis crying all day ‘Knives and
                    Scissors to grind O!’”

  “Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
  Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
  Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
                    Or the attorney?

  “Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
  Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
  Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
                    All in a lawsuit?

  (“Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)
  Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
  Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
                    Pitiful story.”

  KNIFE-GRINDER.

  “Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
  Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
  This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
                    Torn in a scuffle.

  “Constables came up, for to take me into
  Custody; they took me before the justice;
  Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
                    -stocks for a vagrant.

  “I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in
  A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
  But for my part, I never love to meddle
                    With politics, sir.”

  FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

  “_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first—
  Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—
  Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
                    Spiritless outcast!”

  (_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport
    of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._)

                           GEORGE CANNING (_The Anti-Jacobin_).

    Written in Sapphics and said to be a parody of a poem of
    Southey’s, which was afterwards suppressed.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I loved him, but my reason bade prefer
  Duty to love, reject the tempter’s bribe
  Of rose and lily when each path diverged,
  And either I must pace to life’s far end
  As love should lead me, or, as duty urged,
  Plod the worn causeway arm-in-arm with friend....
  But deep within my heart of hearts there hid
  Ever the confidence, amends for all,
  That heaven repairs what wrong earth’s journey did,
  When love from life-long exile comes at call.

                           R. BROWNING (_Bifurcation_, 1876)

    The lady prefers Duty to Love, but she will remain constant
    to her lover, and reunion with him in heaven will make amends
    for all. (In the remainder of the poem Browning puts the case
    of the lover who, although deserted, is expected to remain
    constant through life—and who falls. The lady had disobeyed
    Love, because of the hardship and trouble that would follow,
    and Browning, whose own married life had been a most happy one,
    says this was no excuse.)

       *       *       *       *       *

  We are scratched, or we are bitten
    By the pets to whom we cling;
  Oh, my Love she is a kitten,
    And my heart’s a ball of string.

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

          Some man of quality
  Who—breathing musk from lace-work and brocade,
  His solitaire amid the flow of frill,
  Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back,
  And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist.—
  Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase,
  ’Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon
  Where mirrors multiply the girandole.

                           R. BROWNING (_The Ring and the Book, I_).

    This and the next five quotations are word-pictures (see p. 85).

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Oh, what are you waiting for here, young man?
    What are you looking for over the bridge?”
  A little straw hat with streaming blue ribbons;
    —And here it comes dancing over the bridge!

                           JAMES THOMSON (B.V.) (_Sunday up the River_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Down in yonder greenè field
  There lies a knight slain under his shield;
  His hounds they lie down at his feet,
  So well do they their master keep.

                           ANON. (_The Three Ravens_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  When we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,
  We were a comely sight to see;
  My Love was clad in the black velvet,
  And I mysel’ in cramasie.                  crimson

                           ANON. (_O waly, waly, up the bank_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  They see the Heroes
  Sitting in the dark ship
  On the foamless, long-heaving,
  Violet sea,
  At sunset nearing
  The Happy Islands.

                           M. ARNOLD (_The Strayed Reveller_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Like one, that on a lonesome road
    Doth walk in fear and dread,
  And having once turned round, walks on
    And turns no more his head;
  Because he knows a frightful fiend
    Doth close behind him tread.

                           COLERIDGE (_The Ancient Mariner_).

    The above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 85.)

       *       *       *       *       *

We take cunning for a sinister or crooked wisdom; and certainly there is
a great difference between a cunning man and a wise man—not only in point
of honesty, but in point of ability.

                                                                   BACON.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cunning, being the ape of wisdom, is the most distant from it that can
be. And as an ape for the likeness it has to a man—wanting what really
should make him so—is by so much the uglier, cunning is only the want of
understanding, which, because it cannot compass its ends by direct ways,
would do it by a trick and circumvention.

                 JOHN LOCKE (_Some Thoughts Concerning Education_, 1693).

       *       *       *       *       *

A rogue is a roundabout fool; a fool _in circumbendibus_.

                                                         S. T. COLERIDGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is only by a wide comparison of facts that the wisest full-grown men
can distinguish well-rolled barrels from more supernal thunder.

                                      GEORGE ELIOT (_Mill on the Floss_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Let its teaching (the teaching of scientific and other books of
information, the “literature of knowledge”) be even partially revised,
let it be expanded, nay, even let its teaching be but placed in a better
order, and instantly it is superseded. Whereas the feeblest works in the
literature of power (poetry and what is generally known as _literature_),
surviving at all, survive as finished and unalterable amongst men.... The
Iliad, the Prometheus of Æschylus—the Othello or King Lear—the Hamlet
or Macbeth—and the Paradise Lost, are triumphant for ever, as long as
the languages exist in which they speak or can be taught to speak. They
never _can_ transmigrate into new incarnations. To reproduce _these_ in
new forms, or variations, even if in some things they should be improved,
would be to plagiarize. A good steam engine is properly superseded by a
better. But one lovely pastoral valley is not superseded by another, nor
a statue of Praxiteles by a statue of Michael Angelo.

                                           DE QUINCEY (_Alexander Pope_).

    De Quincey’s division of literature into “literature of
    power” and “literature of knowledge” still remains a useful
    classification.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man should be able to render a reason for the faith that is in him.

                                                            SYDNEY SMITH.

       *       *       *       *       *

  How brew the brave drink, Life?
    Take of the herb hight morning joy,
      Take of the herb hight evening rest,
    Pour in pain, lest bliss should cloy,
      Shake in sin to give it zest—
  Then down with the brave drink, Life!

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

    I had this attributed to Robert Burton, but cannot find it in
    the _Anatomy of Melancholy_. It may possibly be from Richard
    Brathwaite, whose works I think were at one time attributed to
    Burton; but I have no opportunity of consulting them.

       *       *       *       *       *

I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good work, therefore, I
can do or show to any fellow creature, let me do it now! Let me not defer
or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.

                                                            WILLIAM PENN.

    I find that there has been much discussion in _Notes and
    Queries_ and elsewhere as to the origin of this quotation, and
    it is now usually attributed to the French-American Quaker,
    Stephen Grellet. As, however, Bartlett’s _Familiar Quotations_
    gives “I shall not pass this way again” as a favourite saying
    of William Penn’s, it seems more reasonable to consider him the
    author of the above.

       *       *       *       *       *

Youth is a blunder, Manhood a struggle, Old Age a regret.

                                                  DISRAELI (_Coningsby_).

       *       *       *       *       *

She went into the garden to cut a cabbage to make an apple pie. Just
then, a great she-bear coming down the street poked its nose into the
shop-window. “What! no soap?” So he died, and she (very imprudently)
married the barber. And there were present at the wedding the Joblillies,
and the Piccannies, and the Gobelites, and the great Panjandrum
himself, with the little button on top. So they all set to playing
Catch-who-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their
boots.

                                                 SAMUEL FOOTE, 1720-1777.

    Charles Macklin (1699-1797), actor and playwright, said in a
    lecture on oratory that by practice he had brought his memory
    to such perfection that he could learn anything by rote on
    once hearing or reading it. Foote (a more important dramatist
    and actor) wrote out the above and handed it up to Macklin to
    read and then repeat from memory! The passage was very familiar
    to us from Miss Edgeworth’s _Harry and Lucy_; and also from
    _Verdant Green_, by Cuthbert Bede (Edward Bradley) where it was
    set in the bogus examination paper “To be turned into Latin
    after the manner of the Animals of Tacitus.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    You feel o’er you stealing
  The old familiar, warm, champagny, brandy-punchy, feeling.

                           J. R. LOWELL (_Old College Rooms_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The first and worst of all frauds is to cheat
  One’s self.

                           P. J. BAILEY (_Festus_, “_Anywhere_”).

       *       *       *       *       *

Truly it is to be noted, that children’s plays are not sports, and should
be regarded as their most serious actions.

                                                               MONTAIGNE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man;
so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the
sun and moon; and the harmless art of knucklebones has seen the fall of
the Roman Empire and the rise of the United States.

                                 R. L. STEVENSON (_The Lantern-Bearers_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Says Chloe, “Though tears it may cost,
    It is time we should part, my dear Sue;
  For _your_ character’s totally lost,
    And _I’ve_ not sufficient for two!”

                           ANON.

    This was taken from a poor collection of epigrams by C. S.
    Carey (1872), no author being given. Andrew Lang quoted it in
    his Presidential address to the Society for Psychical Research,
    and it was duly inscribed in the Proceedings. I, with some
    diffidence, follow an illustrious example.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I cannot say, in Eastern style,
  Where’er she treads the pansy blows;
  Nor call her eyes twin-stars, her smile
  A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose.
  Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do,
  Talk of my raptures. Oh, how sore
  The fond romance of twenty-two
  Is parodied ere thirty-four!

  To-night I shake hands with the past,—
  Familiar years, adieu, adieu!
  An unknown door is open cast,
  An empty future wide and new
  Stands waiting. O ye naked rooms,
  Void, desolate, without a charm,
  Will Love’s smile chase your lonely glooms,
  And drape your walls, and make them warm?

                           ALEXANDER SMITH (1830-1867) (_The Night before
                           the Wedding_).

    In my notes, this strange poem is stated to have been actually
    written by Smith on the night before his wedding; but it is
    difficult to believe this. In the poem, the poet sits until
    dawn on his wedding-eve thinking of the “long-lost passions of
    his youth,” and comparing them with his calm and unimpassioned
    love, “pale blossom of the snow,” for the bride of the morrow.
    He even fears that his wife’s tenderness will keep alive the
    memories of his youthful loves:

      It may be that your loving wiles
      Will call a sigh from far-off years;
      It may be that your happiest smiles
      Will brim my eyes with hopeless tears;
      It may be that my sleeping breath
      Will shake with painful visions wrung;
      And, in the awful trance of death,
      A stranger’s name be on my tongue.

    This is sufficiently gruesome. However he finally comes to
    the conclusion (although it seems dragged in to save a very
    difficult situation) that his love for his future bride may
    become more satisfactory to him:

      For, as the dawning sweet and fast
      Through all the heaven spreads and flows,
      Within life’s discord rude and vast
      Love’s subtle music grows and grows.

      My love, pale blossom of the snow,
      Has pierced earth, wet with wintry showers—
      O may it drink the sun, and blow,
      And be followed by all the year of flowers!

    Smith, with P. J. Bailey, Sydney Dobell and others, belonged to
    what was called the “Spasmodic” school which the _Britannica_
    says is “now fallen into oblivion.” I do not know what this
    means. Smith, Bailey, and Dobell no doubt wrote extravagantly,
    but they have all written good verses. Take for example the
    following from Smith’s first poem, “_A Life Drama_,” written at
    twenty-two years of age:

      All things have something more than barren use;
        There is a scent upon the brier,
      A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,
        Cold morns are fringed with fire;

      The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers,
        In music dies poor human speech,
      And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,
        When Love is born in each.

    Smith was also a charming essayist. See quotations elsewhere.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And so on to the end (and the end draws nearer)
  When our souls may be freer, our senses clearer,
    (’Tis an old-world creed which is nigh forgot),
  When the eyes of the sleepers may waken in wonder,
  And hearts may be joined that were riven asunder,
      And Time and Love shall be merged—in what?

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

Soft music came to mine ear. It was like the rising breeze, that whirls,
at first, the thistle’s beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass.
It was the maid of Füarfed wild: she raised the nightly song; for she
knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds.

                                            JAMES MACPHERSON (1736-1796).

    Macpherson alleged that he had discovered poems by the Gaelic
    bard, Ossian, who lived in the Third Century, and he published
    translations of them. Actually the poems were his own, but they
    were beautiful and had a considerable effect upon literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I dare not guess: but in this life
  Of error, ignorance, and strife,
  Where nothing is, but all things seem,
  And we the shadows of the dream.

  It is a modest creed, and yet
  Pleasant if one considers it,
  To own that death itself must be,
  Like all the rest, a mockery.

                           SHELLEY (_The Sensitive Plant_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I should like to make every man, woman, and child discontented with
themselves, even as I am discontented with myself. I should like to waken
in them, about their physical, their intellectual, their moral condition,
that divine discontent which is the parent, first of upward aspiration
and then of self-control, thought, effort to fulfil that aspiration even
in part. For to be discontented with the divine discontent, and to be
ashamed with the noble shame, is the very germ and first upgrowth of all
virtue.

                        CHARLES KINGSLEY (_The Science of Health_, 1872).

    The origin of the expression “divine discontent.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  He first deceas’d; she for a little tried
  To live without him: liked it not, and died.

                           SIR HENRY WOTTON (_Reliquiae Wottonianae_,
                           1685).

       *       *       *       *       *

      Is the yellow bird dead?
      Lay your dear little head
  Close, close to my heart, and weep, precious one, there,
      While your beautiful hair
  On my bosom lies light, like a sun-lighted cloud;
      No, you need not keep still,
      You may sob as you will;
  There is some little comfort in crying aloud.

      But the days they must come,
      When your grief will be dumb;
  Grown women like me must take care how they cry.
      You will learn by and by
  ’Tis a womanly art to hide pain out of sight,
      To look round with a smile,
      Though your heart aches the while
  And to keep back your tears till you’ve blown out the light.

                           MARIAN DOUGLAS (_Picture Poems for Young
                           Folks_).

       *       *       *       *       *

My Lord St. Albans said that wise nature did never put her precious
jewels into a garret four stories high; and, therefore, that exceeding
tall men had ever empty heads.

                                                     BACON (_Apothegms_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  That low man seeks a little thing to do,
    Sees it and does it:
  This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
    Dies ere he knows it.
  That low man goes on adding one to one,
    His hundred’s soon hit:
  This high man, aiming at a million.
    Misses a unit.
  That, has the world here—should he need the next,
    Let the world mind him!
  This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
    Seeking shall find Him.

                           R. BROWNING (_A Grammarian’s Funeral_).

    See _The Inn Album_ (IV) where Browning makes his heroine say:

      Better have failed in the high aim, as I,
      Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed
      As, God be thanked, I do not!

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a secret belief among some men that God is displeased with man’s
happiness; and in consequence they slink about creation, ashamed and
afraid to enjoy anything.

                              SIR A. HELPS (_Companions of my Solitude_).

       *       *       *       *       *

O eloquent, just, and mightie Death! whom none could advise, thou hast
persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world
hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised. Thou
hast drawne together all the farre stretched greatnesse, all the pride,
crueltie, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two
narrow words, _Hic jacet!_

                            SIR WALTER RALEIGH (_Historie of the World_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A REQUIEM

  Thou hast lived in pain and woe,
    Thou hast lived in grief and fear;
  Now thine heart can dread no blow,
    Now thine eyes can shed no tear:
  Storms round us shall beat and rave;
  Thou art sheltered in the grave.

  Thou for long, long years hast borne,
    Bleeding through Life’s wilderness,
  Heavy loss and wounding scorn;
    Now thine heart is burdenless:
  Vainly rest for ours we crave;
  Thine is quiet in the grave.

                           JAMES THOMSON (“B.V.”).

       *       *       *       *       *

AMPHIBIAN

  The fancy I had to-day,
    Fancy which turned a fear!
  I swam far out in the bay,
    Since waves laughed warm and clear.

  I lay and looked at the sun,
    The noon-sun looked at me:
  Between us two, no one
    Live creature, that I could see.

  Yes! There came floating by
    Me, who lay floating too,
  Such a strange butterfly!
    Creature as dear as new:

  Because the membraned wings
    So wonderful, so wide,
  So sun-suffused, were things
    Like soul and nought beside....

  What if a certain soul
    Which early slipped its sheath,
  And has for its home the whole
    Of heaven, thus look beneath.

  Thus watch one who, in the world,
    But lives and likes life’s way,
  Nor wishes the wings unfurled
    That sleep in the worm, they say?

  But sometimes when the weather
    Is blue, and warm waves tempt
  To free oneself of tether,
    And try a life exempt

  From worldly noise and dust,
    In the sphere which overbrims
  With passion and thought,—why, just
    Unable to fly, one swims!...

  Emancipate through passion
    And thought, with sea for sky,
  We substitute, in a fashion,
    For heaven—poetry:

  Which sea, to all intent,
    Gives flesh such noon-disport
  As a finer element
    Affords the spirit sort.

  Whatever they are, we seem:
    Imagine the thing they know;
  All deeds they do, we dream;
    Can heaven be else but so?

  And meantime, yonder streak
    Meets the horizon’s verge;
  That is the land, to seek
    If we tire or dread the surge:

  Land the solid and safe—
    To welcome again (confess!)
  When, high and dry, we chafe
    The body, and don the dress.

  Does she look, pity, wonder
    At one who mimics flight,
  Swims—heaven above, sea under,
    Yet always earth in sight?

                           R. BROWNING (Prologue to _Fifine at the Fair_).

    This is not one of Browning’s best poems, but it is
    interesting. The butterfly in the air over the poet swimming is
    compared to a ‘certain soul,’ Mrs. Browning, looking down upon
    him from heaven. The ‘flying,’ free and entirely released from
    the earth, is the life of the soul, to which the poet cannot
    attain; but during periods of inspiration he lives a life free
    of ‘worldly noise and dust,’ which approaches that of the soul.
    Such periods of inspiration are likened to ‘swimming’ with the
    land always in sight, as compared with the ‘flying’ of the soul
    in the far-removed celestial regions. “We substitute, in a
    fashion, For heaven—poetry.”

    _Whatever they are we seem_: during inspiration the poet’s life
    is a reflex of or approach to the heavenly life.

    _Amphibian_, because the poet is of earth and yet can “swim”
    in the sea of imagination. Charles Lamb speaks of his charming
    Child Angel, half-angel, half-human, as Amphibium. Browning’s
    poem may have been an unconscious development of a passage from
    Sir Thomas Browne’s _Religio Medici_:—“Thus is Man that great
    and true _Amphibium_, whose nature is disposed to live, not
    only like other creatures in divers elements, but in divided
    and distinguished worlds: for though there be but one to sense,
    there are two to reason, the one visible, the other invisible.”

    The sixth and last verses are interesting. Browning, while in
    the world “Both lives and likes life’s way,” nor is anxious
    that his “wings” should be “unfurled”; and he wonders how his
    angel-wife regards him, content with his “mimic flight.”—See p.
    114.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We work so hard, we age so soon,
    We live so swiftly, one and all,
  That ere our day be fairly noon,
    The shadows eastward seem to fall.
  Some tender light may gild them yet,
    As yet, ’tis not so _very_ cold,
  And, on the whole, I _won’t_ regret
    My slender chance of growing old.

                           W. J. PROWSE (1836-1870) (_My Lost Old Age_).

    Prowse wrote excellent verses before he was 20 and he died at
    34.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Calm Soul of all things! make it mine
    To feel, amid the city’s jar,
  That there abides a peace of thine
    Man did not make, and cannot mar.

                           MATTHEW ARNOLD (_Lines written in Kensington
                           Gardens_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A woman needs to be wooed long after she is won, and the husband who
ceases to court his wife is courting disaster.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEASHORE

  Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?
  Who hid such import in an infant’s gloom?
  Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?
  Who mass’d, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?...

  Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known:
  Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.
  Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own:
  Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.

  What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?
  His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,
  Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?
  —Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.

  Some exile’s, mindful how the past was glad?
  Some angel’s, in an alien planet born?
  —No exile’s dream was ever half so sad,
  Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn.

  Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh
  Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;
  But in disdainful silence turn away,
  Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?

  Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope,
  Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give
  —Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,
  Forseen thy harvest, yet proceed’st to live....

  Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star,
  Match that funereal aspect with her pall,
  I think, thou wilt have fathom’d life too far,
  Have known too much—or else forgotten all.

  The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil
  Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;
  Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale
  Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.

  Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,
  Not daily labour’s dull, Lethaean spring,
  Oblivion in lost angels can infuse
  Of the soil’d glory, and the trailing wing;

  And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may.
  In the throng’d fields where winning comes by strife;
  And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,
  Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life; ...

  Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern,
  Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain!
  Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return,
  And wear this majesty of grief again.

                           MATTHEW ARNOLD.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Animula, vagula, blandula.
  Hospes, comesque corporis,
  Quae nunc abibis in loca,
  Pallidula, frigida, nudula;
  Nec, ut soles, dabis joca!

                           SPARTIANUS (_Life of Hadrian_).

    These lines, put into the mouth of the dying Emperor, have been
    translated by Vaughan, Prior, Byron and others. Mr. Clodd (_The
    Question—If a Man Die_) gives this version, without naming the
    translator:—

      Soul of mine, thou fleeting, clinging thing,
      Long my body’s mate and guest,
      Ah! now whither wilt thou wing,
      Pallid, naked, shivering,
      Never more to speak and jest.

    In all these versions _pallidula_, etc., are applied to
    _animula_, but, as Mr. Alfred S. West points out to me, they
    appear to be epithets of _loca_ thus:—“Fleeting, winsome soul,
    my body’s guest and comrade, that art now about to set out for
    regions wan, cold and bare, no more to jest according to thy
    wont.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  This wretched Inn, where we scarce stay to bait,
    We call our Dwelling-place:
  But angels in their full enlightened state,
  Angels, who Live, and know what ’tis to Be,
  Who all the nonsense of our language see,
  Who speak _things_, and our _words_—their ill-drawn pictures—scorn,
    When we, by a foolish figure, say,
    “Behold an old man dead!” then they
  Speak properly, and cry, “Behold a man-child born!”

                           ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618-1667 (_Life_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Here now I am: the house is fast;
  I am shut in from all but Thee;
  Great witness of my privacy,
  Dare I unshamed my soul undress,
  And, like a child, seek Thy caress,
  Thou Ruler of a realm so vast?

                           T. T. LYNCH.

       *       *       *       *       *

The dog walked off to play with a black beetle. The beetle was hard at
work trying to roll home a great ball of dung it had been collecting all
the morning; but Doss broke the ball, and ate the beetle’s hind legs, and
then bit off its head. And it was all play, and no one could tell what it
had lived and worked for. A striving, and a striving, and an ending in
nothing.

                        OLIVE SCHREINER (_The Story of an African Farm_).

    The author is depicting the sadness of life.

       *       *       *       *       *

GRACE FOR A CHILD

  Here a little child I stand,
    Heaving up my either hand;
  Cold as Paddocks though they be, frogs
    Here I lift them up to Thee,
      For a benison to fall blessing
      On our meat, and on us all. _Amen._

                           ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674).

       *       *       *       *       *

      As the moon’s soft splendour
  O’er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
          Is thrown,
      So your voice most tender
  To the strings without soul had then given
          Its own....

      Though the sound overpowers,
  Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
          A tone
      Of some world far from ours,
  Where music and moonlight and feeling
          Are one.

                           SHELLEY (_To Jane_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  While I listen to thy voice,
    Chloris! I feel my life decay:
      That pow’rful noise
    Calls my fleeting soul away.
  Oh! suppress that magic sound,
  Which destroys without a wound.

  Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die;
  That, together, you and I
    To heaven may go:
    For all we know
  Of what the Blessèd do above
  Is, that they sing, and that they love.

                           EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687).

       *       *       *       *       *

To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than
to be forty years old.

                                                            O. W. HOLMES.

    From letter to Julia Ward Howe in 1889 on her seventieth
    birthday. Mrs. Howe wrote the fine “Battle Hymn of the American
    Republic,” beginning:—

      Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
      He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:
      He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
              His truth is marching on.

       *       *       *       *       *

INSOMNIA

  A house of sleepers, I alone unblest
  Am still awake and empty vigil keep:
  When those who share Life’s day with me find rest,
  Oh, let me not be last to fall, asleep.

                           ANNA REEVE ALDRICH.

    She did “fall asleep” at the early age of twenty-six in June,
    1892.

       *       *       *       *       *

The world is full of willing people: some willing to work, and the rest
willing to let them.

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

“THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY”

  What we, when face to face we see
  The Father of our souls, shall be,
  John tells us, doth not yet appear;
  Ah! did he tell what we are here!

  A mind for thoughts to pass into,
  A heart for loves to travel through,
  Five senses to detect things near,
  Is this the whole that we are here?

  Ah yet, when all is thought and said
  The heart still overrules the head;
  Still what we hope we must believe,
  And what is given us receive;

  Must still believe, for still we hope
  That in a world of larger scope,
  What here is faithfully begun
  Will be completed, not undone.

  My child, we still must think, when we
  That ampler life together see,
  Some true result will yet appear
  Of what we are, together, here.

                           A. H. CLOUGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

Plus je vois les hommes, plus j’admire les chiens.

(The more I see of men, the more I admire dogs.)

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

He who doth not smoke hath either known no great griefs, or refuseth
himself the softest consolation next to that which cometh from heaven.
“What, softer than woman?” whispers the young reader. Young reader, woman
teases as well as consoles. Woman makes half the sorrows which she boasts
the privilege of soothing. On the whole, then, woman in this scale, the
weed in that—Jupiter! hang out thy balance and weigh them both; and, if
thou give the preference to woman, all I can say is, the next time Juno
ruffles thee, O Jupiter, _try the weed_!

                               BULWER LYTTON (_What will He do with It?_)

    Compare Kipling in “The Betrothed”:—

    A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.

       *       *       *       *       *

Il y a toujours l’un qui baise, et l’autre qui tend la joue.

(There is always one who kisses and the other who offers the cheek.)

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ah, wasteful woman, she who may
    On her sweet self set her own price,
  Knowing he cannot choose but pay,
    How has she cheapen’d paradise;
  How given for nought her priceless gift,
    How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine,
  Which, spent with due respective thrift,
    Had made brutes men, and men divine!

                           C. PATMORE (_The Angel in the House_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think—
  More than I merit, yes, by many times.
  But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow,
  And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
  And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
  The fowler’s pipe and follows to the snare—
  Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
  Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged
  “God and the glory! never care for gain.”
  I might have done it for you.

                           R. BROWNING (_Andrea del Sarto_).

    The painter says that his wife, instead of urging him to work
    for immediate gain, might have incited him to nobler efforts.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS

  Once on a time, when sunny May
    Was kissing up the April showers,
  I saw fair Childhood hard at play
    Upon a bank of blushing flowers;
  Happy—he knew not whence or how—
    And smiling,—who could choose but love him?
  For not more glad than Childhood’s brow,
    Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

  Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
    That valley’s green repose invaded;
  The brooks grew dry upon his path,
    The birds were mute, the lilies faded.
  But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
    In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
  That Childhood watched his paper kite,
    And knew just nothing of the matter....

  Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
    Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,
  And proffered him a fearful cup
    Full to the brim of bitter water:
  Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;
    And when the beldame muttered, “Sorrow,”
  He said, “Don’t interrupt my game;
    I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.” ...

  Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
    And taught him with most sage endeavour,
  Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
    And why no toy may last for ever.
  She talked of all the wondrous laws
    Which Nature’s open book discloses,
  And Childhood, ere she made a pause
    Was fast asleep among the roses.

  Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood’s dreams
    Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
  Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,
    Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
  But to the couch where Childhood lies
    A more delicious trance is given,
  Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,
    And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

                           W. M. PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Alas, how easily things go wrong!
  A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
  And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
  And life is never the same again.

                           G. MACDONALD (_Phantastes_).

       *       *       *       *       *

L’ENVOI

  There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield
    And the ricks stand grey to the sun,
  Singing:—“Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover
    And your English summer’s done.”
      You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind
      And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
      You have heard the song—how long! how long!
      Pull out on the trail again!

  Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
  We’ve seen the seasons through,
  And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
  Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

  It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun
    Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;
  Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
    Or West to the Golden Gate;
      Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
      And the wildest tales are true,
      And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

  The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,
    And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
  And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
    Of a black Bilboa tramp;
      With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
      And a drunken Dago crew,
      And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
      From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

  There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
    Or the way of a man with a maid;
  But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea
    In the heel of the North-East trade,
      Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
      And the drum of the racing screw,
      As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always
        new.

  See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
    And the fenders grind and heave,
  And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,
    And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
      It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,
      It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”
      And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out
        trail,
      We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new....

  O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
    And the sirens hoot their dread!
  When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep
    To the sob of the questing lead!
      It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
      With the Gunfleet Sands in view,
      Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out
        trail,
      And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always
        new.

  O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light
    That holds the hot sky tame,
  And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floors
    Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
      Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,
      And her ropes are taut with the dew,
      For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out
        trail,
      We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

  Then home, get her home, when the drunken rollers comb,
      And the shouting seas drive by,
  And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,
    And the Southern Cross rides high!
      Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
      That blaze in the velvet blue,
      They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out
        trail,
      They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always
        new.

  Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—
    We’re steaming all too slow,
  And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
    Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
      You have heard the call of the off-shore wind
      And the voice of the deep-sea rain:
      You have heard the song—how long! how long!
      Pull out on the trail again!

      The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
      And the deuce knows what we may do—
      But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out
        trail,
      We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

                           RUDYARD KIPLING.

    A great sea-song; we are on board passing through scene after
    scene and feeling the very movement of the ship and its gear.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
  Thou soul that art the eternity of thought
  That givest to forms and images a breath
  And everlasting motion, not in vain
  By day or star-light thus from my first dawn
  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
  The passions that build up our human soul;
  Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
  But with high objects, with enduring things—
  With life and nature—purifying thus
  The elements of feeling and of thought,
  And sanctifying, by such discipline,
  Both pain and fear, until we recognize
  A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

                           WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude_, Bk. I).

       *       *       *       *       *

The Quakers have contracted themselves too much by leaving the works of
God out of their system. Though I reverence their philanthropy, I can not
help smiling at the conceit, that, if the taste of a Quaker could have
been consulted at the creation, what a silent and drab-coloured creation
it would have been! Not a flower would have blossomed its gaieties, nor a
bird been permitted to sing.

                                      THOMAS PAINE (_The Age of Reason_).

    This quotation reminds me of an interesting passage in
    Professor Bateson’s Presidential Address to the British
    Association at Melbourne in 1914. Although it has not a very
    close connection with the quotation the reader will not object
    to my giving it a place here:—

    “Everyone must have a preliminary sympathy with the aims
    of eugenists both abroad and at home. Their efforts at the
    least are doing something to discover and spread truth as to
    the physiological structure of society. The spread of such
    organizations, however, almost of necessity suffers from a bias
    towards the accepted and the ordinary, and if they had power it
    would go hard with many ingredients of society that could be
    ill-spared. I notice an ominous passage in which even Galton,
    the founder of eugenics, feeling perhaps some twinge of his
    Quaker ancestry, remarks that ‘as the Bohemianism in the nature
    of our race is destined to perish, the sooner it goes, the
    happier for mankind.’ It is not the eugenists who will give us
    what Plato has called ‘divine releases from the common ways.’
    If some fancier with the catholicity of Shakespeare would take
    us in hand, well and good; but I would not trust Shakespeares,
    _meeting as a committee_. Let us remember that Beethoven’s
    father was an habitual drunkard and that his mother died of
    consumption. From the genealogy of the patriarchs also we
    learn—what may very well be the truth—that the fathers of such
    as dwell in tents, and of all such as handle the harp or organ,
    and the instructor of every artificer in brass or iron—the
    founders, that is to say, of the arts and the sciences—came
    in direct descent from Cain, and not in the posterity of the
    irreproachable Seth, who is to us, as he probably was also in
    the narrow circle of his own contemporaries, what naturalists
    call a _nomen nudum_.”

    _Nomen nudum_ is a bare name without further particulars,
    but Donne, no doubt on the authority of Josephus (I. 2.3),
    attributes Astronomy to Seth (“The Progresse of the Soule”):—

        Wonder with mee
      Why plowing, building, ruling and the rest,
      Or most of those Arts whence our lives are blest,
      By cursed Cain’s race invented be,
      And blest Seth vext us with Astronomie.

    Donne (1573-1631) is “vext” with Astronomy, presumably because
    at that time Kepler (1571-1630) and Galileo (1564-1642) were
    affirming the Copernican system and making other discoveries
    supposed to be dangerous to religion.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be they
  Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday
  And thank his wings to-day that he is flown.

                           D. G. ROSSETTI (_Love’s Lovers_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A SONNET

  Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
  It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,
  Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
  Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
  And one is of an old half-witted sheep
  Which bleats articulate monotony,
  And indicates that two and one are three,
  That grass is green, lakes damp and mountains steep:
  And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
  Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
  The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
  At other times—good Lord! I’d rather be
  Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C.
  Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

                           JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN (1859-1893).

    “Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,” is Wordsworth’s fine
    sonnet on the subjugation of Switzerland.

    It is certainly extraordinary how the great poet at times
    dropped into the most prosaic language and commonplace verse.
    This, however, was only in his earlier poems and only in a
    few of those poems. His theory at that time was that poetic
    language should be natural, such as used by ordinary men, and
    not essentially different from prose. Actually, however, at the
    root of the matter was his want of any sense of humour. Only
    so can we account for his beginning a poem “Spade! with which
    Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,” or writing absurdly babyish
    verses. The one instance on record in which he did apparently
    exhibit a grotesque kind of humour was in a verse of _Peter
    Bell_:—

                    Is it a party in a parlour?
      Cramm’d just as they on earth were cramm’d—
      Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
      But, as you by their faces see,
      All silent and all damn’d.

    But this he no doubt wrote quite seriously and without any idea
    that the verse was humorous. Shelley placed this verse at the
    head of his parody of _Peter Bell_, and Wordsworth omitted it
    from the poem after 1819.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And, were I not, as a man may say, cautious
  How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,
  I could favour you with sundry touches
  Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess
  Heightened the mellowness of her cheek’s yellowness
  (To get on faster) until at last her
  Cheek grew to be one master-plaster
  Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse;
  In short, she grew from scalp to udder
  Just the object to make you shudder.

                           R. BROWNING (_The Flight of the Duchess_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Day is dying! Float, O Song,
    Down the westward river,
  Requiem chanting to the Day—
    Day, the mighty Giver.

  Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,
    Melted rubies sending
  Through the river and the sky,
    Earth and heaven blending;

  All the long-drawn earthy banks
    Up to cloud-land lifting:
  Slow between them drifts the swan,
    ’Twixt two heavens drifting.

  Wings half open, like a flow’r
    Inly deeper flushing,
  Neck and breast as virgin’s pure—
    Virgin proudly blushing.

  Day is dying! Float, O swan,
    Down the ruby river;
  Follow, song, in requiem
    To the mighty Giver.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_The Spanish Gypsy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Nature, and nature’s laws, lay hid in night:
  God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.

                           POPE

       *       *       *       *       *

  Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
  No life that breathes with human breath
  Has ever truly longed for death.

  ’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,
  Oh, life, not death, for which we pant;
  More life, and fuller, that we want.

                           TENNYSON (_The Two Voices_).

    It is, perhaps, true that no one at any time longs for death;
    and that our desire is for “more life _and fuller_.” But men
    have for various reasons longed _to die_, though they may
    not have longed for _death_. There are those to whom the
    remainder of life will be one torment of pain to themselves
    and a continuous mental distress to their friends; and there
    have been men of firm religious belief who desired to pass
    into a nobler _life_ beyond the grave. Again, Richard Hodgson
    definitely assured me in 1897 that he _wished to die_. He was
    absolutely satisfied with the evidence of survival after death,
    which he had had in connection with the Society for Psychical
    Research; and his desire was to “pass over” and be with the
    friends with whom for years he had been in communication.
    Hodgson was incapable of saying anything insincere.

       *       *       *       *       *

Remember what Simonides said—that he never repented that he had held his
tongue, but often that he had spoken.

                                                     PLUTARCH (_Morals_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Not the truth of which a man is or believes himself to be possessed, but
the earnest efforts which he has made to attain truth, make the worth of
the man. For it is not through the possession of, but through the search
for truth, that he develops those powers in which alone consists his
ever-growing perfection. Possession makes the mind stagnant, indolent,
proud.

If God held in His right hand all truth, and in His left the ever-living
desire for truth—although with the condition that I should remain in
error for ever—and if He said to me “Choose,” I should humbly bow before
His left hand, and say “Father, give; pure truth is for Thee alone.”

                             LESSING (1729-1781) _Wolfenbüttel Fragments_

    When Lessing wrote this famous passage he was contending that
    criticism should be absolutely free in regard to religious,
    as to all other, subjects. “The argument on which he chiefly
    relies is that the Bible cannot be considered necessary to a
    belief in Christianity, since Christianity was a living and
    conquering power before the New Testament in its present form
    was recognised by the church. The true evidence for what is
    essential in Christianity, he contends, is its adaptation
    to the wants of human nature; hence the religious spirit is
    undisturbed by the speculations of the boldest thinkers.”
    (_Encyclopaedia Britannica_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The light of every soul burns upward. Let us allow for atmospheric
disturbance.

                                  G. MEREDITH (_Diana of the Crossways_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Human life may be painted according to two methods. There is the stage
method. According to that, each character is duly marshalled at first,
and ticketed; we know with an immutable certainty that, at the right
crises, each one will reappear and act his part, and, when the curtain
falls, all will stand before it bowing. There is a sense of satisfaction
in this—and of completeness. But there is another method—the method of
the life we all lead. Here nothing can be prophesied. There is a strange
coming and going of feet. Men appear, act and re-act upon each other,
and pass away. When the crisis comes, the man who would fit it does not
return. When the curtain falls, no one is ready. When the footlights are
brightest they are blown out; and what the name of the play is no one
knows. If there sits a spectator who knows, he sits so high that the
players in the gaslight cannot hear his breathing.

                        OLIVE SCHREINER (_The Story of an African Farm_).

    This is from the preface to the second edition. This book must
    be unique, for surely no other girl in her teens has written a
    book so brilliant in itself and indicating such originality and
    genius. It is a great loss to literature that the writer became
    entirely absorbed in South African politics and controversy.

       *       *       *       *       *

I never knew any man in my life who could not bear another’s misfortunes
perfectly like a Christian.

                                                          ALEXANDER POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

NIGHT AND DEATH

  Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
    Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
    Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
  This glorious canopy of light and blue?
  Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew,
    Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
    Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
  And lo! creation widened in man’s view.
  Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
    Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
  Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
    That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!
      Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife?
      If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

                           J. BLANCO WHITE (1775-1841).

    (See preface.) This sonnet, apart from its great excellence,
    is a remarkable literary curiosity. By this one poem alone
    Blanco White achieved a lasting reputation as a poet. The point
    is that this is _his only poem_. He certainly had previously
    written a sonnet of little merit on survival after death, but
    “_Night and Death_” was apparently an inspired transfiguration
    of his earlier effort. It is a startling instance of
    inspiration coming to a man once only in his life—and then
    coming in its very highest form. There are other poets, whose
    work is generally of poor quality, but who have each produced
    one surprisingly good poem which alone keeps their memory
    alive. An instance of this is Christopher Smart (1722-1771),
    who wrote several volumes of verse but only one fine poem, the
    “Song of David.” Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) is also known only
    by his “Burial of Sir John Moore,” but his other poems, though
    forgotten, are said to have had some merit.

    The sonnet is also interesting for another reason. White’s
    family had settled in Spain for two generations, his
    grandfather having changed his name to Blanco. His mother
    was Spanish, he was educated in Spain, and became a Spanish
    priest, and he did not leave for England until 1810, when
    thirty-five years of age. Yet White’s beautiful thought could
    hardly be expressed in finer language. There is, however, one
    defect in the words “fly and leaf and insect.” (William Sharp
    courageously altered “fly” into “flower.”)

    Coleridge thought this “the finest and most grandly conceived
    sonnet in our language.” Leigh Hunt said that in point of
    thought it “stands supreme, perhaps, above all in any language:
    nor can we ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a
    reverence.”

       *       *       *       *       *

I sleep, I eat and drink, I read and meditate, I walk in my neighbour’s
pleasant fields and see the varieties of natural beauties, and delight
in all that in which God delights—that is, in virtue and wisdom, in the
whole creation, and in God Himself. And he, that hath so many causes of
joy, and so great, is very much in love with sorrow and peevishness,
who loses all these pleasures, and chooses to sit down upon his little
handful of thorns.

                                                           JEREMY TAYLOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

  In my Progress travelling Northward,
  Taking farewell of the Southward,
  To Banbury came I, O prophane-One!
  Where I saw a Puritane-One
  Hanging of his Cat on Monday,
  For killing of a Mouse on Sunday.

                           R. BRATHWAITE (1638) (_Drunken Barnaby_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                      O the Spring will come,
  And once again the wind be in the West,
  Breathing the odour of the sea; and life,
  Life that was ugly, and work that grew a curse,
  Be God’s best gifts again, and in your heart
  You’ll find once more the dreams you thought were dead.

                           H. D. LOWRY (_In Covent Garden_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Of such as he was, there be few on Earth;
  Of such as he is, there are many in Heaven;
  And Life is all the sweeter that he lived,
  And all he loved more sacred for his sake:
  And Death is all the brighter that he died,
  And Heaven is all the happier that he’s there.

                           GERALD MASSEY (_In Memoriam_).

       *       *       *       *       *

ONLY SEVEN

(_A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth._)

  I marvelled why a simple child
    That lightly draws its breath
  Should utter groans so very wild,
    And look as pale as Death.

  Adopting a parental tone,
    I asked her why she cried;
  The damsel answered, with a groan,
    “I’ve got a pain inside.

  “I thought it would have sent me mad
    Last night about eleven.”
  Said I, “What is it makes you bad?
  How many apples have you had?”
    She answered, “Only seven!”

  “And are you sure you took no more,
    My little maid?” quoth I.
  “Oh! please sir, mother gave me four,
    But _they_ were in a pie!”

  “If that’s the case,” I stammered out,
    “Of course you’ve had eleven.”
  The maiden answered, with a pout,
    “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

  I wondered hugely what she meant,
    And said, “I’m bad at riddles,
  But I know where little girls are sent
    For telling tarrididdles.

  “Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,
    “You’ll never go to heaven.”
  But all in vain; each time I try,
  That little idiot makes reply,
    “I ain’t had more nor seven”!

  POSTSCRIPT.

  To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,
    Or slightly misapplied;
  And so I’d better call my song,
    “Lines after _Ache-inside_.”

                           HENRY SAMBROOKE LEIGH.

    It seems wicked to travesty Wordsworth’s tender little poem,
    but Leigh’s verses amused us greatly when they appeared. Mark
    Akenside (1721-1770) is a poet now almost forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The hour, which might have been, yet might not be,
    Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore
    Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore
  Bides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?

                           D. G. ROSSETTI (_Stillborn Love_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be
no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for
the sunshine and the grass in those far-off days which live in us, and
transform our perception into love.

                                      GEORGE ELIOT (_Mill on the Floss_).

  The firmaments of daisies since to me
  Have had those mornings in their opening eyes;
  The bunched cowslip’s pale transparency
  Carries that sunshine of sweet memories,
  And wild-rose branches take their finest scent
  From those blest hours of infantine content.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_Brother and Sister_).

    It will be observed that the thought is the same in both
    passages.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Get thee behind the man I am now,
    You man that I used to be.

                           R. BROWNING (_Martin Relph_).

       *       *       *       *       *

For my own part, I could not look but with wonder and respect on the
Chinese. Their forefathers watched the stars before mine had begun to
keep pigs. Gunpowder and printing, which the other day we imitated,
and a school of manners which we never had the delicacy so much as to
desire to imitate, were theirs in a long-past antiquity. They walk the
earth with us, but it seems they must be of different clay. They hear
the clock strike the same hour, yet surely of a different epoch. They
travel by steam conveyance, yet with such baggage of old Asiatic thoughts
and superstitions as might check the locomotive in its course. Whatever
is thought within the circuit of the Great Wall; what the wry-eyed,
spectacled schoolmaster teaches in the hamlets round Pekin; religions
so old that our language looks a halfling boy alongside; philosophy so
wise that our best philosophers find things therein to wonder at; all
this travelled alongside of me for thousands of miles over plain and
mountain. Heaven knows if we had one common thought or fancy all that
way, or whether our eyes, which yet were formed upon the same design,
beheld the same world out of the railway windows. And when either of us
turned his thoughts to home and childhood, what a strange dissimilarity
must there not have been in these pictures of the mind—when I beheld that
old, gray, castled city, high throned above the firth, with the flag of
Britain flying, and the red-coat sentry pacing over all; and the man in
the next car to me would conjure up some junks and a pagoda and a fort of
porcelain, and call it, with the same affection, home.

                                   R. L. STEVENSON (_Across the Plains_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  I always wanted to make a clean breast of it;
  And now it is made—why, my heart’s blood, that went trickle,
  Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets,
  Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,
  And genially floats me about the giblets.

                           R. BROWNING (_The Flight of the Duchess_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A man should never be ashamed to own that he has been in the wrong, which
is but saying that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday.

                                                          ALEXANDER POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have all of us considerable regard for our past self, and are not fond
of casting reflections on that respected individual by a total negation
of his opinions.

                              GEORGE ELIOT (_Scenes from Clerical Life_).

       *       *       *       *       *

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH

  Say not, the struggle nought availeth,
    The labour and the wounds are vain,
  The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
    And as things have been they remain.

  If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
    It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
  Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
    And, but for you, possess the field.

  For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
    Seem here no painful inch to gain,
  Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
    Comes silent, flooding in, the main;

  And not by eastern windows only,
    When daylight comes; comes in the light;
  In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
    But westward, look, the land is bright!

                           A. H. CLOUGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The gravest fish is an oyster,
  The gravest bird is an owl,
  The gravest beast is a donkey,
  And the gravest man is a fool.

                           SCOTCH PROVERB.

       *       *       *       *       *

                      ... Fear
  No petty customs nor appearances;
  But think what others only dreamed about;
  And say what others did but think; and do
  What others did but say; and glory in
  What others dared but do.

                           PHILIP J. BAILEY (_My Lady_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The Cynic in society becomes the Pessimist in religion. The large embrace
of sympathy, which fails him as interpreter of human life, will no less
be wanting when he reads the meaning of the universe. The harmony of
the great whole escapes him in his hunt for little discords here and
there. He is blind to the august balance of nature, in his preoccupation
with some creaking show of defect. He misses the comprehensive march of
advancing purpose, because while he himself is in it, he has found some
halting member that seems to lag behind. He picks holes in the universal
order; he winds through its tracks as a detective, and makes scandals
of all that is not to his mind; trusts nothing that he cannot see: and
he sees chiefly the exceptional, the dubious, the harsh. The glory of
the midnight heavens affects him not, for thinking of a shattered planet
or the uninhabitable moon. He makes more of the flood which sweeps the
crop away, than of the perpetual river that feeds it year by year. For
him the purple bloom upon the hills, peering through the young green
woods, does but dress up a stony desert with deceitful beauty; and in the
new birth of summer, he cannot yield himself to the exuberance of glad
existence for wonder why insects tease and nettles sting. Nothing is so
fair, nothing so imposing, as to beguile him into faith and hope.... In
selfish minds the same temper resorts to the pettiest reasons for the
most desolating thoughts: “If God were good, why should I be born with a
club-foot? If the world were justly governed how could my merits be so
long overlooked?”

                                J. MARTINEAU (_Hours of Thought_, I, 97).

    Reverting to this subject later, Martineau says (_Hours of
    Thought II._, 354) “Wherever he moves, he empties the space
    around him of its purest elements; with his low thought he
    roofs it over from the heavenly light and the sweet air; and
    then complains of the world as a close-breathed and stifling
    place.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Cynicism is intellectual dandyism without the coxcomb’s feathers; and it
seems to me that cynics are only happy in making the world as barren to
others as they have made it for themselves.

                                          GEORGE MEREDITH (_The Egoist_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  And there’s none of them, but would as soon
    Criticize the Almighty as not,
  And see that the angels kept tune
  And watch that the sun and the moon
    Did not squander the light they have got.

                           W. C. SMITH (_Borland Hall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Love, that is first and last of all things made,
  The light that has the living world for shade,
  The spirit that for temporal veil has on
  The souls of all men woven in unison,
  One fiery raiment with all lives inwrought
  And lights of sunny and starry deed and thought ...
  Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime;
  Love, that is blood within the veins of time....
  Love, that sounds loud or light in all men’s ears,
  Whence all men’s eyes take fire from sparks of tears,
  That binds on all men’s feet or chains or wings;
  Love, that is root and fruit of terrene things;
  Love, that the whole world’s waters shall not drown,
  The whole world’s fiery forces not burn down;
  Love, that what time his own hands guard his head
  The whole world’s wrath and strength shall not strike dead;
  Love, that if once his own hands make his grave
  The whole world’s pity and sorrow shall not save ...
  Love that is fire within thee and light above,
  And lives by grace of nothing but of love.

                           SWINBURNE (_Tristram of Lyonesse_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  My tantalized spirit
    Here blandly reposes,
  Forgetting, or never
    Regretting, its roses.

                           E. A. POE (_For Annie_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Now, for myself, when once the wick is crushed,
  I ask not where the light is, which is not,
  Nor where the music, when the harp is hushed,
  Nor where the memory, which is clean forgot.

                           W. C. SMITH (_Borland Hall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Goethe says somewhere there is something in every man for which, if we
only knew it, we would hate him. I would prefer to say that there is
something in every man for which, if we only knew it, we would _love_ him.

                                                   R. HODGSON (_Letter_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  For us no shadow on life’s solemn dial
    Goes back to give us peace;
  There is no resting-place in the stern trial
    Until the heart-throbs cease;
  We cannot hold Time fast, and bid him bless us,
    And not for us the sun,
  When shades fall fast, and doubts and woes oppress us,
    Stands still in Gibeon.

                           E. H. SEARS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Here’s my case. Of old I used to love him
    This same unseen friend, before I knew:
  Dream there was none like him, none above him,—
    Wake to hope and trust my dream was true....

  All my days, I’ll go the softlier, sadlier,
    For that dream’s sake! How forget the thrill
  Through and through me as I thought “The gladlier
    Lives my friend because I love him still!”

                           R. BROWNING (_Fears and Scruples_).

    The “Friend” is God. The lines “All my days, I’ll go the
    softlier, sadlier, For that dream’s sake,” seem to me very
    beautiful. In so few words Browning, with dramatic insight,
    expresses the feeling of a Renan or George Eliot after they had
    lost their faith in Christianity.

       *       *       *       *       *

The world is his, who can see through its pretension. What deafness, what
stone-blind custom, what overgrown error you behold, is there only by
sufferance—by your sufferance. See it to be a lie, and you have already
dealt it its mortal blow....

In proportion as a man has anything in him divine, the firmament flows
before him and takes his signet and form. Not he is great who can alter
matter, but he who can alter my state of mind. They are the kings of the
world who give the colour of their present thought to all nature and all
art.... The great man makes the great thing.... Linnæus makes botany the
most alluring of studies, and wins it from the farmer and the herb-woman;
Davy, chemistry; and Cuvier, fossils. The day is always his, who works
in it with serenity and great aims. The unstable estimates of men crowd
to him whose mind is filled with a truth, as the heaped waves of the
Atlantic follow the moon.

                                        EMERSON (_The American Scholar_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Cantat Deo, qui vivit Deo.

(He sings to God, who lives to God.)

                                                       AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

    Jenny Lind used to say, “I sing to God.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A CONSERVATIVE

  The garden beds I wandered by
    One bright and cheerful morn,
  When I found a new-fledged butterfly,
    A-sitting on a thorn,
  A black and crimson butterfly,
    All doleful and forlorn.

  I thought that life could have no sting
    To infant butterflies,
  So I gazed on this unhappy thing
    With wonder and surprise,
  While sadly with his waving wing
    He wiped his weeping eyes.

  Said I, “What can the matter be?
    Why weepest thou so sore,
  With garden fair and sunlight free
    And flowers in goodly store?”—
  But he only turned away from me
    And burst into a roar.

  Cried he, “My legs are thin and few
    Where once I had a swarm!
  Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
    Once kept my body warm,
  Before these flapping wing-things grew,
    To hamper and deform!”

  At that outrageous bug I shot
    The fury of mine eye;
  Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
    In rage and anger high,
  “You ignominious idiot!
    Those wings are made to fly!”

  “I do not want to fly,” said he,
    “I only want to squirm!”
  And he dropped his wings dejectedly,
    But still his voice was firm:
  “I do not want to be a fly!
    I want to be a worm!”

  O yesterday of unknown lack!
    To-day of unknown bliss!
  I left my fool in red and black,
    The last I saw was this,—
  The creature madly climbing back
    Into his chrysalis.

                           CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The very fiends weave ropes of sand
  Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.

                           R. BROWNING (_A Forgiveness_).

       *       *       *       *       *

He had formed several ingenious plans by which he meant to circumvent
people of large fortune and small capacity; but then he never met with
exactly the right people under exactly the right circumstances.... It is
possible to pass a great many bad half-pennies and bad half-crowns, but
I believe there has no instance been known of passing a half-penny or a
half-crown for a sovereign.

                                          GEORGE ELIOT (_Brother Jacob_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  In the old times Death was a feverish sleep,
  In which men walked. The other world was cold
  And thinly-peopled, so life’s emigrants
  Came back to mingle with the crowds of earth:
  But now great cities are transplanted thither,
  Memphis, and Babylon, and either Thebes,
  And Priam’s towery town with its one beech.
  The dead are most and merriest: so be sure
  There will be no more haunting, till their towns
  Are full to the garret; then they’ll shut their gates,
  To keep the living out, and perhaps leave
  A dead or two between both kingdoms.

                           T. L. BEDDOES (_Death’s Jest-Book_, III, 3).

    This is one of the queer fancies in a curious poem.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every ship is a romantic object, except that we sail in. Embark and the
romance quits our vessel, and hangs on every other sail in the horizon.

                                         EMERSON (_Essay on Experience_).

       *       *       *       *       *

De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus.

(We make for ourselves a ladder of our vices, when we tread under foot
the vices themselves.)

                                         ST. AUGUSTINE (_De Ascensione_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  I held it truth, with him who sings
    To one clear harp in divers tones,
    That men may rise on stepping-stones
  Of their dead selves to higher things.

                           TENNYSON (_In Memoriam_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
    That of our vices we can frame
  A ladder, if we will but tread
    Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

                           LONGFELLOW (_The Ladder of St. Augustine_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The trials that beset you,
    The sorrows ye endure,
  The manifold temptations
    That death alone can cure,

  What are they but His jewels
    Of right celestial worth?
  What are they but the ladder
    Set up to Heav’n on earth?

                           J. M. NEALE (_O Happy Band of Pilgrims_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I can bear it no longer—this diabolical invention of gentility, which
kills natural kindliness and honest friendship. Proper pride, indeed!
Rank and precedence, forsooth! The table of ranks and degrees is a lie,
and should be flung into the fire. Organize rank and precedence! That
was well for the masters of ceremonies of former ages. Come forward, some
great marshal, and organize Equality in society.

                                             THACKERAY (_Book of Snobs_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
    The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
  The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
    We bargain for the graves we lie in;
  At the devil’s booth are all things sold,
  Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
    For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
  Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking:
    ’Tis heaven alone that is given away,
  ’Tis only God may be had for the asking.

                           J. R. LOWELL (_The Vision of Sir Launfal_).

       *       *       *       *       *

... The too susceptible Tupman, who, to the wisdom and experience of
maturer years, superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a boy, in the most
interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses, love. Time and feeding
had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk waistcoat had become
more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain beneath it
disappeared from within the range of Tupman’s vision; and gradually had
the capacious chin encroached upon the borders of the white cravat; but
the soul of Tupman had known no change.

                                     CHARLES DICKENS (_Pickwick Papers_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has; you may
survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the _savants_
in the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human
personality. And the worst of all this is, that love and friendship
may be the outcome of a certain condition of knowledge; increase the
knowledge, and love and friendship beat their wings and go. Every man’s
road in life is marked by the graves of his personal likings. Intimacy is
frequently the road to indifference; and marriage a parricide.

                  ALEXANDER SMITH (_The Importance of a Man to Himself_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I think sometimes how good it were had I some one by me to listen when
I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any mortal in
the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic
understanding—nay, who would even generally be at one with me in my
appreciation? Such harmony of intelligences is the rarest thing. All
through life we long for it ... and, after all, we learn that the vision
is illusory. To every man is it decreed: Thou shalt live alone.

                 GEORGE GISSING (_The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_).

       *       *       *       *       *

ISOLATION

  Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
  With echoing straits between us thrown,
  Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
  We mortal millions live _alone_.
  The islands feel the enclasping flow,
  And then their endless bounds they know.

  But when the moon their hollows lights,
  And they are swept by balms of spring,
  And in their glens, on starry nights,
  The nightingales divinely sing;
  And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
  Across the sounds and channels pour—

  Oh! then a longing like despair
  Is to their farthest caverns sent;
  For surely once, they feel, we were
  Parts of a single continent!
  Now round us spreads the watery plain—
  Oh might our marges meet again!

  Who ordered, that their longing’s fire
  Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
  Who renders vain their deep desire?
  A God, a God their severance ruled!
  And bade betwixt their shores to be
  The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea.

                           MATTHEW ARNOLD.

    This fine poem is one of a series called “Switzerland,” which
    was written as the result of Arnold’s meeting and falling in
    love with a lady at Berne. The poem immediately preceding it in
    the series is entitled “Isolation: To Marguerite,” while this
    is called “To Marguerite, Continued” but as it is now quoted
    separately, it is better entitled “Isolation.”

    In the preceding poems the lady has lost her affection while
    her lover is still devoted; and this leads to the subject of
    our isolation from each other in our inner lives. In the second
    verse the poet describes the moments when we most crave for
    love, sympathy, and mutual spiritual understanding and union.

    For an interesting fact connected with this poem, see next
    quotation and note.

       *       *       *       *       *

(Thackeray has been describing how husband, wife, mother, son—each of the
inmates of a household—is interested in his or her own separate world and
looking at the same things from a different point of view.) How lonely
we are in the world! You and your wife have pressed the same pillow for
forty years and fancy yourselves united: pshaw! does she cry out when
you have the gout, or do you lie awake when she has the tooth-ache?...
As for your wife—O philosophic reader, answer and say, Do you tell _her_
all? Ah, sir, a distinct universe walks about under your hat and under
mine—all things in nature are different to each—the woman we look at has
not the same features, the dish we eat from has not the same taste to the
one and the other—you and I are but a pair of infinite isolations, with
some fellow-islands a little more or less near to us.

                                        THACKERAY (_Pendennis_, ch. XVI).

    The similarity between this passage and the preceding poem,
    written at about the same time, is very curious. Arnold’s
    poem appeared in 1852 but was composed ten years earlier,
    while _Pendennis_ was published in monthly parts in 1849-50.
    Therefore, neither author would consciously know at the time
    what the other had written.

    The incident is probably an illustration of the mysterious way
    in which minds influence one another and create the spirit of
    the particular age. There is, I believe, a Chinese proverb to
    the effect that we are more the product of our age than of our
    parents. This permeating quality of thought and feeling is,
    no doubt, the explanation why the highest art and literature,
    though often unappreciated at the time, become ultimately
    recognized. It appears not to be sufficiently taken into
    account in other directions. For instance, it is repeatedly
    stated that Blake, because of the limited circulation of his
    poems, exercised _no_ influence on the Romantic Revival—see for
    example _The Cambridge History of English Literature_, Vol. XI,
    201. Yet we know that his work was known to and appreciated by
    Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb, Southey, and Hayley. (Although
    little regarded now, Hayley’s fame was then so great that he
    was offered and refused the poet-laureateship. He appears to
    be the one man who was an intimate friend of both Blake and
    Cowper.) While a very long period went by before Blake’s poems
    became generally known, their influence may well have been
    very great, permeating unconsciously through other minds. See
    reference on p. 194 to the similar case of Fitzgerald’s “Omar
    Khayyam.”

    Even if a poem were read by _only one person_, it might
    conceivably influence a generation of authors. Suppose, if that
    had been possible, a page of Swinburne’s “Tristram of Lyonesse”
    or F. W. H. Myers’ “Implicit Promise” (both quoted elsewhere)
    had been read by Pope or Dryden; how the monotonous heroic
    couplet of their time might have been transformed!

       *       *       *       *       *

  A child was playing on a summer strand
  That fringed the wavelets of a sunny sea;
  The mother looked in love. “Now build,” said she,
  “Your splendid golden castles where you stand;
  But when the wave has beaten all to sand,
  You must go home.” “Ah, not so soon,” said he.

  And now the night has darkened out his glee,
  And sad-eyed Grief has grasped him by the hand.
  No more the years shall find him free and wild
  And madly merry as a bright brave bird:
  For earth has nothing like the home he craves
  And pauseless Time is beating bitter waves
  On all his palaces. He waits the word
  Away beyond the blue, “Come home, my child.”

                           R. HODGSON, 1879.

    An impromptu written when the mother and child incident
    happened and not revised.

       *       *       *       *       *

Humanity is neither a love for the whole human race, nor a love for each
individual of it, but a love for the race, or for the ideal of man, in
each individual. In other and less pedantic words, he who is truly humane
considers every human being _as such_ interesting and important, and
without waiting to criticize each individual specimen, pays in advance
to all alike the tribute of good wishes and sympathy.... If some human
beings are abject and contemptible, if it be incredible to us that they
can have any high dignity or destiny, do we regard them from so great a
height as Christ? Are we likely to be more pained by their faults and
deficiencies than he was? Is our standard higher than his? And yet he
associated by preference with these meanest of the race; no contempt
for them did he ever express, no suspicion that they might be less dear
than the best and wisest to the common Father, no doubt that they were
naturally capable of rising to a moral elevation like his own. There
is nothing of which a man may be prouder than of this; it is the most
hopeful and redeeming fact in history; it is precisely what was wanting
to raise the love of man as man to enthusiasm. An eternal glory has been
shed upon the human race by the love Christ bore to it.

                                          SIR J. R. SEELEY (_Ecce Homo_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  On parent knees, a naked, new-born child,
  Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled:
  So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep
  Calm thou mayst smile, while all around thee weep.

                           SIR WILLIAM JONES (1746-1794) (_From the
                           Persian_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Can the earth where the harrow is driven
    The sheaf of the furrow foresee?
  Or thou guess the harvest for heaven
    When iron has entered in thee?

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

    This was quoted by Lord Lytton in an essay on _The Influence of
    Love upon Literature and Real Life_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
    Each softly lucent as a rounded moon;
  The diver, Omar, plucked them from their bed,
  Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.

                           J. R. LOWELL (_On Omar Khayyam_).

       *       *       *       *       *

It is hard for us to live up to our own eloquence, and keep pace with our
winged words, while we are treading the solid earth and are liable to
heavy dining.

                                         GEORGE ELIOT (_Daniel Deronda_).

       *       *       *       *       *

So, then, as darkness had no beginning, neither will it ever have an end.
So, then, is it eternal. The negation of aught else, is its affirmation.
Where the light cannot come, there abideth the darkness. The light doth
but hollow a mine out of the infinite extension of the darkness. And
ever upon the steps of the light treadeth the darkness; yea, springeth
in fountains and wells amidst it, from the secret channels of its mighty
sea. Truly, man is but a passing flame, moving unquietly amid the
surrounding rest of night; without which he yet could not be, and whereof
he is in part compounded.

                                             G. MACDONALD (_Phantastes_).

    In the story an ogre is reading this passage from a book.
    _Phantastes_ is MacDonald’s finest work.

       *       *       *       *       *

    There, on the fields around,
    All men shall till the ground,
  Corn shall wave yellow, and bright rivers stream;
    Daily, at set of sun,
    All, when their work is done,
  Shall watch the heavens yearn down and the strange starlight gleam.

                           R. BUCHANAN (_The City of Man_).

    This is the poet’s vision of the city of the future, and will
    be interesting to the allotment-holders in English cities
    to-day.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what’s become of all the gold
  Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.

                           R. BROWNING (_A Toccata of Galuppi’s_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Quand on n’a pas ce que l’on aime,
  Il faut aimer ce que l’on a.

  (When you have not what you love
  You must love what you have.)

                           THOMAS CORNEILLE (_L’Inconnu_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  At last methought that I had wandered far
    In an old wood: fresh-washed in coolest dew
  The maiden splendours of the morning star
    Shook in the steadfast blue....

  At length I saw a lady within call,
    Stiller than chiselled marble, standing there;
  A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
    And most divinely fair.

  ...

  I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise,
    One sitting on a crimson scarf unrolled;
  A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes,
    Brow-bound with burning gold....

  “I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found
    Me lying dead, my crown about my brows,
  A name for ever!—lying robed and crowned,
    Worthy a Roman spouse.”

                           TENNYSON (_A Dream of Fair Women_).

    Helen of Troy and Cleopatra—but, as Peacock mentioned in _Gryll
    Grange_, Cleopatra was of pure Greek descent and could not have
    been a “swarthy” lady.

       *       *       *       *       *

        One pond of water gleams;
  ... the trees bend
  O’er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl.

                           R. BROWNING (_Pauline_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
  Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

  I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long;
  For sideways would she lean, and sing
    A faery’s song.

                           KEATS (_La Belle Dame sans Merci_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  He put the hawthorn twigs apart,
  And yet saw no more wondrous thing
    Than seven white swans, who on wide wing
  Went circling round, till one by one
  They dropped the dewy grass upon.

                           W. MORRIS (_The Earthly Paradise, the Land
                           East of the Sun_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Quoth Christabel.—So let it be!
  And, as the lady bade, did she.
  Her gentle limbs did she undress
  And lay down in her loveliness.

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_Christabel_)

    The six quotations above are word-pictures (see note p. 85).

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a mistake into which spiritually-minded men have fallen, that God
is apprehended and known by a special faculty. The fact is that every
faculty is serviceable in this noble work. We reach the Divine through
our aesthetic faculties when our soul is stirred by a grand burst of
music, or by the contemplation of a magnificent landscape. We reach
the Divine through our purely intellectual faculties, when, by true
reasoning, founded on sound observation, we master any great law by which
God governs the world. We reach the Divine through our emotional nature
when pure grief or pure love, holy longing, unselfish hope, righteous
indignation, elevate us above the prosaic level of customary equanimity,
and help us to realize the incomparable beauty of holiness.

Just as the weeping Magdalene[32] stood bewailing the loss of what even
to her was only sacred clay, all unconscious that her Saviour had been
given back to her without seeing corruption, in a glorified and eternal
form, not dead, but alive for evermore, whom she could love with ever
increasing ardour of devotion: so, we say, there are not a few in our
time whose lot it is to wring their hands over the grave of lost ideas,
which they loved and their fathers loved, but for which God himself is
substituting ideas nobler and better far, which earlier ages failed to
grasp only because they were not in circumstances to feel their higher
worth.

One cannot demonstrate on any physical or visible basis whatever,
that it is a nobler thing to suffer injustice than to commit it, that
truth-speaking is honourable, forgiveness of injuries magnanimous, and
loving self-sacrifice for others sublime. Honour, purity, humility,
reverence, tenderness, courtesy, patience, these things cannot be weighed
on physical scales, cannot be handled or touched, or melted or frozen in
any mechanical or chemical laboratory. They belong to a different order
of realities from acids and vapours: they are denizens of what, for want
of any more definite or accurate expression, we are accustomed to call
the spiritual world.

One can see how religion should, to a young person, be associated with
repressive and prohibitive laws. Youth is the time for the luxuriating of
newborn, and, therefore, delicious vital forces. But its very luxuriance
is disorderly, and religion cannot coexist with disorder. Therefore,
that which is so continually warning the young against impulse, and
passion, and irregularity, ought not to be too greatly displeased if it
should, by and by, come to be regarded by the young as a synonym for
mere repressive force, and, therefore, as an unpleasant and unpopular
thing. I believe, too, that there is no exception to the uniformity of
the experience, that all young countries adopt freer systems of religion,
and divest religious bodies more completely of all political and properly
coercive power than older countries. It is all an illustration of the
same thing. Young life, which most needs regulation, most dislikes it.[33]

As the genius of the bard is in the poem, as the wisdom of the legislator
is in the law, as the skill of the mechanician is in the engine, as
the soul of the musician is in the harmony and melody, as the words of
a man’s lips issue from the inner world of his mental and spiritual
character—so every work of God, and conspicuously man, as the noblest of
God’s works, may truly be said to shadow forth a portion of the mind of
God.

We talk of creation as a past thing. But the truth is, creation is
eternal. Creation never ceases. Every time the clouds drop in rain, every
time the waters freeze into new ice, every time the juices of nature
gather into another violet, every time a new wail of life is heard upon
a mother’s breast, every time you breathe another sigh, or shed another
tear, there is God as truly present in His miraculous creative capacity
as on the day when He said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.

                                               P. S. MENZIES (_Sermons_).

    Apart from their intrinsic value, the above extracts are
    given because this book of sermons is of special interest to
    Australians and because it has passed into oblivion. There are
    very few copies in existence.

    Menzies came from Glasgow to Scots Church, Melbourne, in 1868
    and died at the early age of thirty-four in 1874. At the
    Glasgow University he had been largely influenced mentally and
    spiritually by Principal Caird.

    The sermons published in this book were selected by his widow
    after his death. Although not revised by their gifted young
    author, the fine thoughts expressed in chaste and beautiful
    language remind one of James Martineau.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our sweet illusions are half of them conscious illusions—like effects of
colour that we know to be made up of tinsel, broken glass, and rags.

                                        GEORGE ELIOT (_The Lifted Veil_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  My _Galligaskins_ that have long withstood
  The Winter’s Fury, and incroaching Frosts,
  By Time subdued, (what will not Time subdue!)
  An horrid Chasm disclose, with Orifice
  Wide, discontinuous.

                           JOHN PHILLIPS (1676-1709) (_The Splendid
                           Shilling_).

    _Galligaskins_, trunk-hose. “The Splendid Shilling” is a famous
    parody on Milton.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We would not pray that sorrow ne’er may shed
  Her dews along the pathway they must tread;
  The sweetest flowers would never bloom at all,
  If no least rain of tears did ever fall.

                           GERALD MASSEY (_Via Crucis, Via Lucis_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  But his wings will not rest and his feet will not stay for us;
    Morning is here in the joy of its might;
  With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us;
  Now let him pass and the myrtles make way for us;
    Love can but last in us here at his height
              For a day and a night.

                           SWINBURNE (_At Parting_).

       *       *       *       *       *

That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not
yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our
frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling
of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and
the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on
the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well
wadded with stupidity.

                                            GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

    In the story Dorothea has found her husband to be a man of
    narrow mind and unsympathetic nature. Such a disillusionment
    after marriage frequently happens, and we are not deeply
    moved by what is not unusual, although it may mean a real
    life-tragedy. Ruskin says “God gives the disposition to every
    healthy human mind in some degree to pass over or even harden
    itself against evil things, else the suffering would be too
    great to be borne” (_Modern Painters_ v., xix., 32). Only thus
    could we have lived through the horrors of the present war.

    George Eliot’s analogy between intensity of the emotions and
    acuteness of the senses reminds one of Pope’s lines (“Essay on
    Man,” Ep. I.) where he says life would be insupportable, if we
    had the acute hearing, smell and other senses of insects and
    other animals; we should

      Die of a rose in aromatic pain.

       *       *       *       *       *

                Man that passes by
  So like to God, so like the beasts that die.

                           W. MORRIS (_The Earthly Paradise_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;
    The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound;
  What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;
    On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.

  All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;
    Not in semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power,
  Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist
    When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
  The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,
    The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,
  Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;
    Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by and bye.

                           R. BROWNING (_Abt Vogler_).

    Abt—or Abbé—Georg Joseph Vogler, 1749-1814, a German organist
    and composer, is probably chosen by Browning because, although
    an important musician, his compositions have perished. In this
    fine poem Vogler has been extemporizing, and his inspired music
    has lifted him in ecstasy to heaven. The sounds are his slaves
    who have built palaces of music, as in the Arab legends angels
    and demons built magic structures for Solomon. He grieves that
    this wonderful music should apparently have vanished for ever;
    but is comforted by the thought that no good thing, no fine
    aspiration, no great effort or noble impulse can really die,
    but must exist for ever in the mind of God.

    If Browning had known the evidence now afforded scientifically
    by hypnotism and otherwise, he might have come to the
    conclusion that all our thoughts and feelings, _both good
    and bad_, are recorded deep down in our own consciousness.
    Moreover, the existence of thought-transference leads to the
    somewhat dreadful suggestion that this record of all our
    inmost thoughts and feelings may possibly become open to the
    inspection of every one.

    The quotation reminds one of Wordsworth’s sonnet on the “Inside
    of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge.”

                Where music dwells
      Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die;
      Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
      That they were born for immortality.

       *       *       *       *       *

                  ... Had I painted the whole,
    Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth;
  Had I written the same, made verse—still, effect proceeds from cause,
    Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told;
  It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,
    Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:—

  But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,
    Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are!
  And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man,
    That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.
  Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought;
    It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said:
  Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought:
    And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!

                           ROBERT BROWNING (_Abt Vogler_).

    See the preceding note. The poet says that Painting and Poetry
    are “art in obedience to laws,” but the musician exerts a
    higher _creative_ will akin to that of God. The painter has
    before him the pictures he reproduces, the poet borrows
    his imagery from visible things and has apt words in which
    to express his thoughts: the musician has nothing visible,
    nothing outside his own soul, to assist him, and can use only
    the meaningless sounds which we hear everywhere around us. By
    combining, however, three of those empty sounds (in a chord)
    he evolves a fourth sound, which so transcends all that other
    arts can do in expressing emotion that Browning compares it to
    a “star.”

    But this expresses only part of the poet’s meaning. In using
    this tremendous comparison to a _star_, as also in enthroning
    music supreme above art and poetry, he means that it transcends
    their loftiest flights and rises _above our world_ to the
    heavens above. In the earlier part of the poem the “pinnacled
    glory” built by the slaves of sound at the bidding of the
    musician’s soul is based “broad on the roots of things” and
    ascends until it “attains to heaven.”

    F. W. H. Myers, in “The Renewal of Youth,” has a passage on
    music. His theme is that while music (as in Mozart’s operas)
    may express human passion, it also (as in Beethoven) rises
    to greater heights and appears to voice the emotions of a
    world beyond our senses. In the lines I have italicized in
    the following passage he no doubt refers to Browning’s line,
    “That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a
    star!”—the “star” meaning that music ascends to a higher world
    than our own:—

            ... Music is a creature bound,
      A voice not ours, the imprisoned soul of sound,—
      Who fain would bend down hither and find her part
      In the strong passion of a hero’s heart,
      Or one great hour constrains herself to sing
      Pastoral peace and waters wandering;—
      _Then hark how on a chord she is rapt and flown_
      _To that true world thou seest not nor hast known_,
      Nor speech of thine can her strange thought unfold,
      The bars’ wild beat, and ripple of running gold.

    Not only does Browning unselfishly assert that the sister-art
    is superior to his own, but he goes further, and doubts if
    music is not the greatest of all man’s gifts. I do not discuss
    either contention—leaving musicians to rejoice in the tribute
    of a great poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Although a gem be cast away,
  And lie obscured in heaps of clay,
    Its precious worth is still the same;
  Although vile dust be whirled to heaven,
  To it no dignity is given,
    Still base as when from earth it came.

                           SADI (_L. S. Costello’s translation_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Death closes all: but something ere the end,
  Some work of noble note, may yet be done....
  Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
  We are not now that strength which in old days
  Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
  One equal temper of heroic hearts,
  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

                           TENNYSON (_Ulysses_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Jenny kissed me when we met,
    Jumping from the chair she sat in;
  Time, you thief, who love to get
    Sweets into your list, put that in!
  Say I’m weary, say I’m sad.
    Say that health and wealth have missed me,
  Say I’m growing old, but add
    Jenny kissed me.

                           LEIGH HUNT.

    “Jenny” was Mrs. Carlyle.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A gracious spirit o’er this earth presides
  And o’er the heart of man: invisibly
  It comes, to works of unreproved delight
  And tendency benign, directing those
  Who care not, know not, think not what they do.
  The tales that charm away the wakeful night
  In Araby; romances; legends penned
  For solace by dim light of monkish lamps;
  Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised
  By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun
  By the dismantled warrior in old age,
  Out of the bowels of those very schemes
  In which his youth did first extravagate;
  These spread like day, and something in the shape
  Of these will live till man shall be no more.
  Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,
  And _they must_ have their food. Our childhood sits,
  Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne
  That hath more power than all the elements.

                           WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude_, Bk. V.)

       *       *       *       *       *

The world is so inconveniently constituted, that the vague consciousness
of being a fine fellow is no guarantee of success in any line of business.

                                          GEORGE ELIOT (_Brother Jacob_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Wasted, weary,—wherefore stay
  Wrestling thus with earth and clay!
  From the body pass away!—
    Hark! the mass is singing.

  From thee doff thy mortal weed,
  Mary Mother be thy speed,
  Saints to help thee at thy need!
    Hark! the knell is ringing.

  Fear not snow-drift driving past,
  Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;
  Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
  And the sleep be on thee cast
    That shall know no waking.

  Haste thee, haste thee to be gone,
  Earth flits past, and time draws on,—
  Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
    Day is near the breaking.

                           SIR WALTER SCOTT.

    From _Guy Mannering_. Scott says it is a prayer or spell, which
    was used in Scotland or Northern England to speed the passage
    of a parting spirit, like the tolling of a bell in Catholic
    days.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The world is full of Woodmen who expel
  Love’s gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,
  And vex the nightingales in every dell.

                           SHELLEY (_The Woodman and the Nightingale_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Evil of every kind, being familiar to us as an _object_ of apprehension,
appears to be external to ourselves. And yet it is invested with the
greater part of its severity by the mind: it acts upon us by the ideas
it awakens, the affections it wounds, the aspirations it disappoints. If
its outward pressure were all, and it dealt with us as beings of sense
alone, it would lose most of its poignancy and would dwindle down into a
few animal pangs.... It is our higher nature that creates immeasurably
the greater part of the ills we endure: they are ideal, not sensible:
and it is the privilege of reason to have tears instead of groans; of
love to know grief instead of pain; of conscience to replace uneasiness
with remorse.... Penury, disgrace, bereavement, guilt, are evils which we
must be human in order to feel; and it is the penalty of our nobleness,
not only to be weighed down by their occasional burthen, but to be
perpetually haunted by the phantom of their approach.

                           JAMES MARTINEAU (_Hours of Thought_, II, 150).

       *       *       *       *       *

Two or three of them got round me, and begged me for the twentieth time
to tell them the name of my country. Then, as they could not pronounce
it satisfactorily, they insisted that I was deceiving them, and that it
was a name of my own invention. One funny old man, who bore a ludicrous
resemblance to a friend of mine at home, was almost indignant. “Unglung!”
said he, “who ever heard of such a name?—anglang, angerlang—_that_ can’t
be the name of your country; you are playing with us.” Then he tried to
give a convincing illustration. “My country is Wanumbai—anybody can say
Wanumbai. I’m an orang-Wanumbai; but N-glung! who ever heard of such a
name? Do tell us the real name of your country, and when you are gone
we shall know how to talk about you.” To this luminous argument and
remonstrance I could oppose nothing but assertion, and the whole party
remained firmly convinced that I was for some reason or other deceiving
them.

                                 A. R. WALLACE (_The Malay Archipelago_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
  Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
  So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
  Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

                           LONGFELLOW (_Tales of a Wayside Inn_).

    This was written in 1863, but ten years earlier Alexander
    Smith, in “A Life Drama,” had written:

      We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,
      Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet;
      One little hour! and then away they speed
      On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam,
      To meet no more.

    Other writers have also used the same simile. See next poem.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUA CURSUM VENTUS

  As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
    With canvas drooping, side by side,
  Two towers of sail at dawn of day
    Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

  When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
    And all the darkling hours they plied,
  Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
    By each was cleaving, side by side:

  E’en so—but why the tale reveal
    Of those, whom year by year unchanged,
  Brief absence joined anew to feel
    Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

  At dead of night their sails were filled,
    And onward each rejoicing steered—
  Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
    Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

  To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
    Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
  Through winds and tides one compass guides—
    To that, and your own selves, be true.

  But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
    Though ne’er, that earliest parting past,
  On your wide plain they join again,
    Together lead them home at last.

  One port, methought, alike they sought,
    One purpose hold where’er they fare,—
  O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
    At last, at last, unite them there!

                           A. H. CLOUGH.

    Two friends, who through absence have become “soul from soul
    estranged,” are compared to two ships, which unconsciously draw
    apart during the night and must continue a diverging course;
    but, being both bound for the same port, will at the end of
    their life-voyage be re-united.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Speak to Him thou, for He hears—and Spirit with Spirit can meet—
  Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

                           TENNYSON (_The Higher Pantheism_).

    Tennyson, here and elsewhere (see, for example, the king’s
    beautiful speech in “The Passing of Arthur”) urges us to
    _prayer_, and adds his belief in a personal intercourse with
    an ever-present and loving God. Innumerable men of the highest
    character during nineteen centuries have testified to the same
    direct communion with the Almighty.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A third in sugar with unscriptural hand
  Traffics and builds a lasting house on sand.

                           ALFRED AUSTIN (_The Golden Age_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Thou canst not in life’s city
    Rule thy course as in a cell:
  There are others, all thy brothers,
    Who have work to do as well.

  Some events that mar thy purpose
    May light _them_ upon their way;
  Our sun-shining in declining
    Gives earth’s other side the day.

                           R. A. VAUGHAN (_Hours with the Mystics_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  My little craft sails not alone;
  A thousand fleets from every zone
  Are out upon a thousand seas;
  And what for me were favouring breeze
  Might dash another, with the shock
  Of doom, upon some hidden rock.
  And so I do not dare to pray
  For winds to waft me on my way.

                           CATHERINE ATHERTON MASON.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man’s body and his mind, with the utmost reverence to both I speak it,
are exactly like a jerkin and a jerkin’s lining: rumple the one, you
rumple the other.

                                              STERNE (_Tristram Shandy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Il (Boucher) trouvait la nature trop verte et mal éclairée. Et son ami,
Lancret, le peintre des salons à la mode, lui répondait: “Je suis de
votre sentiment, la nature manque d’harmonie et de séduction.”

(He, Boucher, found nature too green and badly lit. And his friend,
Lancret, the fashionable painter of the day, replied to him, “I am of
your opinion, nature is wanting in harmony and seductiveness.”)

                                                           CHARLES BLANC.

    See following quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

If you examine the literature of the 17th and 18th centuries, you
will find that nearly all its expressions, having reference to the
country, show ... either a foolish sentimentality, or a morbid fear,
both of course coupled with the most curious ignorance. Nothing is more
remarkable than the general conception of the country merely as a series
of green fields, and the combined ignorance and dread of more sublime
scenery. The love of fresh air and green grass forced itself upon the
animal natures of men; but that of the sublimer features of scenery had
no place in minds whose chief powers had been repressed by the formalisms
of the age. And although in the second-rate writers continually, and in
the first-rate ones occasionally, you find an affectation of interest
in mountains, clouds, and forests, yet whenever they write from their
heart, you will find an utter absence of feeling respecting anything
beyond gardens and grass. Examine, for instance, the novels of Smollett,
Fielding, and Sterne, the comedies of Molière, and the writings of
Johnson and Addison, and I do not think you will find a single expression
of true delight in sublime nature in any one of them. Perhaps Sterne’s
_Sentimental Journey_, in its total absence of sentiment on any subject
but humanity, and its entire want of notice of anything at Geneva which
might not as well have been seen at Coxwold, is the most striking
instance I could give you; and if you compare with this negation of
feeling on one side, the interludes of Molière, in which shepherds
and shepherdesses are introduced in court dress, you will have a very
accurate conception of the general spirit of the age.

                               JOHN RUSKIN (_Architecture and Painting_).

       *       *       *       *       *

“My other piece of advice, Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “you know.
Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six,
result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty
pounds ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf
is withered, the God of day goes down upon the dreary scene, and—and in
short, you are for ever floored. As I am!”

                                   CHARLES DICKENS (_David Copperfield_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
        Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,
  So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
        And into glory peep.

                           HENRY VAUGHAN (_Friends Departed_).

    This is Vision.

       *       *       *       *       *

                            ... The trial-test
  Appointed to all flesh at some one stage
  Of soul’s achievement—when the strong man doubts
  His strength, the good man whether goodness be,
  The artist in the dark seeks, fails to find
  Vocation, and the saint forswears his shrine.

                           R. BROWNING (_The Inn Album_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  I sits with my toes in a brook;
    If anyone asks me for why,
  I hits him a rap with my crook—
    ’Tis sentiment kills me, says I.

                           HORACE WALPOLE.

    This was written in a game of _bouts rimés_ (rhymed ends). Four
    lines had to be composed ending with “brook,” “why,” “crook,”
    “I.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
  And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,
          And who knoweth which is best?

  Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,
  And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our incompleteness—
          Round our restlessness, His rest.

                           E. B. BROWNING (_Rhyme of the Duchess May_).

       *       *       *       *       *

                      I go to prove my soul!
  I see my way as birds their trackless way.
  I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,
  I ask not: but unless God send his hail
  Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
  In some time, his good time, I shall arrive:
  He guides me and the bird. In his good time!

                           R. BROWNING (_Paracelsus_).

    Referring to Bryant’s poem, “To a Waterfowl”:—

          He who from zone to zone
      Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
          In the long way that I must tread alone,
              Will lead my steps aright.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Souvent femme varie,
  Bien fol est qui s’y fie!

  (Woman is very fickle,
  Great fool he who trusts in her!)

                           VICTOR HUGO (_Le Roi s’amuse_).

    In the play Francis I (1494-1547) enters singing these lines.
    (Francis wrote on the walls of the royal apartments at Chambord
    _Toute femme varie_, “Every woman is fickle.”) One finds this
    never-ending theme of poets and cynics in Virgil’s _Varium et
    mutabile semper Femina_, “Woman is a fickle and changeable
    thing” (_Aeneid_ iv, 569), _La donna è mobile_ (_Rigoletto_),
    and countless other passages.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Crowned with flowers I saw fair Amaryllis
    By Thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of Chrystal,
  And with her hand more white than snow or lilies,
    On sand she wrote “My faith shall be immortal”:
  And suddenly a storm of wind and weather
  Blew all her faith and sand away together.

                           ANON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
  Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,
  More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
  Than women’s are.

                           _Twelfth Night_, II, 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  If Thou be’st born to strange sights,
    Things invisible to see,
  Ride ten thousand days and nights
    Till Age snow white hairs on thee;
  Thou, when thou return’st, will tell me
  All strange wonders that befell thee,
      And swear
      No where
  Lives a woman true, and fair.

  If thou find’st one, let me know:
    Such a pilgrimage were sweet.
  Yet do not; I would not go,
    Though at next door we might meet.
  Though she were true when you met her,
  And last till you write your letter,
      Yet she
      Will be
  False, ere I come, to two or three.

                           JOHN DONNE (_Song_).

       *       *       *       *       *

In his broken fashion Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his land,
owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king, chiefs
and great people generally were in the custom of fattening some of the
lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house comfortably in that
respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy fellows, and lay them
round in the piers and alcoves. Besides it was very convenient on an
excursion—much better than those garden-chairs which are convertible
into walking-sticks. Upon occasion a chief would call his attendant, and
desire him to make a settee of himself under a spreading tree—perhaps in
some damp marshy place.

                                           HERMAN MELVILLE (_Moby Dick_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde:
  Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God;
  As I wad do, were I Lord God,
  And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.

                           G. MACDONALD (_David Elginbrod_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Dieu me pardonnera; c’est son métier.

(God will pardon me; that is His business.)

                                                                   HEINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O Lord, it broke my heart to see his pain!
  I thought—I dared to think—if _I_ were God,
  Poor Caird should never gang so dark a road;
  I thought—ay, dared to think, the Lord forgie!—
  The Lord was crueller than I could be;
  Forgetting God is just and knoweth best
  What folk should burn in fire, what folk be blest.

                           R. BUCHANAN (_A Scottish Eclogue_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SEA.

  Thoughts and tears as I turn away,
    Tears for a long ago:
  She looks out on a summer day,
    I on a night of snow.
  But I see some ferns and a rushing rill
    And my love that promised me,
  And a day we spent on God’s great hill
    On the other side of the sea,
      My heart,
    On the other side of the sea.

  Ay! the hill was green and the sky was blue,
    And the path was dappled fair,
  But a light from loving eyes shone through
    Beyond the sunlight there.
  And I gave my life—and who’s to blame?—
    As over the hill went we:
  But the sky and the hill and the way we came
    Are the other side of the sea,
      Sad heart,
    Are the other side of the sea....

  ’Mid trees and grass and a tangled wall
    We wandered merrily down,
  Through the homeless boughs and the forest fall
    Of the dead leaves thick and brown.
  But faith is broken and life is pain
    And oh! it can never be
  That I gather those golden hours again
    On the other side of the sea,
      Poor heart,
    On the other side of the sea.

  Though the sea is wild and the sea is dark,
    It will sink and slip away
  At the bounding scorn of my speeding bark
    To the land of that dear day;
  But never the Love of my soul be seen,
    The light of that day to me,
  For I know there is lying our hearts between
    A wilder and darker sea,
      O God!
    The depth of a bitterer sea.

                           RICHARD HODGSON.

    This was written in March, 1879, after Hodgson had left
    Australia for England. The love-episode is imaginary.

       *       *       *       *       *

  They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,
    And go to church on Sunday;
  And many are afraid of God—
    And more of Mrs. Grundy.

                           F. LOCKER-LAMPSON (_The Jester’s Plea_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Greece and her foundations are
  Built below the tide of war,
  Based on the crystalline sea
  Of thought and its eternity.

                           SHELLEY (_Hellas_).

    It is very true that the amazing intellectual power of the
    Greeks in a primitive age ensures them an immortality of fame;
    and this is finely expressed _in the last two lines_. But those
    two splendid lines are utterly spoilt by the two that precede
    them. One asks, Why “Greece _and_ her foundations”? One does
    not say “a house _and_ its foundations” are built somewhere
    or other. This by itself would be trivial, but next comes the
    question, What is the meaning of the second line? We know what
    Shelley intended—that the memory and influence of Greece will
    withstand its destruction by war—but why in that case should
    she not be built _above_, instead of submerged _below_ the
    tide of war? Later on, in lines 836-7, the Emperor Palæologus,
    at the siege of Constantinople, is said to have cast himself
    “_beneath_ the stream of war”; that is to say, he was
    overwhelmed and killed. The words, in fact, do not express the
    poet’s meaning. The third and fatal defect of the lines is the
    juxtaposition of “tide” and “sea” —the city is _built below a
    tide_, and also _based on a sea_. Not only is this combination
    absurd in itself, but it also destroys the beauty of the last
    two magnificent lines. The moving unstable water is scarcely
    a foundation to build upon, yet this meaning is forcibly
    impressed upon the word “sea” by the previous mention of a
    “tide.” What Shelley meant was an immense broad, deep, expanse
    of _solid crystal_—the “sea of glass like unto crystal” of
    Revelations (iv, 6) and the _Mer de Glace_ (“sea of ice”), the
    great Alpine glacier.[34] Therefore, anyone who had exactness
    of thought or perception of poetry would omit the first two
    lines and give only the last two as a quotation.

    Mrs. Shelley in her note on “Hellas” specially refers to
    this verse as a beautiful example of Shelley’s style, and
    she quotes _all four_ lines. We may assume, therefore, that
    Shelley himself thought highly of the verse, and we thus have
    an illustration of the curious fact that a great poet is often
    a poor judge of his own poetry. (Almost certainly Shakespeare
    himself did not realize how god-like he stood above all other
    poets.) However, it is not only for this reason that I have
    included the above quotation, but because with it I propose to
    make a flank attack upon Mr. R. W. Livingstone, the author of
    _The Greek Genius and its Meaning to us_. I do this, of course,
    with a special object in view.

    Mr. Livingstone’s book is important, valuable, and highly
    interesting—and is especially admirable because the author
    does not envelope his subject in the usual glamour, born of
    enthusiasm. He is, indeed, most exceptional in this respect,
    that he endeavours to look at the Greeks from an ordinary
    commonsense point of view. But he makes the mistake, not
    unusual with classical men, of supposing that he is a qualified
    critic of poetry; and he, therefore, gives us a special
    dissertation upon the comparative values of English and Greek
    poetry.

    Apart from this dissertation, he quotes three or four passages
    from English poets in the course of the book. Of these the
    most prominent is the above verse of Shelley’s, and he quotes
    _all four_ lines without comment. Thus we see an able man, in
    whom classical study should have induced exactness of thought,
    failing to analyse and understand what he is quoting. But,
    more than this, the question is one of poetic perception. The
    imagery in the last _two_ lines is sublime—in the _four_ lines
    it is ludicrous. Therefore, we begin with the fact that our
    literary critic was unable to see palpable and grave defects in
    one of the few verses he himself quotes. (I might give other
    illustrations, as where he admires poor verse of Dryden’s, but
    I must be brief.)

    Mr. Livingstone’s point is that the “direct” and “truthful”
    character of Greek poetry is superior to the “imaginative”
    quality of English verse. He goes so far as to say that “Sappho
    and Simonides _with four words_ make him see a nightingale and
    give him a greater and far saner pleasure” than Shelley’s poem
    “To a Skylark.” I take his quotation from Simonides, as it
    involves less discussion than that from Sappho.[35] It is (Fr,
    73) ἀὴδονες πολυκώτιλοι χλωραύχενες εἰαριναί, “The warbling
    nightingales with olive necks, the birds of spring.”

    As Mr. Livingstone is not discussing beauty of expression we
    can leave this out of consideration.[36] He is discussing
    the _substance_ of poetry, comparing the “directness” and
    “truthfulness” of Simonides (in this case) with the imaginative
    element in Shelley’s poem. He would apparently discard the
    latter element altogether, and prefers a simple description of
    the nightingale—that it sings, has an olive neck, and appears
    in spring. The first suggestion that occurs to one is that
    if, say, an auctioneer’s catalogue of farm stock—without any
    addition whatever to its contents—could be worded prettily and
    made metrical, it would afford huge enjoyment to our literary
    critic.

    The whole question is as to the value of the imaginative
    element which to our minds makes Shelley’s poem one of the
    most beautiful lyrics—possibly the most beautiful—in all
    literature. In sweeping away this element, Mr. Livingstone
    tells us how much of English poetry must be cast aside. But he
    does not realize that much else has also to be flung on the
    scrap-heap. Imagination, in its true sense, includes all those
    aesthetic, moral, and spiritual faculties which are higher than
    the intellect—all, in fact, that raises man above his material
    existence. (See pp. 39, 40, 358.) With the immense deal of
    English poetry which Mr. Livingstone proposes to “scrap” must
    go all our most beautiful music, all that is great in painting
    (which is never “direct” and “truthful” in this sense, or
    it would not be great), _all Greek statuary_, and all that
    expresses high moral and spiritual truths in our literature. I
    do not think that Mr. Livingstone will find many adherents to
    his new creed.

    This critic also discusses _style_, and we find that he speaks
    of Pope as a “great poet,” and apparently revels in his
    monotonous verse! When pointing out that English verse, unlike
    what we have left of Greek poetry, includes much unequal and
    ill-finished work, he says, “Of all our great poets, perhaps
    only Milton and Pope can boast unfailing excellence of style.”

    As regards this inequality in the work of English poets the
    answer is very simple. Mr. Livingstone forgets the fact—a
    very important fact in any speculation upon the scheme of the
    universe—that only the good things ultimately survive. How
    very little we have left of many Greek poets! Of Sophocles
    only seven plays remain out of one hundred and twenty-seven,
    _and the Fragments collected are said to be very poor_ (many,
    of course, are only grammatical illustrations)—and more than
    half of Homer must have been dropped. We probably still have
    everything that is _best_ in Greek literature. Again, it is
    not in fact _desirable_ to restrict publication to work of the
    highest importance, and the facilities afforded by printing
    have made it _unnecessary_ thus to restrict it—so that even _My
    Commonplace Book_ is now, at least temporarily, part of English
    literature!

    Greatly as I admire Mr. Livingstone’s book, I feel bound to
    call attention to a view of poetry that must do great harm to
    University students and others. I am also bound to mention
    him as an illustration of the fact that classical men usually
    imagine that their study of the Greek and Latin languages and
    literature qualifies them to become literary critics.[37] This
    fact has impressed itself upon me from youth upwards. One of my
    teachers, a man of some weight in the classical world, was in
    the habit of saying that only through study of Latin and Greek
    could a man learn to write good English![38] His own English
    was simply execrable.

    I will now give another instance where the classical
    enthusiast, as in Mr. Livingstone’s case, tends to exaggerate
    the value of his favourite literature—truly wonderful as it is.
    Gissing’s _Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_ is an interesting
    book of wide circulation, in which the author displays great
    admiration for and familiarity with the classics. Speaking
    of Xenophon’s _Anabasis_, he says “Were it the sole book
    existing in Greek, it would be abundantly worth while to
    learn the language in order to read it.” That is to say,
    it would be worth while expending, out of our short lives,
    some years of study for the sole purpose of reading in the
    original an extremely _simple_, _prose_ historical narrative,
    which has been excellently translated! (If Gissing had said
    _Homer_ instead of Xenophon, no one would have quarrelled with
    him.) Again, he says, “Many a single line presents a picture
    which deeply stirs the emotions”; and he gives us what he
    calls “a good instance of such a line.” A guide, who has led
    the Greeks through hostile country, has to return through
    the same perilous district, and the wonderful line is Ἐπεὶ
    ἑσπέρα ἐγένετο, ᾤχετο τῆς νυκτὸς ἀπιών. This line Gissing
    translates, “When evening came he took leave of us and went
    away by night”—a sentence which only by inadvertence could have
    appeared in, say, a _Times_ leader, seeing that the words “by
    night” are redundant. As a matter of fact, the translation is
    incorrect; there is nothing about “taking leave of us,” and the
    meaning is, “As soon as evening came, he had slipped away into
    the darkness.”

    (Professor Naylor points out to me that the word ᾤχετο in this
    line is interesting. It conveys the idea of a swift or abrupt
    departure or disappearance. It is used in connection with that
    most interesting man Alcibiades (Xen, _Hell._, 2. I. 26) and
    gives a fine impression of his quick insolent temper. The Greek
    admirals had put themselves in a position of extreme danger
    and he came to warn them of their peril. Their reply was the
    usual expression of ineptitude, “We are the admirals, not you”;
    and immediately follows the one word ᾤχετο, “he turned on his
    heels and left”—and with this word Alcibiades disappears from
    contemporary history.)

       *       *       *       *       *

    In referring to Mr. Livingstone’s remarks above I could not
    use the Sappho quotation, because there are certain initial
    questions that need to be first settled. (In briefly discussing
    these I must speak as though I were expressing _definite
    opinions_, since otherwise the note could not be compressed
    sufficiently, but I mean the following rather as _suggestions_
    which may possibly be found useful.)

    Sappho’s line is (Fr, 39) Ἦρος ἄγγελος ἱμερόφωνος ἀήδων,
    which Mr. Livingstone translates “The messenger of spring,
    the lovely-voiced nightingale.” Now ἱμερος (_himeros_) means
    animal passion, so that ἱμερόφωνος (_himerophonos_) is a strong
    word meaning singing of, or with, passion—in this case the
    passion of the pairing-time. Why then does Mr. Livingstone,
    following Liddell and Scott, give the totally different meaning
    “lovely-voiced”? Apparently it is because Theocritus (XXVIII,
    7) applies the expression “himerophonos” to the Charites, and,
    according to the current conception, those deities were pure
    unimpassionate beings.[39]

    In questions of this character, seeing that the Greek gods were
    guilty of every form of immorality and the Greeks themselves
    were one of the most sensual nations that ever existed, the
    presumption is in favour of impurity: the onus of proof is
    on those who allege purity. I have not undertaken the heavy
    work of looking up the innumerable references to the Charites
    in Greek literature, but I know of nothing that supports
    the prevalent conception of those deities. Apart from the
    fact that Theocritus uses the word _himerophonos_, Meleager
    (Anth. Pal, V, 195) speaks of _himeros_ as conferred by the
    Charites. There is nothing in the meaning of _charis_, or the
    verb _charizesthai_ to support the current idea (both being
    even used in an immodest sense); Homer identifies Charis with
    Aphrodite, with whom Hesiod also identifies Aglaia, since each
    is made the wife of Hephaestus; the Charites are constantly
    associated with Aphrodite and Erôs (and consequently with
    Himeros, the personification of passion) so that the maxim
    _Noscitur a sociis_ applies; Sappho repeatedly claims them as
    her patrons; as regards the representation of the Charites in
    art, girl friendship would be a subject quite alien to the
    Greek mind.

    If the view suggested is correct our authorities with their
    preconceived ideas _presume to correct Theocritus and Sappho_!
    They not only give a wrong view of the Charites, but also hide
    the coarseness of the compliment paid by Theocritus to his lady
    friend—in each case _distorting the truth_.

    Mr. Livingstone may have another reason for altering the
    meaning of “himerophonos.” He appears to hold the opinion that
    a Greek writer would not ascribe intelligence or emotion to a
    bird, as Mrs. Browning does in “To a Seamew.” (I quite agree
    with him as to the false, feminine sentiment in this poem.
    It is mainly the “Sonnets from the Portuguese” that raise
    Mrs. Browning above the minor poets.) Mr. Livingstone, for
    example, translates ἡμερόφων’ ἀλέκτωρ, “O cock that criest
    _at_ dawn.” This should surely mean “that announceth the
    dawn;” the attitude and the very _crow_ of the bird would
    suggest this to the Greeks; and the fowl did, as a matter
    of fact, serve in place of an alarm-clock to them (see, for
    instance, Aristophanes’ _Birds_, 488). Does not Mr. Livingstone
    forget that the Greeks attributed not only intelligence
    but also miraculous powers to animals (see p. 370)? If so,
    this illustrates another fact noticeable among classical
    authorities. They often fail to consider _all the premises_
    before arriving at a conclusion. Taking another illustration
    from Mr. Livingstone, he says that the Greeks had little of
    the feeling of wonder, did not “muse on the strangeness of the
    world,” and would not have experienced the emotion Pascal felt
    when viewing the starry heavens, “The eternal silence of those
    infinite spaces terrifies me.” The premise he appears to omit
    here is the fact of the intense ignorance of the Greeks. Their
    world was a very limited one, with its flat earth and solid
    lid, certain bright objects conceived as gods or otherwise
    moving in the intermediate space. To illustrate this, Herodotus
    (II, 24) believes that the sun-god is forced by the cold winds
    in winter to move to the warm sky above Libya; and in 434 B.C.
    (about the same time) the great advanced thinker, Anaxagoras,
    is arrested for blasphemy and exiled because he taught that
    the sun must be a mass of blazing metal larger than the
    Peloponnesus! Everything in nature had its god, whose action
    explained whatever happened. If the Greeks had once realized
    the awful infinity of the universe their whole outlook on
    nature would have changed, and I cannot think that so highly
    intellectual a people would not have been moved by wonder.
    I cannot see any element in “the Greek genius” that would
    indicate this. (Observe Ptolemy’s epigram on p. 10.)

    Returning to the Sappho quotation, Mr. Livingstone translates
    ἦρος ἄγγελος literally as “the messenger of spring.” Does he
    mean the messenger “sent by spring” or “announcing spring”?
    Presumably he does not mean the latter, as it would impute
    intelligence or emotion to the bird. But, if we accept the
    former interpretation, it leads to the curious result that
    the poet, not content with a Goddess of Spring and the Hours
    who represent the seasons, intends still further to personify
    spring. Is not the true meaning of Sappho’s words “the
    nightingale with its passionate song sent (by Proserpine) to
    let men know that spring is approaching”? This is not mere
    captious criticism. To Sappho the goddess Proserpine was a
    concrete being with some sort of corporeal form, who brings
    a _thing_ called spring, and who actually _does_ send the
    nightingale ahead to sing of the passion of the pairing-time,
    and thus let men know that spring is coming. There is no poetic
    imagery, no imaginative picture in the poet’s mind, but the
    statement of an _actual fact_. See also the reference to the
    halcyon, p. 370. It seems to me that, in this as in other
    cases, our classical authorities _fail to place themselves in
    the position of the Greeks_. Here they interpret as imagination
    what was meant as reality. (However, as I have said before,
    the above are merely suggestions which I myself hope to
    consider further; but, until we knew exactly what Sappho’s
    verse meant, it could not be brought into the discussion of Mr.
    Livingstone’s views.)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ah! the weariness and weight of tears,
  The crying out to God, the wish for slumber,
  They lay so deep, so deep! God heard them all;
  He set them unto music of his own.

                           R. BUCHANAN, 1866 (_Bexhill_).

    Buchanan is speaking of the sad lives in the poor quarters of
    London.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent
  Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe:
  Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars,
  Is always watching with a wondering hate.
  Not till the fire is dying in the grate
  Look we for any kinship with the stars.

                           G. MEREDITH (_Modern Love IV._)

    A fine expression of a familiar fact. Under the influence
    of love, anger, or other strong passion, a man becomes an
    unreasoning animal, and actually _hates_ to be told the truth.
    Wild passion glares through the bars of its self-constituted
    cage at philosophy standing calm, lofty, and serene. Only “when
    the fire is dying in the grate” do we again become akin to
    cold, dispassionate, star-like Philosophy.

       *       *       *       *       *

The triumph of machinery is when man wonders at his own works; thus, says
Derwent Coleridge, all science begins in wonder and ends in wonder, but
the first is the wonder of ignorance, the last that of adoration.

                                                 CAROLINE FOX’S JOURNALS.

    Evidently a comment on S. T. Coleridge’s Aphorism IV. on
    “Spiritual Religion” (_Aids to Reflection_).

       *       *       *       *       *

No one of himself can rise out of the depths, but must clasp some
outstretched hand.

                                SENECA (? 3 B.C.-65 A.D.) (_Epistle 52_).

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RIME OF REDEMPTION

  The ways are white in the moon’s light,
      Under the leafless trees:
  Strange shadows go across the snow
      Before the tossing breeze.

  The burg stands grim upon the rim
      Of the low wooded hill:
  Sir Loibich sits beside the hearth,
      Fill’d with a thought of ill.

  The knight sits bent with eyes intent
      Upon the dying fire;
  Sad dreams and strange in sooth do range
      Before the troubled sire.

  He sees the maid the past years laid
      Upon his breast to sleep,
  Long dead in sin, laid low within
      The grave unblest and deep.

  He hears her wail, with lips that fail,
      To him to save her soul:
  He sees her laid, unhouselèd,[40]
      Under the crossless knoll.

  “Ah! would, dear Christ, my tears sufficed
      To ransom her!” he cries:
  “Sweet Heaven, to win her back from sin,
      I would renounce the skies.

  “Could I but bring her suffering
      To pardon and to peace,
  I for my own sin would atone,
      Where never pain doth cease!

  “I for my part would gnaw my heart,
      Chain’d in the flames of hell;
  I would abide, unterrified,
      More than a man shall tell.”

  The moon is pale, the night winds wail,
      Weird whispers fill the night:
  “Dear heart, what word was that I heard
      Ring out in the moonlight?”

  ’Twas but the blast that hurried past,
      Shrieking among the pines:
  The souls that wail upon the gale,
      When the dim starlight shines.

  Great God! the name! once more it came
      Ringing across the dark!
  “Loibich!” it cried. The night is wide,
      The dim pines stand and hark.

  “Loibich! Loibich! my soul is sick
      With hungering for thee!
  The night fades fast, the hours fly past;
      Stay not, come forth to me!”

  The cloudwrack grey did break away,
      Out shone the ghostly moon;
  Down slid the haze from off the ways
      Before her silver shoon.

  Pale silver-ray’d, out shone the glade,
      Before the castle wall,
  And on the lea the knight could see
      A maid both fair and tall.

  Gold was her hair, her face was fair,
      As fair as fair can be;
  But through the night the blue corpse-light
      About her could he see.

  She raised her face towards the place
      Where Loibich stood adread;
  There was a sheen in her two een,
      As one that long is dead.

  She look’d at him in the light dim,
      And beckon’d with her hand:
  “Dear Knight,” she said, “thy prayer hath sped
      Unto the heavenly land.

  “Come forth with me: the night is free
      For us to work the thing
  That is to do, before we two
      Shall hear the dawn-bird sing.

  “Saddle thy steed, Sir Knight, with speed,
      Thy faithfullest,” quoth she,
  “For many a tide we twain must ride
      Before the end shall be.”

  The steed is girt, black Dagobert,
      Swift-footed as the wind;
  The knight leapt up upon his croup,
      The maid sprang up behind.

  The wind screams past; they ride so fast,—
      Like troops of souls in pain
  The snowdrifts spin, but none may win
      To rest upon the twain.

  So fast they ride, the blasts divide
      To let them hurry on;
  The wandering ghosts troop past in hosts
      Across the moonlight wan.

  A singing light did cleave the night,
      High up a hill rode they;
  The veils of Heaven for them were riven,
      And all the skies pour’d day.

  The golden gate did stand await,
      The golden town did lie
  Before their sight, the realms of light
      God builded in the sky.

  The steed did wait before the gate,
      Sheer up the street looked they.
  They saw the bliss in Heaven that is,
      They saw the saints’ array.

  They saw the hosts upon the coasts
      Of the clear crystal sea;
  They saw the blest, that in the rest
      Of Christ for ever be.

  The choirs of God pulsed full and broad
      Upon the ravish’d twain;
  The angels’ feet upon the street
      Rang out like golden rain.

  Then said the maid, “Be not afraid,
      God giveth heaven to thee;
  Light down and rest with Christ His blest,
      And think no more of me!”

  Sir Loibich gazed, as one sore dazed,
      Awhile upon the place:
  Then, with a sigh, he turned his eye
      Upon the maiden’s face.

  “By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath,
      “No heaven for me shall be,
  Unless God give that thou shalt live
      In heaven for aye with me.”

  “Ah, curst am I!” the maid did cry;
      “My place thou knowest well;
  I must begone before the dawn,
      To harbour me in hell.”

  “By Christ His rest!” he beat his breast,
      “Then be it even so;
  With thee in hell I choose to dwell
      And share with thee thy woe!

  “Thy sin was mine,—By Christ His wine,
      Mine too shall be thy doom;
  What part have I within the sky,
      And thou in Hell’s red gloom?”

  The vision broke, as thus he spoke,
      The city waned away:
  O’er hill and brake, o’er wood and lake
      Once more the darkness lay.

  O’er hill and plain they ride again,
      Under the night’s black spell,
  Until there rise against the skies
      The lurid lights of hell.

  The dreadful cries they rend the skies,
      The plain is ceil’d with fire:
  The flames burst out, around, about,
      The heats of hell draw nigher.

  Unfear’d they ride; against the side
      Of the red flameful sky
  Grim forms are thrown, strange shapes upgrown
      From out Hell’s treasury.

  Fast rode the twain across the plain,
      With hearts all undismay’d,
  Until they came where all a-flame
      Hell’s gates were open laid.

  The awful stead gaped wide and red,
      To gulph them in its womb:
  There could they see the fiery sea
      And all the souls in doom.

  There came a breath, like living death,
      Out of the gated way:
  It scorched his face with its embrace,
      It turn’d his hair to grey.

  Then said the maid, “Art not dismay’d?
      Here is our course fulfill’d:
  Wilt thou not turn, nor rest to burn
      With me, as God hath will’d?”

  “By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath,
      “Thy doom with thee dree I!
  Here will we dwell, hand-link’d in hell,
      Unseverèd for aye!”

  He spurr’d his steed; the gates of dread
      Gaped open for his course;
  Sudden outrang a trumpet’s clang,
      And backwards fell the horse.

  The ghostly maid did wane and fade,
      The lights of hell did flee;
  Alone in night the mazèd wight
      Stood on the frozen lea.

  Out shone the moon; the mists were blown
      Away before his sight
  And through the dark he saw a spark,
      A welcoming of light.

  Thither he fared, with falchion bared,
      Toward the friendly shine;
  Eftsoon he came to where a flame
      Did burn within a shrine.

  Down on his knee low louted he
      Before the cross of wood,
  And for her spright he saw that night
      Long pray’d he to the Rood.[41]

  And as he pray’d, with heart down-weigh’d,
      A wondrous thing befell:
  He saw a light, and through the night
      There rang a silver bell.

  The earth-mists drew from off his view,
      He saw God’s golden town;
  He saw the street, he saw the seat
      From whence God looketh down.

  He saw the gate transfigurate,—
      He saw the street of pearl,
  And in the throng, the saints among,
      He saw a gold-hair’d girl.

  He saw a girl as white as pearl,
      With hair as red as gold:
  He saw her stand among the band
      Of angels manifold.

  He heard her smite the harp’s delight,
      Singing most joyfully,
  And knew his love prevail’d above
      Judgment and destiny.

  ...

  Gone is the night, the morn breaks white
      Across the eastward hill;
  The knightly sire by the dead fire
      Sits in the dawning chill.

  By the hearth white, there sits the knight,
      Dead as the sunken fire;
  But on his face is writ the grace
      Of his fulfill’d desire.

                           JOHN PAYNE (b. 1841).

    This poem is cut down one-half and thereby loses much of its
    effect. Two adventures, in which the Knight refuses temptation
    and adheres to his oath, are entirely omitted.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Alas! they had been friends in youth;
  But whispering tongues can poison truth;
  And constancy lives in realms above;
  And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
  And to be wroth with one we love
  Doth work like madness in the brain.
  They parted—ne’er to meet again!
  But never either found another
  To free the hollow heart from paining—
  They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
  Like cliffs which had been reft asunder;
  A dreary sea now flows between,
  But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
  Shall wholly do away, I ween,
  The marks of that which once hath been.

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_Christabel_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
  So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
  Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,
  And would have told him half his Troy was burnt.

                           SHAKESPEARE (_2 Henry IV._)

    This and the next five quotations are word-pictures (see p. 85).

       *       *       *       *       *

      That strange song I heard Apollo sing,
  While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.[42]

                           TENNYSON (_Tithonus_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy
    Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school,
  Cricketing below, rush’d brown and red with sunshine;
    O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool!
  Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher
    Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak.
  Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe,
    Said, “I will kiss you:” she laughed and lean’d her cheek.

                           G. MEREDITH (_Love in the Valley_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  One there is, the loveliest of them all,
  Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out
  For gains, and who that sees her would not buy?
  Fruits of her father’s orchard are her wares,
  And with the ruddy produce she walks round
  Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed
  Of her new office, blushing restlessly.

                           WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude, Bk. VIII._)

       *       *       *       *       *

  Out came the children running—
  All the little boys and girls,
  With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls
  And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls
  Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
  The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

                           R. BROWNING (_The Pied Piper of Hamelin_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
  And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
  As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon:
  Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
  And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
  And on her hair a glory, like a saint.

                           KEATS (_The Eve of St. Agnes_).

    The above are from a series of word-pictures (see pp. 86, 122).

       *       *       *       *       *

If the collective energies of the universe are identified with Divine
Will, and the system is thus animate with an eternal consciousness as
its moulding life, the conception we frame of its history will conform
itself to our experience of intellectual volition. It is in origination,
in disposing of new conditions, in setting up order by differentiation,
that the mind exercises its highest function. When the product has been
obtained, and a definite method of procedure established, the strain
upon us is relaxed, habit relieves the constant demand for creation,
and at length the rules of a practised art almost execute themselves.
As the intensely voluntary thus works itself off into the automatic,
thought, liberated from this reclaimed and settled province breaks into
new regions, and ascends to ever higher problems: its supreme life being
beyond the conquered and legislated realm, while a lower consciousness,
if any at all, suffices for the maintenance of its ordered mechanism. Yet
all the while it is one and the same mind that, under different modes of
activity, thinks the fresh thoughts and carries on the old usages. Does
anything forbid us to conceive similarly of the cosmical development;
that it started from the freedom of indefinite possibilities and the
ubiquity of universal consciousness; that, as intellectual exclusions
narrowed the field, and traced the definite lines of admitted movement,
the tension of purpose, less needed on these, left them as the habits of
the universe, and operated rather for higher and ever higher ends not
yet provided for; that the more mechanical, therefore, a natural law
may be, the further is it from its source; and that the inorganic and
unconscious portion of the world, instead of being the potentiality of
the organic and conscious, is rather its residual precipitate, formed
as the Indwelling Mind of all concentrates an intenser aim on the upper
margin of the ordered whole, and especially on the inner life of natures
that can resemble him?

                      JAMES MARTINEAU (1805-1900) (_Modern Materialism_).

    The remarkably fine and suggestive essay in which this passage
    occurs was written in 1876, in the course of a discussion
    raised by Tyndall’s Belfast Address. It is not easy to
    appreciate the speculation that Martineau offers in direct
    opposition to the theory of Darwinism without reading his
    preceding argument.

    It may be well to begin with a quotation from his sermon,
    “Perfection, Divine and Human”: “However vast and majestic the
    uniformities of nature, they are nevertheless finite: science
    counts them one by one; a completed science would count them
    all. God, however, is not finite; He lives out beyond the
    legislation He has made; and His thought, which defines the
    rules of matter, does not transmigrate into them and cease
    else-how to be; _but merely flings out the law as an emanating
    act, and Himself abides behind as Thinking Power_.”

    In the present essay Martineau first develops the argument that
    there is only one Power that exercises all the forces in the
    universe, whether mechanical, chemical, or vital. That power is
    God, the Indwelling Mind of the world. He is of like nature to
    (although infinitely higher than) His highest product, which
    is conscious, thinking, and willing man. Seeing that God and
    man are alike in their natures, Martineau proceeds to draw an
    analogy between the history of the world and the history of
    man’s own development. The Divine Mind at first _consciously_
    exercises the forces that we know as gravitation, cohesion,
    chemical attraction, etc.; just as, to take a simple example,
    a baby has at first consciously to use its muscles and balance
    its body in the process of walking. Later the baby, having
    formed the _habit_, does all this _unconsciously_ and, while
    walking, can pay attention to other matters. So the Indwelling
    Mind of the world forms its _habits_ which we know as the laws
    of gravitation, etc., and is free to attend to higher and
    higher objects. In this progress there is no evolution of the
    organic from the inorganic, or of the higher from the lower
    forms of life. Inorganic matter, having become subject to fixed
    laws, is precipitated and dropped out of further conscious
    effort; also each lower form of life is similarly laid aside
    as the Indwelling Mind proceeds to the higher forms, until
    finally man is reached. The highest result thus arrived at is
    the production of conscious _Mind_. All this involves what is
    usually known as Special Creation, and the idea of “God at His
    working-bench” creating one species after another is regarded
    as absurd. But it is not absurd on Martineau’s argument,
    because the Indwelling Mind is constantly doing the whole work
    of the world (and also because a fact to be accounted for
    by any theory is that a higher form of existence _appears_
    whenever the environment is suitable). In the present state
    of our knowledge Martineau’s speculation cannot be proved or
    disproved, but it may contain the germ of a true scheme of the
    universe—which scheme is yet far to seek. In any case, he makes
    the important point that the nature of _power_ in the world
    must be judged from the best thing it has done—namely, the
    _minds_ it has produced. The idea of a blind, unconscious force
    is incompatible with the fact that _that force has produced
    conscious mind_. It is the same argument as the Psalmist uses,
    “He that planted the ear, shall He not hear? He that formed the
    eye, shall He not see? He that teacheth man knowledge, shall
    not He know?” (Ps. xciv, 9, 10.) The following (by whom written
    I do not know) has the same idea: “Every thing is a thought,
    and bears a relation to the thought that placed it there, and
    the thought that finds it there.” It is interesting to consider
    Martineau’s suggestion with that of William James on p. 165.

       *       *       *       *       *

  There’s lifeless matter; add the power of shaping,
  And you’ve the crystal: add again the organs,
  Wherewith to subdue sustenance to the form
  And manner of one’s self, and you’ve the plant:
  Add power of motion, senses, and so forth,
  And you’ve all kind of beasts; suppose a pig:
  To pig add reason, foresight, and such stuff,
  Then you have man. What shall we add to man,
  To bring him higher?

                           T. L. BEDDOES (1803-1849) (_Death’s Jest-Book_,
                           V. 2).

    _Death’s Jest-Book_ was published in 1850, after Beddoes’
    death; _The Origin of Species_ appeared in 1859: the passage
    is, therefore, curious. In suggesting, however, development by
    the addition of faculties, it affords no explanation how those
    faculties came to be added.

       *       *       *       *       *

“OUTLANDISH PROVERBS”

  Love rules his kingdom without a sword.
  He plays well that wins.
  The offender never pardons.
  Nothing dries sooner than a tear.
  Three women can hold their peace—if two are away.
  A woman conceals what she knows not.
  Saint Luke was a Saint and a Physician, yet is dead.[43]
  Were there no hearers, there would be no backbiters.
  He will burn his house to warm his hands.
  The buyer needs a hundred eyes, the seller not one.
  Ill ware is never cheap.
  Punishment is lame—but it comes.
  Gluttony kills more than the sword.[44]
  The filth under the white snow the sun discovers.
  You cannot know wine by the barrel.
  At length the fox is brought to the furrier.
  Love your neighbour, yet pull not down your hedge.
  None is a fool always, every one sometimes.[45]
  In a great river great fish are found, but take heed lest you be drowned.
  I wept when I was born, and every day shows why.
  The honey is sweet, but the bee stings.
  Gossips are frogs, they drink and talk.
  He is a fool that thinks not that another thinks.
  He that sows, trusts in God.
  He that hath one hog makes him fat, and he that hath one son makes him
    a fool.

  Where your will is ready, your feet are light.
  A fair death honours the whole life.
  To a good spender God is the treasurer.
  The choleric man never wants woe.
  Love makes a good eye squint.
  He that would have what he hath not should do what he doth not.
  A wise man cares not for what he cannot have.
  The fat man knoweth not what the lean thinketh.
  In every country dogs bite.
  None says his garner is full.
  To a close-shorn sheep, God gives wind by measure.[46]
  Silks and satins put out the fire in the chimney.
  Lawyers’ houses are built on the heads of fools.
  It is better to have wings than horns.
  We have more to do when we die than we have done.

                           GEORGE HERBERT’S _Jacula Prudentum_.

    The reader may not know of the “saintly Herbert’s” collection
    of “Outlandish Proverbs, Sentences, etc.” from which the few
    examples above are taken.

       *       *       *       *       *

AVALON.

  We seek a land beneath the early beams
    Of stars that rise beyond the sunset gate,
    Where all the year the twilight lingers late,
  Athwart whose coast the last-born sunray gleams.
  Fair are the fields and full of pleasant streams,
  Far sound the hedge-rows with the burgher bees,
  Soft are the winds and taste of southern seas,
  Night brings no longing there, and sleep no dreams.
  O tillerman, steer true, while we, who bow
  Above the oar-shafts, sing the land we seek,
    Land of the past, its rapture and its ruth;
  Future we ask none, we are memories now,
  We bear the years whose lips no longer speak,
    And round our galley’s prow the name is Youth.

                           ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS (b. 1862).

    An American author who wrote the well-known song, “The Rosary.”

       *       *       *       *       *

IF I COULD HOLD YOUR HANDS

  If I could hold your hands to-night,
    Just for a little while, and know
  That only I, of all the world,
          Possessed them so:

  A slender shape in that old chair,
    If I could see you here to-night,
  Between me and the twilight pale—
          So light and frail,

  Your cool white dress, its folding lost
    In one broad sweep of shadow grey;
  Your weary head just drooped aside,
          That sweet old way,

  Bowed like a flower-cup dashed with rain,
    The darkness crossing half your face,
  And just the glimmer of a smile
          For one to trace:

  If I could see your eyes that reach
    Far out into the farthest sky,
  Where past the trail of dying suns
          The old years lie:

  Or touch your silent lips to-night,
    And steal the sadness from their smile,
  And find the last kiss they have kept
          This weary while:

  If it could be—Oh, all in vain
    The restless trouble of my soul
  Sets, as the great tides of the moon,
          Toward your control!

  In vain the longings of the lips,
    The eye’s desire and the pain;
  The hunger of the heart—O love,
          _Is_ it in vain?

                           ANON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A Cibo biscocto,
  A medico indocto,
  Ab inimico reconciliato,
  A mala muliere
    Libera nos, Domine.

(From twice-cooked food, from an ignorant doctor, from a reconciled
enemy, from a wicked woman, Lord, deliver us.)

                                                    _Old Monkish Litany._

       *       *       *       *       *

CONSTANCY REWARDED

  I vowed unvarying faith, and she,
    To whom in full I pay that vow,
  Rewards me with variety
    Which men who change can never know.

                           COVENTRY PATMORE (_The Angel in the House_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The service of philosophy, of speculative culture, towards the human
spirit is to rouse, to startle it into sharp and eager observation. Every
moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills
or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or
intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive for us—for
that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is
the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated,
dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by
the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point,
and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital
forces unite in their purest energy?

To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy,
is success in life. In a sense it might even be said that our failure is
to form habits: for, after all, habit is relative to a stereotyped world,
and meantime it is only the roughness of the eye that makes any two
persons, things, situations, seem alike. While all melts under our feet,
we may catch at any exquisite passion, or any contribution to knowledge
that seems by a lifted horizon to set the spirit free for a moment, or
any stirring of the senses, strange dyes, strange colours, and curious
odours, or work of the artist’s hands, or the face of one’s friend. Not
to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about
us, and in the brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces
on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before
evening....

We are all under sentence of death but with a sort of indefinite
reprieve: we have an interval, and then our place knows us no more. Some
spend this interval in listlessness, some in high passions, the wisest,
at least among “the children of this world,” in art and song. For our one
chance lies in expanding that interval, in getting as many pulsations
as possible into the given time. Great passions may give us this
quickened sense of life, ecstasy and sorrow of love, the various forms of
enthusiastic activity, disinterested or otherwise which come naturally to
many of us. Only be sure it is passion—that it does yield you this fruit
of a quickened, multiplied consciousness. Of this wisdom, the poetic
passion, the desire of beauty, the love for art’s sake, has most; for art
comes to you professing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality
to your moments as they pass, and simply for those moments’ sake.

                            WALTER PATER (1839-1894) (_The Renaissance_).

    In the Adelaide edition of this book this famous “pulsation”
    passage appeared as originally written; it is now given as
    Pater afterwards altered it.

    Pater was a Hellenist and preached the new paganism of last
    century. The Greek ideal life was supposed to be one of purely
    aesthetic enjoyment, divorced from religious problems or from
    any sense of the _higher_ in our nature. Pater, however,
    altered his views, _Marius, the Epicurean_, being intended as a
    recantation, and he became in effect an Anglo-Catholic. (See p.
    343 note.)

    Pater was “Rose” in Mallock’s _New Republic_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CHILD

Is a man in a small Letter, yet the best copy of Adam before he tasted
of the Apple.... He is nature’s fresh picture, newly drawn in oil,
which time and much handling dims and defaces. His soul is yet a white
paper, unscribbled with observations of the world, wherewith at length
it becomes a blurred note-book. He is purely happy, because he knows no
evil, nor hath made means by sin to be acquainted with misery. He kisses
and loves all, and when the smart of the rod is past, smiles on his
beater.... His hardest labour is his tongue, as if he were loth to use
so deceitful an organ.... We laugh at his foolish sports, but his game
is our earnest: and his drums, rattles and hobby-horses but the emblems
and mocking of man’s business. His father hath writ him as his own little
story, wherein he reads those days of his life that he cannot remember;
and sighs to see what innocence he has outlived. The older he grows, he
is a stair lower from God; and, like his first father, much worse in his
breeches.... Could he put off his body with his little Coat, he had got
eternity without a burthen, and exchanged but one Heaven for another.

                                 JOHN EARLE (_Micro-Cosmographie_, 1628).

       *       *       *       *       *

  As when a Gryphon through the wilderness
  With wingèd course, o’er hill and moory dale,
  Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth
  Had from his wakeful custody purloined
  The guarded gold.

                           MILTON (_Paradise Lost_).

    The Griffin, with head and wings of a bird and body of a
    lion, is pursuing, “half on foot, half flying,” the one-eyed
    Arimaspian, who is fleeing on horseback with the purloined
    gold. The Griffins guarded mines of gold and hidden treasure.
    (_Herodotus_, iv, 27.)

       *       *       *       *       *

A WOMAN’S THOUGHT

  I am a woman—therefore I may not
  Call to him, cry to him,
  Fly to him,
  Bid him delay not!

  Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet;
  Still as a stone—
  All silent and cold.
  If my heart riot—
  Crush and defy it!
  Should I grow bold,
  Say one dear thing to him,
  All my life fling to him,
  Cling to him—
  What to atone
  Is enough for my sinning?
  This were the cost to me,
  This were my winning—
  That he were lost to me.
  Not as a lover
  At last if he part from me,
  Tearing my heart from me,
  Hurt beyond cure—
  Calm and demure
  Then must I hold me,
  In myself fold me,
  Lest he discover;
  Showing no sign to him
  By look of mine to him
  What he has been to me—
  How my heart turns to him,
  Follows him, yearns to him,
  Prays him to love me.

  Pity me, lean to me,
  Thou God above me!

                           RICHARD WATSON GILDER (1844-1909).

       *       *       *       *       *

Out of his surname they have coined an epithet for a knave, and out of
his Christian name a synonym for the Devil.

                                     MACAULAY (_On Niccolo Machiavelli_).

    A wonderful record, if it were correct, but “Old Nick” is said
    to be derived from Scandinavian mythology.

       *       *       *       *       *

I speak truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare; and I dare
a little the more as I grow older.

                                      MONTAIGNE (Essay, _Of Repentance_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Coleridge was holding forth on the effects produced by his preaching,
and appealed to Lamb: “You have heard me preach, I think?” “I have never
heard you do anything else,” was the urbane reply.

(John Sterling said) Coleridge is best described in his own words:

  His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
  Weave a circle round him thrice,
  And close your eyes with holy dread.
  For he on honey-dew hath fed,
  And drunk the milk of Paradise.[47]

Madame de Staël was by no means pleased with her intercourse with him,
saying spitefully and feelingly, “M. Coleridge a un grand talent pour le
monologue” (“Mr. Coleridge has a great talent for monologue”).

                                                 CAROLINE FOX’S JOURNALS.

    Here we have different views of Coleridge’s monologues. Mme. de
    Staël objected to his monopolizing the conversation, but his
    friends loved to hear him. Lamb, of course, had to have his
    joke.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Where is the use of the lip’s red charm,
  The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,
  And the blood that blues the inside arm—
  Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,
  The earthly gift to an end divine?
  A lady of clay is as good, I trow.

                           R. BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

                What things have we seen
  Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been
  So nimble and so full of subtle flame,
  As if that every one from whence they came
  Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
  And had resolved to live a fool the rest
  Of his dull life.

                           FRANCIS BEAUMONT (_Epistle to Ben Jonson_).

    What would one not give to have been present at the Mermaid
    Tavern with the wonderful Elizabethans who met there? Among
    them were Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Sir Walter Raleigh,
    Beaumont, Fletcher, Donne, Carew, and John Selden. One is
    reminded of the _Symposium_ of Plato.

    The poem of Keats is well known:

      Souls of Poets dead and gone,
      What Elysium have ye known,
      Happy field or mossy cavern,
      Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

       *       *       *       *       *

  On a day like this, when the sun is hid,
    And you and your heart are housed together,
  If memories come to you all unbid,
  And something suddenly wets your lid,
    Like a gust of the out-door weather,
  Why, who is in fault but the dim old day,
  Too dark for labour, too dull for play?

                           AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man can never do anything at variance with his own nature. He carries
with him the germ of his most exceptional actions; and, if we wise people
make fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, we must endure the
legitimate conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of
wisdom.

                                                            GEORGE ELIOT.

       *       *       *       *       *

I understand those women who say they don’t want the ballot. They purpose
to hold the real power, while we go through the mockery of making laws.
They want the power without the responsibility.

                         CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (_My Summer in a Garden_).

       *       *       *       *       *

If we cannot find God in your house or in mine; upon the roadside or the
margin of the sea; in the bursting seed or opening flower; in the day
duty or the night musing; in the general laugh and the secret grief; in
the procession of life, ever entering afresh, and solemnly passing by
and dropping off; I do not think we should discern Him any more on the
grass of Eden, or beneath the moonlight of Gethsemane. Depend upon it,
it is not the want of greater miracles, but of the soul to perceive such
as are allowed us still, that makes us push all the sanctities into the
far spaces we cannot reach. The devout feel that wherever God’s hand is,
_there_ is miracle; and it is simply undevoutness which imagines that
only where miracle is, can there be the real hand of God. The customs of
Heaven ought to be more sacred in our eyes than its anomalies; the dear
old ways, of which the Most High is never tired, than the strange things
which He does not love well enough ever to repeat. And he who will but
discern beneath the sun, as he rises any morning, the supporting finger
of the Almighty, may recover the sweet and reverent surprise with which
Adam gazed on the first dawn in Paradise.

                 JAMES MARTINEAU (_Endeavours after the Christian Life_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Advice, like snow, the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon and the
deeper it sinks into the mind.

                                                         S. T. COLERIDGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  My burden bows me to the knee;
    O Lord, ’tis more than I can bear.
    Didst Thou not come our load to share?
  My burden bows me to the knee:
  Dear Jesus, let me lean on Thee!...

  Far off, so far, the Heavens be,
    With their wide arms! and I would prove
    The close, warm-beating heart of Love.
  But so far-off the Heavens be:
  Dear Jesus, let me lean on Thee!

                           GERALD MASSEY (_Out of the Depths_).

    This poem is omitted from _My Lyrical Life_, Massey’s collected
    poems.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Night dreams of day, and winter seems
    In sleep to breathe the balm of May,
    Their dreams are true anon; but they,
  The dreamers, then, alas, are dreams.

  Thus, while our days the dreams renew
    Of some forgotten sleeper, we,
    The dreamers of futurity,
  Shall vanish when our own are true.

                           J. B. TABB.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MOTHER WHO DIED TOO

  She was so little—little in her grave,
    The wide earth all around so hard and cold—
  She was so little! therefore did I crave
    My arms might still her tender form enfold.
  She was so little, and her cry so weak
    When she among the heavenly children came—
  She was so little—I alone might speak
    For her who knew no word nor her own name.

                           EDITH MATILDA THOMAS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The economy of Heaven is dark;
  And wisest clerks have miss’d the mark,
  Why human buds, like this, should fall,
  More brief than fly ephemeral
  That has his day; while shrivell’d crones
  Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
  And crabbed use the conscience sears
  In sinners of an hundred years.

                           CHARLES LAMB (_On an infant dying as soon as
                           born_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh dreadful thought, if all our sires and we
  Are but foundations of a race to be,—
  Stones which one thrusts in earth, and builds thereon
  A write delight, a Parian Parthenon,
  And thither, long thereafter, youth and maid
  Seek with glad brows the alabaster shade.

  And in processions’ pomp together bent
  Still interchange their sweet words innocent,—
  Not caring that those mighty columns rest
  Each on the ruin of a human breast,—
  That to the shrine the victor’s chariot rolls
  Across the anguish of ten thousand souls!

  “Well was it that our fathers suffered thus,”
  I hear them say, “that all might end in us;
  Well was it here and there a bard should feel
  Pains premature and hurt that none could heal;
  These were their preludes, thus the race began;
  So hard a matter was the birth of Man.”

  And yet these too shall pass and fade and flee,
  And in their death shall be as vile as we,
  Nor much shall profit with their perfect powers
  To have lived a so much sweeter life than ours,
  When at the last, with all their bliss gone by,
  Like us those glorious creatures come to die,
  With far worse woe, far more rebellious strife
  Those mighty spirits drink the dregs of life.

                           F. W. H. MYERS (_The Implicit Promise of
                           Immortality_).

    It will be observed that Myers, like Swinburne, handled the
    old heroic couplet in a masterly manner, undreamt of by Pope,
    Dryden, and their generation.

       *       *       *       *       *

  God’s works—paint any one, and count it crime
  To let a truth slip. Don’t object, “His works
  Are here already; nature is complete:
  Suppose you reproduce her (which you can’t)
  There’s no advantage! You must beat her then.”
  For, don’t you mark? we’re made so that we love
  First when we see them painted, things we have passed
  Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
  And so they are better, _painted_—better to us
  Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;
  God uses us to help each other so,
  Lending our minds out.

                           R. BROWNING (_Fra Lippo Lippi_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  For the folk through the fretful hours are hurled
  On the ruthless rush of the wondrous world,
    And none has leisure to lie and cull
    The blossoms, that made life beautiful
  In that old season when men could sing
  For dear delight in the risen Spring
    And Summer ripening fruit and flower.
    Now carefulness cankers every hour;
  We are too weary and sad to sing;
  Our pastime’s poisoned with thought-taking.

                           JOHN PAYNE (_Tournesol_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I am much engaged, an old man and out of health, and I cannot spare
time to answer your questions fully,—nor indeed can they be answered.
Science has nothing to do with Christ, except in so far as the habit
of scientific research makes a man cautious in admitting evidence. For
myself, I do not believe that there ever has been any Revelation. As for
a future life every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague
probabilities. Wishing you happiness, I remain, &c.

                   CHARLES DARWIN (_Letter to von Müller, June 5, 1879_).

    This letter is reproduced in the _Life and Letters_, but
    evidently Francis Darwin did not know that the “German youth”
    to whom he says it was written was Baron Ferdinand von Müller,
    K.C.M.G. (1825-1896), then fifty-three years of age! Von Müller
    was director of the Melbourne Botanical Gardens from 1857 to
    1873, and died in Melbourne in 1896. He did important work in
    Australian botany.

    As regards Darwin’s letter, it seems to me that a sufficient
    reason why a great and lovable man, who was at first a
    convinced believer in the immortality of the soul, became an
    agnostic is given in the next quotation. The higher aesthetic
    part of his brain had become atrophied.

    Darwin himself thought that he had not given sufficient
    consideration to religious questions and was exceedingly
    anxious that his own agnostic views should not influence others,

       *       *       *       *       *

I have said that in one respect my mind has changed during the last
twenty or thirty years. Up to the age of thirty, or beyond it, poetry
of many kinds, such as the works of Milton, Gray, Byron, Wordsworth,
Coleridge, and Shelley, gave me great pleasure, and even as a school-boy
I took intense delight in Shakespeare, especially in the historical
plays. I have also said that formerly pictures gave me considerable, and
music very great delight. But now for many years I cannot endure to read
a line of poetry: I have tried lately to read Shakespeare and found it so
intolerably dull that it nauseates me. I have also almost lost my taste
for pictures or music.... My mind seems to have become a kind of machine
for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts, but why this
should have caused the atrophy of that (aesthetic) part of the brain
alone, on which the higher tastes depend, I cannot conceive.... The loss
of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to
the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling
the emotional part of our nature.

                                                          CHARLES DARWIN.

    This is from autobiographical notes made by Darwin for his
    children, and not intended for publication.

       *       *       *       *       *

  God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures
  Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with,
  One to show a woman when he loves her!

                           R. BROWNING (_One Word More_).

       *       *       *       *       *

CHILDREN’S HYMN ON THE COAST OF BRITTANY.

  At length has come the twilight dim.
    The sun has set, the day has died;
  And now we sing Thy holy hymn,
    O Mary maid, at eventide.

  To Jewry, to that far-off land,
    Erstwhile there came a little Child;
  You led Him softly by the hand,
    He was so very small and mild.

  Like us, He could not find his way,
    Although He was Our Lord, the King;
  And so we beg we may not stray,
    Nor do a sad or foolish thing.

  Teach us the prayer that Jesus said,
    The words you sang and murmured low,
  When He was in His tiny bed,
    And all the earth was dark and slow.

  Hushed are the trees, and the small wise bees,
    Our fathers are on the deep,—
  Little Mother, be good to us, please!
    It is time to go asleep.

                           VINCENT O’SULLIVAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

WESLEY’S MEDICAL PRESCRIPTIONS

For an Ague:—Make six middling pills of cobwebs. Take one a little before
the cold fit; two a little before the next fit (suppose the next day);
the other three, if need be, a little before the third fit. This seldom
fails.

A Cut:—Bind on toasted cheese. This will cure a deep cut.

A Fistula:—Grind an ounce of sublimate mercury as fine as possible....
(Two quarts of water to be added, then half a spoonful with two spoonfuls
of water to be taken fasting every other day), ... In forty days this
will also cure any cancer, any old sore or King’s evil.

_The Iliac Passion_:—Hold a live puppy constantly on the belly.

                              JOHN WESLEY (_Primitive Physic._ Ed. 1780).

    The iliac passion, now known as _ileus_, is a severe colic due
    to intestinal obstruction.

    It seems strange that so eminent a man should have believed
    in these absurd prescriptions, but as a matter of fact the
    book generally is much more sane and sound than one would
    expect from the habits and state of knowledge of the time. For
    example, in his rules of health Wesley strongly advises the
    practice of _cold bathing_, cleanliness, open-air exercise,
    moderation of food, etc. Also these prescriptions are chosen
    for their absurdity—in each case other more sensible remedies
    are offered. But Wesley in his preface says that he has
    omitted altogether from his book Cinchona bark, because it
    is “extremely dangerous.” This means that in regard to ague
    he omitted the only efficient remedy—which was much more
    unfortunate than his prescribing cobweb pills.

    This book went to _thirty-six_ editions between 1747 and 1840.

       *       *       *       *       *

        “When shall our prayers end?”
  I tell thee, priest, when shoemakers make shoes,
  That are well sewed, with never a stitch amiss,
  And use no craft in uttering of the same;
  When tinkers make no more holes than they found,
  When thatchers think their wages worth their work,
  When Davie Diker digs and dallies not,
  When horsecorsers beguile no friends with jades,
  When printers pass no errors in their books,
  When pewterers infect no tin with lead,
  When silver sticks not on the Teller’s fingers,
  When sycophants can find no place in Court, ...
  When Laïs lives not like a lady’s peer
  Nor useth art in dyeing of her hair....

                           GEORGE GASCOIGNE (1525?-1577) (_The Steele
                           Glas_).

       *       *       *       *       *

All our life is a meeting of cross-roads, where the choice of directions
is perilous.

                                                             VICTOR HUGO.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Rose-cheeked Laura, come;
  Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s
  Silent music, either other
    Sweetly gracing.
  Lovely forms do flow
  From concent divinely framed;
  Heaven is music, and thy beauty’s
    Birth is heavenly.
  These dull notes we sing
  Discords need for helps to grace them,
  Only beauty purely loving
    Knows no discord,
  But still moves delight,
  Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
  Ever perfect, ever in them-
    Selves eternal.

                           THOMAS CAMPION (died 1619).

    Richard Lovelace (1618-1655) subsequently wrote (_Orpheus to
    Beasts_):

      O, could you view the melodie
      Of ev’ry grace,
      And musick of her face,
      You’d drop a teare,
      Seeing more harmonie
      In her bright eye,
      Then now you heare.

    Then = _than_. See next quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

I think the deep love he had for that sweet, rounded blossom-like
dark-eyed Hetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came
out of the very strength of his nature, and not out of any inconsistent
weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite
music?—to feel its wondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of
your soul, the delicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate, and
binding together your whole being past and present in one unspeakable
vibration; melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the
love that has been scattered through the toilsome years; concentrating in
one emotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons
of self-renouncing sympathy; blending your present joy with past sorrow,
and your present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then neither is
it a weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman’s
cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching eyes, or
the sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty of a lovely woman is
like music: what can one say more? Beauty has an expression beyond and
far above the one woman’s soul that it clothes, as the words of genius
have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them; it is more than
a woman’s love that moves us in a woman’s eyes—it seems to be a far-off
mighty love that has come near to us, and made speech for itself there;
the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their
prettiness—by their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness
and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this _impersonal_
expression in beauty, and for this reason, the noblest nature is often
the most blinded to the character of the woman’s soul that the beauty
clothes. Whence, I fear, the tragedy of human life is likely to continue
for a long time to come in spite of mental philosophers who are ready
with the best receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind.

                                              GEORGE ELIOT (_Adam Bede_).

    George Eliot would not know the preceding poem by Campion,
    whose lyrics had been forgotten until A. H. Bullen revived them
    in 1889; and most probably also she did not know Lovelace’s
    poem, as it is not one of the two or three lyrics by which
    alone he is remembered.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Alas, how soon the hours are over
  Counted us out to play the lover!
  And how much narrower is the stage
  Allotted us to play the sage!
  But when we play the fool, how wide
  The theatre expands! beside,
  How long the audience sits before us!
  How many prompters! What a chorus!

                           W. S. LANDOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

The degree of vision that dwells in a man is a correct measure of the
man. If called to define Shakespeare’s faculty, I should say superiority
of Intellect, and think I had included all under that. What indeed
are faculties? We talk of faculties as if they were distinct, things
separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, fancy, &c., as he has
hands, feet, and arms. That is a capital error. Then again, we hear of
a man’s “intellectual nature,” and of his “moral nature,” as if these
again were divisible and existed apart.... We ought to know, and to
keep forever in mind, that these divisions are at bottom but _names_;
that man’s spiritual nature, the vital Force which dwells in him, is
essentially one and indivisible; that what we call imagination, fancy,
understanding, and so forth, are but different figures of the same Power
of Insight, all indissolubly connected with each other, physiognomically
related; that if we knew one of them, we might know all of them. Morality
itself, what we call the moral quality of a man, what is this but another
_side_ of the one vital Force whereby he is and works?.... Without hands
a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, consider it,—without
morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly _immoral_
man could not know anything at all! To know a thing, what we can call
knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, sympathize with it; that is,
be _virtuously_ related to it.... Nature, with her truth, remains to the
bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a sealed book: what
such can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small.

                                CARLYLE (_Heroes and Hero Worship, III_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  A little I will speak. I love thee then
  Not only for thy body packed with sweet
  Of all this world....
  Not for this only do I love thee, but
  Because Infinity upon thee broods;
  And thou art full of whispers and of shadows.
  Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say
  So long, and yearnèd up the cliffs to tell;
  Thou art what all the winds have uttered not,
  What the still night suggesteth to the heart.
  Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth,
  Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea;
  Thy face remembered is from other worlds,
  It has been died for, though I know not when,
  It has been sung of, though I know not where.

                           STEPHEN PHILLIPS (_Marpessa_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sometimes thou seem’st not as thyself alone,
    But as the meaning of all things that are.

                           D. G. ROSSETTI (_Heart’s Compass_)

       *       *       *       *       *

“IMBUTA”

  The new wine, the new wine,
    It tasteth like the old,
  The heart is all athirst again,
    The drops are all of gold;
  We thought the cup was broken,
    And we thought the tale was told,
  But the new wine, the new wine,
    It tasteth like the old!

  The flower of life had faded,
    The leaf was in its fall,
  The winter seemed so early
    To have reached us, once for all;
  But now the buds are breaking,
    There is grass above the mould,
  And the new wine, the new wine.
    It tasteth like the old!

  The earth had grown so dreary,
    The sky so dull and grey;
  One was weeping in the darkness,
    One was sorrowing through the day:
  But a light from heaven gleams again,
    On water, wood, and wold,
  And the new wine, the new wine,
    It tasteth like the old!

  For the loving lips are laughing,
    And the loving face is fair,
  Though a phantom hand is on the board,
    And phantom eyes are there;
  The phantom eyes are soft and sad,
    The phantom hand is cold,
  But the new wine, the new wine,
    It tasteth like the old!

  We dare not look, we turn away,
    The precious draught to drain,
  ’Twere worse than madness, surely now,
    To lose it all again;
  To quivering lip, with clinging grasp,
    The fatal cup we hold,
  For the new wine, the new wine,
    It tasteth like the old!
  And life is short, and love is life,
    And so the tale is told,
  Though the new wine, the new wine,
    It tasteth like the old.

                           G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE.

    The title evidently refers to _Horace_ Ep. 1, 2, 69, 70, Quo
    semel est _Imbuta_ recens servabit odorem testa diu. “The scent
    which once has flavoured the fresh jar will be preserved in it
    for many a day.” Moore no doubt had the same passage in his
    mind when, speaking of the memories of past joys, he wrote:

      You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
      But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

    So Whyte-Melville says that when love is poured again into the
    heart of a man who has lost his first love, “The new wine, the
    new wine, It tasteth like the old.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  I strove with none, for none was worth my strife,
    Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
  I warm’d both hands before the fire of Life;
    It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

                           W. S. LANDOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Toucan has an enormous bill, makes a noise like a puppy dog, and lays
his eggs in hollow trees. How astonishing are the freaks and fancies of
nature! To what purpose, we say, is a bird placed in the woods of Cayenne
with a bill a yard long, making a noise like a puppy dog, and laying eggs
in hollow trees? The Toucans, to be sure, might retort, to what purpose
were gentlemen in Bond Street created? To what purpose were certain
foolish prating Members of Parliament created?—pestering the House of
Commons with their ignorance and folly, and impeding the business of the
country? There is no end of such questions. So we will not enter into the
metaphysics of the Toucan.

        SYDNEY SMITH (_Review of “Waterton’s Travels in South America”_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder below,
lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anchor among the reeds.
Meadow-sweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing bramble,
and there also hung a daughter of earth. Her face was shaded by a broad
straw hat with a flexible brim that left her lips and chin in the sun,
and, sometimes nodding, sent forth a light of promising eyes. Across
her shoulders, and behind, flowed large loose curls, brown in shadow,
almost golden where the ray touched them. She was simply dressed,
befitting decency and the season. On a closer inspection you might see
that her lips were stained. This blooming young person was regaling on
dewberries. They grew between the bank and the water. Apparently she
found the fruit abundant, for her hand was making pretty progress to her
mouth. Fastidious youth, which revolts at woman plumping her exquisite
proportions on bread-and-butter, and would (we must suppose) joyfully
have her scraggy to have her poetical, can hardly object to dewberries.
Indeed the act of eating them is dainty and induces musing. The dewberry
is a sister to the lotus, and an innocent sister. You eat: mouth, eye,
and hand are occupied, and the undrugged mind free to roam. And so it was
with the damsel who knelt there. The little skylark went up above her,
all song, to the smooth southern cloud lying along the blue: from a dewy
copse dark over her nodding hat the blackbird fluted, calling to her with
thrice mellow note: the kingfisher flashed emerald out of green osiers:
a bow-winged heron travelled aloft, seeking solitude: a boat slipped
toward her, containing a dreamy youth; and still she plucked the fruit,
and ate, and mused, as if no fairy prince were invading her territories,
and as if she wished not for one, or knew not her wishes. Surrounded
by the green shaven meadows, the pastoral summer buzz, the weirfall’s
thundering white, amid the breath and beauty of wild flowers, she was a
bit of lovely human life in a fair setting; a terrible attraction. The
Magnetic Youth leaned round to note his proximity to the weir-piles,
and beheld the sweet vision. Stiller and stiller grew nature, as at the
meeting of two electric clouds. Her posture was so graceful, that though
he was making straight for the weir, he dared not dip a scull. Just then
one enticing dewberry caught her eyes. He was floating by unheeded, and
saw that her hand stretched low, and could not gather what it sought.
A stroke from his right brought him beside her. The damsel glanced up
dismayed, and her whole shape trembled over the brink. Richard sprang
from his boat into the water. Pressing a hand beneath her foot, which she
had thrust against the crumbling wet sides of the bank to save herself,
he enabled her to recover her balance, and gain safe earth, whither he
followed her....

To-morrow this place will have a memory—the river and the meadow, and
the white falling weir: his heart will build a temple here; and the
skylark will be its high-priest, and the old blackbird its glossy-gowned
chorister, and there will be a sacred repast of dewberries.

                       GEORGE MEREDITH (_The Ordeal of Richard Feverel_).

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTY’S GLOBE

  When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
    And her young artless words began to flow,
  One day we gave the child a coloured sphere
    Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,
  By tint and outline, all its sea and land.
    She patted all the world; old empires peeped
  Between her baby fingers; her soft hand
    Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped
    And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss;
  But when we turned her sweet unlearnèd eye
  On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry—
  “Oh! yes, I see it, Letty’s home is there!”
    And, while she hid all England with a kiss,
  Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

                           CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

    Charles Tennyson, a brother of Lord Tennyson and author with
    him of _Poems by Two Brothers_, took the name of Turner.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O may I join the choir invisible
  Of those immortal dead who live again
  In minds made better by their presence: live
  In pulses stirred to generosity,
  In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
  For miserable aims that end with self,
  In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
  And with their mild persistence urge man’s search
  To vaster issues.
                So to live is heaven:
  To make undying music in the world....
                This is life to come,
  Which martyr’d men have made more glorious
  For us who strive to follow. May I reach
  That purest heaven, be to other souls
  The cup of strength in some great agony,
  Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love,
  Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—
  Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
  And in diffusion ever more intense,
  So shall I join the choir invisible
  Whose music is the gladness of the world.

                           GEORGE ELIOT.

    There is an infinite pathos in these lines. Having lost her
    faith in a future life, George Eliot tries to find consolation
    in the thought that, when she has passed into nothingness—when
    she “joins the choir invisible”—she will have done something to
    ennoble the minds of those who come after her. But why should
    generation after generation of insect-lives waste themselves in
    raising and purifying the minds of the generations that follow,
    if all in turn pass into nothingness? The higher and purer men
    became, the more they would love their fellow-beings and the
    more they would shudder at the insensate pain and cruelty in
    the world—the physical torture they themselves endure, and the
    mental torture both of losing for ever those they love and of
    seeing the sufferings of others. One should act in conformity
    with one’s belief. Instead of thus adding greater pain and
    sorrow to each succeeding generation, the effort should be to
    coarsen and brutalize our natures, so that love, duty, and
    moral aspiration shall disappear, and we shall cease to be
    saddened by the appalling cruelty of our existence. Our lives
    should, in fact, correspond with the brutal, ugly and stupid
    scheme of the universe.

    This is the direct answer to George Eliot, allowing her very
    important assumption _that we have a duty towards others_,
    including those who come after us. But this assumption is
    logically unwarranted, if at the end of our brief years we
    pass into nothingness and have no further concern with any
    living being. This brings us to a familiar train of argument.
    Why should we be irresistibly impelled to sacrifice ourselves
    for the good of others? And, apart from altruism, why should
    we develop _our own_ higher attributes—why seek to ennoble
    our own selves, since those selves disappear? Why fill with
    jewels the hollow log that is to be thrown on the fire? Why
    are we swayed by a sense of honour, a desire for justice, a
    love of purity and truth and beauty, a craving for affection,
    a thirst for knowledge, which persist up to the very gates of
    death? To take an illustration of Edward Caird’s, is not the
    path of life which is so traversed like the path of a star
    to the astronomer, which enables him to prophesy its future
    course—beyond the end which hides it from our eyes? Otherwise,
    to use another simile, it is as though Pheidias spent his life
    sculpturing in snow.

    (This does not mean, as the sceptic usually sneers, that the
    virtuous man merely desires a reward for his virtuous conduct.
    It is an inquiry why he _is_ virtuous—what is a sane view of
    the scheme of the universe.)

    In forming the conclusion that there was no possible future for
    man, George Eliot and an immense number of other thinkers of
    her time made also the vast assumption that there was nothing
    left to discover. Blanco White’s sonnet alone might have taught
    them the folly of such premature judgments. Or we may take an
    illustration, used by F. W. H. Myers, namely, the discovery
    that, far beyond the red and the violet of the spectrum or the
    rainbow, extend rays that have been (and will for ever be)
    invisible to our eyes. Since George Eliot’s time the Society
    for Psychical Research has during the last thirty-five years
    accumulated unanswerable evidence of survival after death.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,
  And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
  While all things else have rest from weariness?
  All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
  We only toil, who are the first of things,
  And make perpetual moan,
  Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
  Nor ever fold our wings,
  And cease from wanderings,
  Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;
  Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
  “There is no joy but calm!”
  Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?...

  Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
  Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
  Death is the end of life; ah, why
  Should life all labour be?
  Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
  And in a little while our lips are dumb.
  Let us alone. What is it that will last?
  All things are taken from us, and become
  Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
  Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
  To war with evil? Is there any peace
  In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
  All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
  In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
  Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

                           TENNYSON (_The Lotos-Eaters_).

    See preceding quotation.

       *       *       *       *       *

We may well begin to doubt whether the known and the natural can suffice
for human life. No sooner do we try to think so than pessimism raises
its head. The more our thoughts widen and deepen, as the universe grows
upon us and we become accustomed to boundless space and time, the
more petrifying is the contrast of our own insignificance, the more
contemptible become the pettiness, shortness, fragility of the individual
life. A moral paralysis creeps upon us. For awhile we comfort ourselves
with the notion of self-sacrifice; we say, what matter if I pass, let me
think of others! But the _other_ has become contemptible no less than the
self; all human griefs alike seem little worth assuaging, human happiness
too paltry at the best to be worth increasing. The whole moral world is
reduced to a point; good and evil, right and wrong become infinitesimal
ephemeral matters, while eternity and infinity remain attributes of
that only which is outside the sphere of morality. Life becomes more
intolerable the more we know and discover, so long as everything widens
and deepens except our own duration, and that remains as pitiful as ever.
The affections die away in a world where everything great and enduring is
cold; they die of their own conscious feebleness and bootlessness.

                                   SIR J. R. SEELEY (_Natural Religion_).

    See the two preceding quotations.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Death stands above me, whispering low
    I know not what into my ear;
  Of his strange language all I know
    Is, there is not a word of fear.

                           W. S. LANDOR

       *       *       *       *       *

LOVE-SWEETNESS

  Sweet dimness of her loosened hair’s downfall
    About thy face; her sweet hands round thy head
    In gracious fostering union garlanded;
  Her tremulous smiles; her glances’ sweet recall
  Of love; her murmuring sighs memorial;
    Her mouth’s culled sweetness by thy kisses shed
    On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led
  Back to her mouth which answers there for all:—
  What sweeter than these things, except the thing
    In lacking which all these would lose their sweet:—
    The confident heart’s still fervour: the swift beat
  And soft subsidence of the spirit’s wing,
  Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring,
    The breath of kindred plumes against its feet?

                           D. G. ROSSETTI.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jesus saith, Wherever there are two, they are not without God; and
wherever there is one alone, I say, I am with him. _Raise the stone and
there thou shalt find me; cleave the wood and there am I._

                                                      (_Logia of Jesus_).

    This is one of the Logia or Sayings of Jesus written on papyrus
    in the third century and discovered in Egypt by Grenfell and
    Hunt in 1897. The italics, of course, are mine.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first of all Gospels is this, that a Lie cannot endure for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile it is singular how long the rotten will hold together, provided
you do not handle it roughly.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are quarrels in which even Satan, bringing help, were not
unwelcome; even Satan, fighting stiffly, might cover himself with
glory—of a temporary nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

... Nothing but two clattering jaw-bones, and a head vacant, sonorous, of
the drum species.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thou art bound hastily for the City of _Nowhere_; and wilt arrive!

                                           CARLYLE (_French Revolution_).

    It is interesting to learn from a correspondent of _The
    Spectator_ (Feb. 17, 1917) that Carlyle wrote two verses which
    he combined with Shakespeare’s “Fear no more the heat o’ the
    sun” (Cymbeline iv, 2) to make a requiem, of which he was very
    fond:

      Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
        Nor the furious winter’s rages;
      Thou thy worldly task hast done,
        Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.

      Hurts thee now no harsh behest,
        Toil, or shame, or sin, or danger;
      Trouble’s storm has got to rest,
        To his place the wayworn stranger.

      Want is done, and grief and pain,
        Done is all thy bitter weeping:
      Thou art safe from wind and rain
        In the Mother’s bosom sleeping.

      Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
        Nor the furious winter’s rages:
      Thou thy worldly task hast done,
        Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.

       *       *       *       *       *

  It takes two for a kiss,
    Only one for a sigh;
  Twain by twain we marry,
    One by one we die.
  Joy has its partnerships,
    Grief weeps alone;
  Cana had many guests,
    Gethsemane had none.

                           FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.

    Byron in “Don Juan” says:

      All who joy would win must share it,
        Happiness was born a twin.

       *       *       *       *       *

(Speaking of the rare and exalted nature of Dorothea, who has adopted the
normal, domestic married life) Her finely-touched spirit had still its
fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like
that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels
which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on
those around her was incalculably diffusive; for the growing good of the
world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so
ill with you and me, as they might have been, is half owing to the number
who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

                                            GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

    This passage, which finely expresses an important truth, is
    at the end of _Middlemarch_. The reference is to a story of
    Herodotus. He says that Cyrus, the Persian, was angry with
    the river Gyndes (Diyalah), because it had drowned one of the
    white horses, which, as being sacred to the sun, accompanied
    the expedition. He, therefore, employed his army to divert the
    river into 360 channels (representing the number of days in the
    year). The story was probably told to Herodotus as explaining
    the great irrigation system that existed in Mesopotamia. The
    Diyalah flows into the Tigris not far from Baghdad.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Any sort of meaning looks intense
  When all beside itself means and looks nought.

                           R. BROWNING (_Fra Lippo Lippi_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Hold, Time, a little while thy glass,
    And, Youth, fold up those peacock wings!
  More rapture fills the years that pass
    Than any hope the future brings;
  Some for to-morrow rashly pray,
  And some desire to hold to-day.
  But I am sick for yesterday....

  Ah! who will give us back the past?
    Ah! woe, that youth should love to be
  Like this swift Thames that speeds so fast,
    And is so fain to find the sea,—
  That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep,
  These creeks down which blown blossoms creep,
  For breakers of the homeless deep.

                           EDMUND GOSSE (_Desiderium_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The night has a thousand eyes,
    And the day but one;
  Yet the light of the bright world dies
    With the dying sun.

  The mind has a thousand eyes,
    And the heart but one;
  Yet the light of a whole life dies,
    When love is done.

                           F. W. BOURDILLON.

    See reference to this poem in Preface.

       *       *       *       *       *

But to come again unto Apelles, this was his manner and custom besides,
which he perpetually observed, that no day went over his head, but what
businesse soever he had otherwise to call him away, he would make one
draught or other (and never misse) for to exercise his hand and keepe it
in use, inasmuch as from him grew the proverbe, _Nulla dies sine linea_,
_i.e._ Be alwaies doing somewhat, though you doe but draw a line. His
order was when he had finished a piece of work or painted table, and layd
it out of his hand, to set it forth in some open gallerie or thorowfare,
to be seen of folke that passed by, and himselfe would lie close behind
it to hearken what faults were found therewith; preferring the judgment
of the common people before his owne, and imagining they would spy more
narrowly, and censure his doings sooner than himselfe: and as the tale
is told, it fell out upon a time, that a shoomaker as he went by seemed
to controlle his workmanship about the shoo or pantofle that he had made
to a picture, and namely, that there was one latchet fewer than there
should be: Apelles acknowledging that the man said true indeed, mended
that fault by the next morning, and set forth his table as his manner
was. The same shoomaker comming again the morrow after, and finding
the want supplied which he noted the day before, took some pride unto
himselfe, that his former admonition had sped so well, and was so bold as
to cavil at somewhat about the leg. Apelles could not endure that, but
putting forth his head from behind the painted table, and scorning thus
to be checked and reproved, Sirrha (quoth hee) remember you are but a
shoomaker, and therefore meddle no higher I advise you, than with shoos.
Which words also of his came afterwards to be a common proverbe, _Ne
sutor ultra crepidam_.

                                               PLINY (_Natural History_).

    _Apelles_, the greatest painter of antiquity. The two proverbs
    mean: “No day without a line,” “A cobbler should stick to his
    last.” _Pantofle_, sandal; _latchet_, the thong fastening the
    sandal; _painted table_, panel picture; _controlle_, find fault
    with.

       *       *       *       *       *

      Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
        Before rude hands have touched it?
      Have you marked but the fall of the snow,
        Before the soil hath smutched it?
      Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
              Or swan’s down ever?
      Or have smelt o’ the bud of the briar,
              Or the nard in the fire?
      Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
  O, so white! O, so soft! O, so sweet is she!

                           BEN JONSON (_A Celebration of Charis_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Imperfection is in some sort essential to all that we know of life. It is
the sign of life in a mortal body, that is to say, of a state of progress
and change. Nothing that lives is, or can be, rigidly perfect; part of
it is decaying, part nascent. The foxglove blossom—a third part bud; a
third part past, a third part in full bloom—is a type of the life of this
world. And in all things that live there are certain irregularities and
deficiencies which are not only signs of life, but sources of beauty. No
human face is exactly the same in its lines on each side, no leaf perfect
in its lobes, no branch in its symmetry. All admit irregularity as they
imply change; and to banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to
check exertion, to paralyze vitality. All things are literally better,
lovelier, and more beloved for the imperfections which have been divinely
appointed, that the law of human life may be Effort, and the law of human
judgment, Mercy.

                             JOHN RUSKIN (_Stones of Venice II_, vi, 25).

       *       *       *       *       *

The best of us are but poor wretches just saved from shipwreck: can we
feel anything but awe and pity when we see a fellow-passenger swallowed
by the waves?

                                     GEORGE ELIOT (_Janet’s Repentance_).

       *       *       *       *       *

    The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
  Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
  Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
  The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
  Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke. She did lie
  In her pavilion: on each side her
  Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
  With divers-coloured fans....
  Her gentlewomen, like the Nereïdes,
  So many mermaids tended her. At the helm
  A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle
  Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands.

                           SHAKESPEARE (_Antony and Cleopatra_).

    This and the next three quotations are word-pictures (see p.
    85).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Little round Pepíta, blondest maid
  In all Bedmar—Pepíta, fair yet flecked,
  Saucy of lip and nose, of hair as red
  As breasts of robins stepping on the snow—
  Who stands in front with little tapping feet,
  And baby-dimpled hands that hide enclosed
  Those sleeping crickets, the dark castanets.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_The Spanish Gypsy_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  And how then was the Devil drest?
  Oh! he was in his Sunday’s best:
  His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
  And there was a hole where the tail came through.

  Over the hill and over the dale,
  And he went over the plain,
  And backward and forward he swished his long tail,
  As a gentleman swishes his cane.

                           S. T. COLERIDGE (_The Devil’s Thoughts_).

    The stanzas are reversed in order.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We walked abreast all up the street,
    Into the market up the street;
  Our hair with marigolds was wound,
  Our bodices with love-knots laced,
  Our merchandise with tansy[48] bound....

  And when our chaffering all was done,
    All was paid for, sold and done,
  We drew a glove on ilka hand,
  We sweetly curtsied, each to each,
  And deftly danced a saraband.

                           WILLIAM BELL SCOTT (_The Witch’s Ballad_).

    The above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 85).

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE NONPAREIL

_Naught but himself can be his parallel._

  With marble-coloured shoulders—and keen eyes
    Protected by a forehead broad and white—
    And hair cut close, lest it impede the sight,
  And clenched hands, firm and of a punishing size,
  Steadily held, or motioned wary-wise
    To hit or stop—and kerchief, too, drawn tight
    O’er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight
  The inconstant wind, that all too often flies—
  The Nonpareil stands! Fame, whose bright eyes run o’er
    With joy to see a Chicken of her own,
    Dips her rich pen in _claret_, and writes down
  Under the letter R, first on the score,
    “Randall—John—Irish Parents—age not known—
  Good with both hands, and only ten stone four!”

                           PETER CORCORAN (_The Fancy, 1820_).

    Randall was a pugilist of the time.

    “None but himself can be his parallel” is a line from _The
    Double Falsehood_ of Louis Theobald (1691-1744), but it comes
    originally from Seneca (_Hercules Furens_, Act I, Sc. I):

        Quaeris Alcidae parem?
      Nemo est nisi ipse.

      (Do you seek the equal of Alcides?
      No one is except himself.)

    I copied the above sonnet from _Gossip in a Library_ by Edmund
    Gosse (1891), partly because Mr. Gosse said of it, “Anthologies
    are not edited in a truly catholic spirit, or they would
    contain this very remarkable sonnet.” I hardly think this, but
    the lines seem sufficiently interesting to quote.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Le roi disait, en la voyant si belle,
      A son neveu:
  “Pour un baiser, pour un sourire d’elle,
      Pour un cheveu,
  Infant Don Ruy, je donnerais l’Espagne
      Et le Pérou!”
  _Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne_
      _Me rendra fou._

(The King, seeing her so beautiful, said to his nephew, “For one kiss,
for a smile, for one hair of her head, Infante Don Ruy, I would give
Spain and Peru.” _The wind that blows over the mountain will drive me
mad._)

                                              VICTOR HUGO (_Gastibelza_).

    This charmingly extravagant praise of a lady’s beauty recalls
    the story of another poet. The Eastern conqueror, Timur (or
    Tamerlane), sent for the Persian poet Hafiz and very angrily
    asked him, “Art thou he who offered to give my two great
    cities, Samarkand and Bokhara, for the black mole on thy
    mistress’s cheek?” Hafiz, however, cleverly escaped trouble by
    replying, “Yes, sire, I always give freely, and in consequence
    am now reduced to poverty. May I crave your kind assistance?”
    Timur was amused at the reply and made the poet a present. The
    story, however, is considered doubtful, because Timur did not
    conquer Persia until some years after 1388, which is supposed
    to be the date of the poet’s death.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mere verbal insults (to a Roman Emperor) were not considered treason;
for, said the Emperors Theodosius, Arcadius and Honorius, in language
that is a standing rebuke to pusillanimous tyrants, if the words are
uttered in a spirit of frivolity, the attack merits contempt; if from
madness, they excite pity; if from malice, they are to be forgiven.

                   WILLIAM A. HUNTER (1844-1898) (_Roman Law, Appendix_).

    This recalls to mind the numerous cases of _lèse-majesté_
    for words spoken against the Kaiser before the war. The
    passage would make a pleasant retort to a rude opponent (a
    “pusillanimous tyrant”) in a debate.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have discovered that a feigned familiarity in great ones, is a note
of certain usurpation on the less. For great and popular men feign
themselves to be servants of others, to make these slaves to them. So the
fisher provides bait for the trout, roach, dace, etc., that they may be
food for him.

                                             BEN JONSON (_Mores Aulici_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ci-gît ma femme, ah! qu’elle est bien,
  Pour son repos—et pour le mien.

                           DU LORENS.

    Paraphrased as:—

      Here Abigail my wife doth lie;
      She’s at peace and so am I.

       *       *       *       *       *

GLADSTONE AND THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH.

Mr. Gladstone’s relation to Psychical Research affords one more
illustration of the width and force of his intellectual sympathies. Many
men, even of high ability, if convinced as Mr. Gladstone was of the
truth and sufficiency of the Christian revelation, permit themselves
to ignore these experimental approaches to spiritual knowledge, as at
best superfluous. They do not realize how profoundly the evidence,
the knowledge, which we seek and which in some measure we find, must
ultimately influence men’s views as to both the credibility and the
adequacy of all forms of faith. Mr. Gladstone’s broad intellectual
purview,—aided perhaps in this instance by something of the practical
foresight of the statesman,—placed him in a quite different attitude
towards our quest. “It is the most important work which is being done
in the world,” he said in a conversation in 1885. “By far the most
important,” he repeated, with a grave emphasis which suggested previous
trains of thought, to which he did not care to give expression. He
went on to apologize, in his courteous fashion, for his inability to
render active help; and ended by saying “If you will accept sympathy
without service, I shall be glad to join your ranks.” He became an
Honorary Member, and followed with attention,—I know not with how much
of study—the successive issues of our _Proceedings_. Towards the close
of his life he desired that the _Proceedings_ should be sent to St.
Deiniol’s Library, which he had founded at Hawarden; thus giving final
testimony to his sense of the salutary nature of our work. From a man so
immersed in other thought and labour that work could assuredly claim no
more; from men profoundly and primarily interested in the spiritual world
it ought, I think, to claim no less.

                           F. W. H. MYERS (_S.P.R. Journal, June, 1898_).

    Apart from this interesting glimpse of Gladstone, it shows the
    importance he attached to the work of the Society for Psychical
    Research. To the severely orthodox, who think no evidence of
    life after death should be sought outside “Revelation,” his
    opinion should appeal. Every increase of knowledge is a further
    “Revelation.” In the Bible we are told of one resurrection,
    and there is certainly no reason why we should not seek the
    evidence of others. We should not shut our eyes and close our
    ears to new _Revelation_.

    The Society has been thirty-eight years in existence and is
    still insufficiently appreciated. Hodgson said in _The Forum_,
    1896 “There are so many ways of looking at the world. It may
    be a speck in space, or a huge cauldron with a graveyard for
    its crust, a place in which to get a hunger and satisfy it,
    the fighting ground for a while of dragon or ape, of Trojan or
    Turk, an evolutionary drama that must end in ice or fire. Many
    things it means to different men. One is busy with earthworms,
    another with stars, another with the splendour of the day or
    the strivings of the human soul. Numerous investigators are
    hunting for further proofs that we came out of the mud, but
    very few are seeking indications, in any scientific spirit,
    of what may follow the toil and turmoil of our individual
    existence here.”

    Myers says: “The question of the survival of man is a branch of
    experimental psychology. Is there, or is there not, evidence in
    the actual observed phenomena of automatism, apparitions and
    the like, for a transcendental energy in living men, or for an
    influence emanating from personalities which have overpassed
    the tomb? This is the definite question, which we can at least
    intelligibly discuss, and which either we or our descendants
    may some day hope to answer.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
  Or waves that own no curbing hand,
  How fast has brother followed brother,
  From sunshine to the sunless land!

                           WORDSWORTH (_On the Death of James Hogg_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Car, voyez-vous, la femme est, comme on dit, mon maître,
  Un certain animal difficile à connoitre,
  Et de qui la nature est fort encline au mal.

(A woman, look you, is a certain animal hard to understand and much
inclined to mischief.)

                                       MOLIÈRE (_Le Dépit Amoureux_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Here, where sharp the sea-bird shrills his ditty,
    Flickering flame-wise through the clear live calm,
  Rose triumphal, crowning all a city,
    Roofs exalted once with prayer and psalm,
  Built of holy hands for holy pity,
    Frank and fruitful as a sheltering palm.

  Church and hospice wrought in faultless fashion,
    Hall and chancel bounteous and sublime,
  Wide and sweet and glorious as compassion,
    Filled and thrilled with force of choral chime,
  Filled with spirit of prayer and thrilled with passion,
    Hailed a God more merciful than Time.

  Ah, less mighty, less than Time prevailing,
    Shrunk, expelled, made nothing at his nod,
  Less than clouds across the sea-line sailing
    Lies he, stricken by his master’s rod.
  “Where is man?” the cloister murmurs wailing;
    Back the mute shrine thunders—“Where is God?”

  Here is all the end of all his glory—
    Dust, and grass, and barren silent stones.
  Dead, like him, one hollow tower and hoary
    Naked in the sea-wind stands and moans,
  Filled and thrilled with its perpetual story;
    Here, where earth is dense with dead men’s bones.

  Low and loud and long, a voice for ever,
    Sounds the wind’s clear story like a song.
  Tomb from tomb the waves devouring sever,
    Dust from dust as years relapse along;
  Graves where men made sure to rest and never
    Lie dismantled by the seasons’ wrong.

  Now displaced, devoured and desecrated,
    Now by Time’s hands darkly disinterred,
  These poor dead that sleeping here awaited
    Long the archangel’s re-creating word,
  Closed about with roofs and walls high-gated
    Till the blast of judgment should be heard,

  Naked, shamed, cast out of consecration,
    Corpse and coffin, yea the very graves,
  Scoffed at, scattered, shaken from their station,
    Spurned and scourged of wind and sea like slaves,
  Desolate beyond man’s desolation,
    Shrink and sink into the waste of waves.

  Tombs, with bare white piteous bones protruded,
    Shroudless, down the loose collapsing banks,
  Crumble, from their constant place detruded,
    That the sea devours and gives not thanks.
  Graves where hope and prayer and sorrow brooded
    Gape and slide and perish, ranks on ranks.

  Rows on rows and line by line they crumble,
    They that thought for all time through to be.
  Scarce a stone whereon a child might stumble
    Breaks the grim field paced alone of me.
  Earth, and man, and all their gods wax humble
    Here, where Time brings pasture to the sea.

  ...

  But afar on the headland exalted,
    But beyond in the curl of the bay,
  From the depth of his dome deep-vaulted
    Our father is lord of the day.
  Our father and lord that we follow,
    For deathless and ageless is he;
  And his robe is the whole sky’s hollow,
    His sandal the sea.

  Where the horn of the headland is sharper,
    And her green floor glitters with fire,
  The sea has the sun for a harper,
    The sun has the sea for a lyre.
  The waves are a pavement of amber,
    By the feet of the sea-winds trod
  To receive in a god’s presence-chamber
    Our father, the God.

  Time, haggard and changeful and hoary,
    Is master and god of the land:
  But the air is fulfilled of the glory
    That is shed from our lord’s right hand.
  O father of all of us ever,
    All glory be only to thee
  From heaven, that is void of thee never,
    And earth, and the sea....

                           SWINBURNE (_By the North Sea_).

    Swinburne introduced the new Hellenism or paganism, which was
    followed by Pater and J. A. Symonds and ended with Oscar Wilde
    (see p. 310 note.) Here Time is the supreme god who wrecks
    Christian Churches, etc.

    Although Swinburne had no important message to deliver, yet
    by his wonderful mastery of metre and language he was of
    tremendous service in transforming English Poetry (see p. 219.)
    But in spite of the magical effect of his new melodies, he was
    wanting in the art (of which Milton is the supreme example)
    of varying his rhythm and accents. His extreme regularity,
    notwithstanding the fine language and the splendid swing of
    his verses, produces in his longer poems a certain effect of
    monotony. Swinburne spoke of the “spavined and spur-galled
    Pegasus” of George Eliot, but although she lacked his wonderful
    lyric melody, she was more artistic and effective than he in
    varying the rhythm of her verse. However, the immense influence
    of Swinburne on all subsequent poetry can never be forgotten.
    Even the dreary Iambic couplet in his hands was transformed
    into music.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is the love of the good for the good’s sake, and the love of the
truth for the truth’s sake. I have known many, especially women, love
the good for the good’s sake; but very few, indeed—and scarcely one
woman—love the truth for the truth’s sake. Yet without the latter, the
former may become, as it has a thousand times been, the source of the
persecution of the truth—the pretext and motive of inquisitorial cruelty
and party zealotry. To see clearly that the love of the good and the true
is ultimately identical is given only to those who love both sincerely
and without any foreign ends.

                                          S. T. COLERIDGE (_Table Talk_).

       *       *       *       *       *

The old creeds grew out of human nature as genuinely as weeds and flowers
out of the earth. It is well enough that the gardener, whose business it
is to pull them up, should despise them as pigweed, wormwood, chickweed,
shadblossom: so they are, out of their place; but the botanist picks
up the same and recognizes them as Ambrosia, Stellaria, Amelanchier,
Amaranth. _Natura nihil agit frustra._ Let us coax each to yield its last
bud.

                                                       MONCURE D. CONWAY.

    I have not Conway’s book _An Earthward Pilgrimage_ to refer to.
    The latter part of the above is apparently a quotation from
    Thoreau, as I remember it is so quoted by Emerson.

       *       *       *       *       *

God is my witness, what hours of wretchedness I have spent at times,
while reading the Bible devoutly from day to day, and reverencing
every word of it as the Word of God, when petty contradictions met me
which seemed to my reason to conflict with the notion of the absolute
historical veracity of every part of Scripture, and which, as I felt,
_in the study of any other book_ we should honestly treat as errors or
mis-statements, without in the least detracting from the real value of
the book! But in those days, I was taught that it was my duty to fling
the suggestion from me at once, “as if it were a loaded shell shot into
the fortress of my soul,” or to stamp out desperately, as with an iron
heel, each spark of honest doubt, which God’s own gift, the love of
truth, had kindled in my bosom.... I thank God that I was not able long
to throw dust in the eyes of my own mind, and do violence to the love of
truth in this way.

                               BISHOP COLENSO (1814-1883) (_Pentateuch_).

    (See G. W. Cox’s _Life of Colenso_, I, 493.) Colenso’s
    quotation, “as if it were a loaded shell,” etc., is from
    Bishop Wilberforce. Cox mentions elsewhere that in one of
    Wilberforce’s published sermons he speaks of a young man of
    great promise dying in darkness and despair, because he had
    indulged in doubt as to whether the sun and moon stood still
    at Joshua’s bidding! Who, that went through the experiences of
    those days, can ever forget them? We had been taught that we
    “must believe” every word of the Bible to be divinely inspired
    or else be eternally damned. And yet we realized that such
    belief was absolutely impossible!

    The horror with which Bishop Colenso’s revelations were
    received in orthodox circles would to-day be scarcely credible,
    and not until after the eighties were the results of the Higher
    Criticism generally accepted.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let a man be once fully persuaded that there is no difference between
the two positions, “The Bible contains the religion revealed by God,”
and “Whatever is contained in the Bible is religion, and was revealed by
God”; and that whatever can be said of the Bible, collectively taken, may
and must be said of each and every sentence of the Bible, taken for and
by itself,—and I no longer wonder at these paradoxes. I only object to
the inconsistency of those who profess the same belief, and yet affect
to look down with a contemptuous or compassionate smile on John Wesley
for rejecting the Copernican system as incompatible therewith; or who
exclaim, “Wonderful!” when they hear that Sir Matthew Hale sent a crazy
old woman to the gallows in honour of the Witch of Endor.... I challenge
these divines and their adherents to establish the compatibility of a
belief in the modern astronomy and natural philosophy with their and
Wesley’s doctrine respecting the inspired Scriptures.

                                                         S. T. COLERIDGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  For the Parsons are dumb dogs, turning round,
  And scratching their hole in the warmest ground,
  And laying them down in the sun to wink,
  Drowsing, and dreaming, and thinking they think.
  As they mumble the marrowless bones of morals,
  Like toothless children gnawing their corals,
  Gnawing their corals to soothe their gums
  With a kind of watery thought that comes.

                           W. C. SMITH (_Borland Hall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Why do we respect some vegetables, and despise others? The bean is a
graceful, confiding, engaging vine; but you never can put beans in
poetry, nor into the highest sort of prose. Corn—which, in my garden,
grows alongside the bean, and, so far as I can see, with no affectation
of superiority—is, however, the child of song. It “waves” in all
literature.

                         CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (_My Summer in a Garden_).

    Mr. Yeats has, however, rescued the bean from its invidious
    position (_The Lake Isle of Innisfree_):—

      I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
      And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
      Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
      And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

    Lady Middleton, a friend of old days in Adelaide and now in
    England, reminded me of these lines.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Yet in my hid soul must a voice reply
    Which knows not which may seem the viler gain,
    To sleep for ever or be born again.
  The blank repose or drear eternity.
  A solitary thing it were to die
    So late begotten and so early slain,
    With sweet life withered to a passing pain
  Till nothing anywhere should still be I.
    Yet if for evermore I must convey
    These weary senses thro’ an endless day
  And gaze on God with these exhausted eyes,
    I fear that howsoe’er the seraphs play
    My life shall not be theirs nor I as they,
  But homeless in the heart of Paradise.

                           F. W. H. MYERS (1843-1901) (_Immortality_).

    This is from Myers’ _Poems_, 1870, and is one of a pair of
    sonnets. I do not quote the first in full because its meaning
    seems obscure, but the last six lines on the shortness of life
    as compared with eternity are as follow:

      Lo, all that age is as a speck of sand
        Lost on the long beach where the tides are free,
      And no man metes it in his hollow hand
        Nor cares to ponder it, how small it be;
      At ebb it lies forgotten on the land
        And at full tide forgotten in the sea.

    In the second sonnet quoted above, Myers is not merely
    referring to the Biblical account of the future life in heaven
    as consisting in endless worship—which, if taken literally
    instead of symbolically, would certainly mean a “drear
    eternity.” The suggestion is that there must be some equivalent
    to work, thought, activity, progress, and definite aims to make
    eternal life preferable to annihilation. (I am reminded here of
    a curious statement made by the great Adam Smith, “What can be
    added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is out
    of debt, and has a clear conscience!”) Myers ultimately came
    to the definite conclusion that the future life will be one of
    continued progress.

    His name, Myers, is purely English, not Jewish. This gifted man
    was not only a fine poet, but also an important essayist and a
    remarkable classical scholar. He, Hodgson, and others formed
    the small band of able men who threw everything else aside and
    devoted their lives to Psychical Research. Myers’ best poems
    appeared in _The Renewal of Youth and other Poems_, 1882, and
    it was no doubt a loss to poetry that during the remaining
    eighteen years of his life he added little, if anything, more.
    However, he and Hodgson considered that the work to which they
    had devoted themselves was of the very highest importance.
    _Human Personality and its Survival of Bodily Death_, the
    important work in which Myers embodied his conclusions, was
    left incomplete at his death, but Hodgson, with Miss Alice
    Johnson’s assistance, completed and edited it.

    Myers was quite satisfied before his death, in 1901, that the
    evidence collected by the Society for Psychical Research had
    already established in itself the fact of survival after death.
    But the interesting fact is that during the nineteen years
    since he “passed over to the other side” he has apparently
    been the principal agent in adding greatly to that evidence.
    There is every reason to believe that Myers has personally been
    communicating and arranging and directing much of the evidence
    that has since been given.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not the essayist’s duty to inform, to build pathways through
metaphysical morasses, to cancel abuses, any more than it is the duty
of the poet to do these things. Incidentally he may do something in
that way, just as the poet may, but it is not his duty, and should not
be expected of him. Skylarks are primarily created to sing, although a
whole choir of them may be baked in pies and brought to table; they were
born to make music, although they may incidentally stay the pangs of
vulgar hunger.... The essay should be pure literature as the poem is pure
literature.

                            ALEXANDER SMITH (_On the Writing of Essays_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous,
    To the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death;
  But the flower of their souls he shall not take away to shame us,
    Nor the lips lack song for ever that now lack breath;
  For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell,
  Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell.

                           SWINBURNE (_In Memory of Barry Cornwall_).

       *       *       *       *       *

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

  You promise heavens free from strife,
    Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
  But sweet, sweet is this human life,
    So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;
  Your chilly stars I can forego,
  This warm kind world is all I know.

  You say there is no substance here,
    One great reality above:
  Back from that void I shrink in fear,
    And child-like hide myself in love:
  Show me what angels feel. Till then,
  I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

  You bid me lift my mean desires
    From faltering lips and fitful veins
  To sexless souls, ideal quires,
    Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
  My mind with fonder welcome owns
  One dear dead friend’s remembered tones.

  Forsooth the present we must give
    To that which cannot pass away;
  All beauteous things for which we live
    By laws of time and space decay.
  But oh, the very reason why
  I clasp them, is because they die.

                           WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY (1823-1892).

    Mimnermus was a fine Greek elegiac poet—about 630-600 B.C.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORS ET VITA

  We know not yet what life shall be,
    What shore beyond earth’s shore be set;
  What grief awaits us, or what glee,
          We know not yet.

  Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,
    Old friends, we say, beyond death’s sea
  Shall meet and greet us, nor forget

  Those days of yore, those years when we
    Were loved and true—but will death let
  Our eyes the longed-for vision see?
              We know not yet.

                           SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

    The evidence collected by the Society for Psychical Research
    indicates that friends do certainly meet. See the remarkably
    convincing _Ear of Dionysius_, lately published, where Dr.
    Verrall and Professor Butcher are clearly having a great time
    together on the other side.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Art—which I may style the love of loving, rage
  Of knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of things
  For truth’s sake, whole and sole,—nor any good, truth brings
  The knower, seer, feeler beside.

                           R. BROWNING (_Fifine at the Fair_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  De par le Roy dèfense à Dieu
  De faire miracle en ce lieu.

  (By order of the King, God is forbidden
  To work miracles in this place.)

                           ANON.

    The teaching of Cornelius Jansen (1585-1638) led to an
    important evangelical movement in the Roman Catholic Church.
    When, however, the Jansenists became subjected to persecution,
    the usual result followed that numbers of them became fanatics.
    The more corrupt the French Court and Society became, the
    more frenzied became this fanaticism. In 1727 the Jansenist
    deacon, Pâris, a man of very holy life, was buried in the St.
    Médard churchyard, and shortly afterwards miracles were said
    to take place at his tomb. In consequence large crowds of
    _convulsionnaires_ assembled there and very shocking scenes
    were enacted, men and women in hysterical and epileptic fits
    and ecstatic delirium, eating the earth of the grave and
    inflicting frightful tortures on themselves and each other.
    When in 1732 the Court interposed and closed the churchyard
    some wit wrote the above couplet on the gate.

    Mr. King in his _Classical and Foreign Quotations_ has “De
    faire _des miracles_,” but the above version seems correct (See
    _Larousse_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

  And Christians love in the turf to lie,
    Not in watery graves to be—
  Nay, the very fishes would _sooner_ die
    On the land than in the sea.

                           THOMAS HOOD.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are two things that fill my soul with a holy reverence and an
ever-growing wonder: the spectacle of the starry sky, that virtually
annihilates us as physical beings; and the moral law which raises us to
infinite dignity as intelligent agents.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _ought_ expresses a kind of necessity, a kind of connection
of actions with their grounds or reasons, such as is to be found
nowhere else in the whole natural world. For of the natural world our
understanding can know nothing except what is, what has been, or what
will be. We cannot say that anything in it ought to be other than it
actually was, is, or will be. In fact, so long as we are considering the
course of nature, the _ought_ has no meaning whatever. We can as little
inquire what ought to happen in nature as we can inquire what properties
a circle ought to have.

                                                           IMMANUEL KANT.

    The first quotation (from the _Kritik of Practical Reason_)
    appears to be the same passage that is often rendered in such
    words as these: “Two things fill my soul with awe—the starry
    heavens in the still night, and the sense of duty in man.”

       *       *       *       *       *

                    The whole earth
  The beauty wore of promise—that which sets
  The budding rose above the rose full-blown.

                           W. WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude, Bk. XI_).

       *       *       *       *       *

(——) is one of those men who go far to shake my faith in a future state
of existence; I mean, on account of the difficulty of knowing where to
place him. I could not bear to roast him; he is not so bad as that comes
to: but then, on the other hand, to have to sit down with such a fellow
in the very lowest pothouse of heaven is utterly inconsistent with the
belief of that place being a place of happiness for me.

                                          S. T. COLERIDGE (_Table Talk_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  It isn’t raining rain to me,
    It’s raining daffodils.
  In every dimpled drop I see
    Wild flowers on the hills.
  The clouds of grey engulf the day
    And overwhelm the town:
  It isn’t raining rain to me,
    It’s raining roses down.

                           ROBERT LOVEMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us reflect that the highest path is pointed out by the pure Ideal of
those, who look up to us, and who, if we tread less loftily, may never
look so high again.

                                         N. HAWTHORNE (_Transformation_).

       *       *       *       *       *

One summer evening sitting by my window I watched for the first star
to appear, knowing the position of the brightest in the southern sky.
The dusk came on, grew deeper, but the star did not shine. By and by,
other stars less bright appeared, so that it could not be the sunset
which obscured the expected one. Finally, I considered that I must have
mistaken its position, when suddenly a puff of air blew through the
branch of a pear tree which overhung the window, a leaf moved, and there
was the star behind the leaf.

At present the endeavour to make discoveries is like gazing at the sky up
through the boughs of an oak. Here a beautiful star shines clearly; here
a constellation is hidden by a branch; a universe by a leaf. Some mental
instrument or organon is required to enable us to distinguish between the
leaf which may be removed and a real void; when to cease to look in one
direction, and to work in another.... There are infinities to be known,
but they are hidden by a leaf.

                             RICHARD JEFFERIES (_The Story of My Heart_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Over the winter glaciers
    I see the summer glow,
  And through the wild-piled snowdrift
    The warm rosebuds below.

                           R. W. EMERSON (_The World-Soul_).

    Emerson is always an optimist.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Place thyself, oh, lovely fair!
  Where a thousand mirrors are;
  Though a thousand faces shine,
  ’Tis but one—and that is thine.
  Then the Painter’s skill allow,
  Who could frame so fair a brow.
  What are lustrous eyes of flame,
  What are cheeks, the rose that shame,
  What are glances wild and free,
  Speech, and shape, and voice—but He?

                           MOASI (_L. S. Costello’s translation_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  And here the Singer for his Art
    Not all in vain may plead
  ‘The song that nerves a nation’s heart
    Is in itself a deed.’

                           TENNYSON (_Charge of the Heavy Brigade_).

       *       *       *       *       *

I knew a very wise man that believed that, if a man were permitted to
make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a
nation.

                   FLETCHER of Saltoun (_Letter to Montrose and others_).

    What would the wise man have said of “It’s a long, long way to
    Tipperary”?

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST LOVE

  O my earliest love, who, ere I number’d
    Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!
  Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—
    Fly to her and say, I love her still?

  Say my life’s a desert drear and arid,
    To its one green spot I aye recur:
  Never, never—although three times married—
    Have I cared a jot for aught but her.

  No, mine-own! though early forced to leave you,
    Still my heart was there where first we met;
  In those “Lodgings with an ample sea-view,”
    Which were, forty years ago, “To let.”

  There I saw her first, our landlord’s oldest
    Little daughter. On a thing so fair
  Thou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdest
    Everything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne’er.

  There she sat—so near me, yet remoter
    Than a star—a blue-eyed bashful imp:
  On her lap she held a happy bloater,
    ’Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

  And I loved her, and our troth we plighted
    On the morrow by the shingly shore:
  In a fortnight to be disunited
    By a bitter fate for evermore.

  O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!
    To be young once more, and bite my thumb
  At the world and all its cares with you, I’d
    Give no inconsiderable sum.

  Hand in hand we tramp’d the golden seaweed,
    Soon as o’er the gray cliff peep’d the dawn:
  Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we’d
    Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—

  Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,
    That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?
  Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,
    That bright being who was always gay?

  Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!
    Yes—I see her darning corduroys,
  Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things
    For a howling herd of hungry boys

  In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!
    But at intervals she thinks, I know,
  Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,
    Spent together forty years ago.

  O my earliest love, still unforgotten,
    With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!
  Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton
    To another as I did to you!

                           C. S. CALVERLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON A FLY DRINKING OUT OF A CUP OF ALE

  Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
  Drink with me, and drink as I;
  Freely welcome to my cup,
  Couldst thou sip and sip it up.
  Make the most of life you may,
  Life is short and wears away.

  Both alike, both thine and mine,
  Hasten quick to their decline;
  Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
  Though repeated to three-score:
  Three-score summers, when they’re gone,
  Will appear as short as one.

                           WILLIAM OLDYS (1696-1761).

    This was first published in 1732 as “The Fly—An Anachreontick”
    and Mr. Gosse in the _Encyc. Britt._ gave the first six lines
    as an example of an Anacreontic. He attributed the poem to
    Oldys, but the authorship is doubtful. (See _Notes and Queries,
    3rd Ser., I, 21_). Vincent Bourne in a copy of his _Poematia_,
    1734, in my possession, has written out _and signed_ the two
    verses, entitling them “A Song,” the last line of each verse
    being repeated as a refrain. From this it might appear that he
    claimed the authorship. In 1743 he published a Latin version of
    the poem. Vincent Bourne, a beautiful Latinist, was much loved
    by his pupils, Charles Lamb and Cowper, who each translated
    into English some of his fine Latin verses.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The Earth goeth on the Earth, glistening like gold,
  The Earth goeth to the Earth, sooner than it wold,
  The Earth builds on the Earth castles and towers—
  The Earth says to the Earth, all shall be ours.

                           _Epitaph_, 17th Century.

    An inscription on a tomb in Melrose Abbey, but said to be a
    version of lines by a Fourteenth Century poet, William Billing.

       *       *       *       *       *

  She never found fault with you, never implied
  Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
  Grew nobler, girls purer....
  None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;
  They knelt more to God than they used—that was all.

                           E. B. BROWNING (_My Kate_).

       *       *       *       *       *

It takes very little water to make a perfect pool for a tiny fish,
where it will find its world and paradise all in one, and never have a
presentiment of the dry bank. The fretted summer shade, and stillness,
and the gentle breathing of some loved life near—it would be paradise to
us all, if eager thought, the strong angel with the implacable brow, had
not long since closed the gates.

                                                 GEORGE ELIOT (_Romola_).

       *       *       *       *       *

All true Work is religion; and whatsoever religion is not Work may go and
dwell among the Brahmins, Antinomians, Spinning Dervishes, or where it
will; with me it shall have no harbour.

                                                      CARLYLE (_Reward_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Nature, the old nurse, took
    The child upon her knee,
  Saying: ‘Here is a story book
    Thy Father has written for thee.’

  ‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,
    ‘Into regions yet untrod;
  And read what is still unread
    In the manuscripts of God.’

  And he wandered away and away
    With Nature, the dear old nurse,
  Who sang to him night and day
    The rhymes of the universe.

  And whenever the way seemed long,
    Or his heart began to fail,
  She would sing a more wonderful song,
    Or tell a more marvellous tale.

                           LONGFELLOW (_Agassiz_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Deep, deep are loving eyes,
  Flowed with naptha fiery sweet;
  And the point is paradise
  Where their glances meet.

                           R. W. EMERSON (_The Daemonic and the Celestial
                           Love_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  ... As I lie here, hours of the dead night,
  Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
  I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
  And stretch my feet forth, straight as stone can point,
  And let the bed-clothes, for a mortcloth, drop
  Into great laps and folds of sculptor’s work.

                           R. BROWNING (_The Bishop orders his Tomb_).

       *       *       *       *       *

    Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
  Led the lorn traveller up the path,
    Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;
  And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
    Upon the parlour steps collected,
  Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,—
    “Our master knows you—you’re expected.”

                           W. M. PRAED (_The Vicar_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
  An abbot on an ambling pad,
  Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
  Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
      Goes by to towered Camelot.

                           TENNYSON (_The Lady of Shalott_).

    The above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 167).

       *       *       *       *       *

(Phantasy or imagination may be true and clear or may be disordered and
unsound) ... The phantastical part of men (if it be not disordered) is a
representer of the best, most comely and bewtifull images or appearances
of thinges to the soule and according to their very truth.... Of this
sort of Phantasie are all good Poets, notable Captaines stratagematique,
all cunning artificers and Engineers, all Legislators, Politiciens and
Counsellours of estate, in whose exercises the inventive part is most
employed and is to the sound and true judgement of man most needful.

                   GEORGE PUTTENHAM (_The Arte of English Poesie_, 1589).

    Just as a poet, besides imagination, must have intellect or
    judgment as a basis, so the higher imaginative faculty comes to
    the aid of intellect in other departments of life. As Maudsley
    says, “it performs the initial and essential functions in
    every branch of human development” (_Body and Will_). Ehrlich,
    seeking a substance that would destroy germs without injuring
    the human tissues, plods through endless tedious processes,
    and on his 606th experiment, discovers salvarsan, a cure for
    syphilis. Here the higher faculty has had little to do—but
    when, on the fall of an apple, Newton’s mind saw in a flash how
    the world was balanced, intellect soared aloft on the wings of
    imagination.

       *       *       *       *       *

As well Poets as Poesie are despised, and the name become, of honourable
infamous, subject to scorne and derision, and rather a reproach than
a prayse to any that useth it: for commonly whoso is studious in the
Arte or shewes himselfe excellent in it, they call him in disdayne a
_phantasticall_: and a light-headed or phantasticall man (by conversion)
they call a Poet.... Of such among the Nobilitie or gentrie as be very
well seene in many laudable sciences, and especially in Poesie, it is
so come to passe that they have no courage to write and if they have,
yet are they loath to be a-known of their skill. So as I know very
many notable Gentlemen in the Court that have written commendably and
suppressed it agayne, or else suffred it to be publisht without their
owne names to it: as if it were a discredit for a gentleman to seeme
learned, and to shew himselfe amorous of any good Arte.

                   GEORGE PUTTENHAM (_The Arte of English Poesie_, 1589).

    We do not always remember in what disheartening conditions the
    great Elizabethan literature was produced—the inferior position
    of the writer, his wretched remuneration and his dependence on
    patrons. It is strange to think that it was considered beneath
    the dignity of a gentleman to write poetry or to acknowledge
    its authorship—or apparently to show proficiency in other arts
    or sciences. Such men as Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter
    Raleigh were exceptions. The curious fact is that Puttenham
    himself (assuming, as is probable, that he was the author)
    issued this important book anonymously. He had, however,
    acknowledged his _Partheniades_ ten years before.

    As Arber points out, the above passage, and another reference
    by Puttenham to the same subject, indicate that, at least in
    the earlier Elizabethan period, much talent must have been
    lost and much literature never reached the printing press. The
    same feeling that then existed is seen again in Locke’s time
    (see p. 180), and, if we consider a moment, we shall find that
    _it has persisted to some extent to the present day_. Think
    how miserably inadequate is the attention paid to poetry in
    our educational system, the methods employed being, indeed,
    calculated to make the student _loathe_ the subject. (When I
    was young (“Ah, woful When”[49]) we had as a school text-book
    Palgrave’s Golden Treasury—a divine gift to us in those days.
    As we had a sympathetic teacher, we read it _as poetry_,
    and the consequence was that I and other boys knew the book
    practically by heart from cover to cover.)

    It is surprising that Englishmen neglect the one great
    talent which they possess. What distinguishes them above all
    other nations is their superiority in the higher imaginative
    faculties.[50] This is shown in such a national characteristic
    as the love of travel and adventure, which has created the
    British Empire, and is _proved_ concretely by the fact that
    England has produced the greatest wealth of poetry which the
    world has ever seen. This great treasure, which should be
    employed for encouraging the highest of all faculties, is
    allowed to lie idle. The fact seems to be overlooked that
    the study of poetry is not only of enormous intrinsic value
    in knowledge, and culture, but that it is the finest of all
    mental training. By analysis and paraphrase it gives knowledge
    of language, appreciation of style, practice in literary
    expression, and, above all things, precision of thought. In my
    opinion, poetry should form an essential part of education,
    beginning in childhood and continuing throughout the Arts
    course. It may be found that there are intelligent persons who
    are incapable of appreciating poetry, and the subject may,
    therefore, not be made a compulsory one. But my conviction is
    that, where men imagine themselves to be thus deficient, it is
    the result of a bad system of education. There is great truth
    in Stevenson’s fine essay, “The Lantern-Bearers.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
  From world to luminous world, as far
  As the universe spreads its flaming wall:
  Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
  And multiply each through endless years,
  One minute of Heaven is worth them all.

                           THOMAS MOORE (_Lalla Rookh_).

    A Celtic flight of imagination.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And on we roll—the year goes by
    As year by year must ever go,
  And castles built of bits of sky
    Must fall and lose their wondrous glow;

  But Hope with his wings is not yet old,
    While every year like a summer day
  Ends and begins with grey and gold,
    Begins and ends with gold and grey.

                           RICHARD HODGSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  When none need broken meat,
  How can our cake be sweet?
  When none want flannel and coals,
  How shall we save our souls?
      Oh dear! oh dear!
  The Christian virtues will disappear.

                           CHARLOTTE STETSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Since we parted yester eve,
    I do love thee, love, believe
  Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,
  One dream deeper, one night stronger,
  One sun surer—thus much more
    Than I loved thee, love, before.

                           OWEN MEREDITH (EARL OF LYTTON) (_Love Fancies_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The Dahlia you brought to our Isle
  Your praises for ever shall speak
  ’Mid gardens as sweet as your smile
  And colours as bright as your cheek.

                           LORD HOLLAND.

    A pretty compliment to his wife who in 1814 had introduced the
    dahlia into England from Spain. Previous attempts had failed
    (Liechtenstein’s _Holland House_).

       *       *       *       *       *

C’est imiter quelqu’un que de planter des choux.

                                                            A. DE MUSSET.

    Quoted by Austin Dobson:—

        ... And you, whom we all so admire,
      Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!
      One word in your ear: There were Critics before.
      And _the man who plants cabbages imitates, too_!

       *       *       *       *       *

... The great book of actual life, sad, diffuse, contradictory, yet
always full of depth and significance.

                                 GEORGE SAND (_The Miller of Angibault_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  Life is mostly froth and bubble;
    Two things stand like stone:—
  Kindness in another’s trouble,
    Courage in your own.

                           ADAM LINDSAY GORDON (1833-1870) (_Ye Weary
                           Wayfarer_).

       *       *       *       *       *

A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER

  A noiseless, patient spider,
  I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
  Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
  It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
  Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.

  And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
  Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
  Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect
    them;
  Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
  Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

                           WALT WHITMAN (_Leaves of Grass_).

       *       *       *       *       *

  The Future, that bright land which swims
  In western glory, isles and streams and bays,
  Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze.

                           GEORGE ELIOT (_Jubal_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.

(The modest Nymph saw her God and blushed.)

The conscious water saw its God and blushed.

                                             RICHARD CRASHAW (1616-1650).

    Referring to the miracle of Cana. Both Latin and English
    epigrams are by Crashaw. In the former the water is personified
    by its Nymph.

       *       *       *       *       *

Called on the W. Molesworths. He is threatened with total blindness,
and his excellent wife is learning to work in the dark in preparation
for a darkened chamber. What things wives are! What a spirit of joyous
suffering, confidence, and love was incarnated in Eve! ’Tis a pity they
should eat apples.

                                                 CAROLINE FOX’S JOURNALS.

       *       *       *       *       *

                  ... Earth and ocean,
  Space, and the isles of life or light that gem
  The sapphire floods of interstellar air,
  This firmament pavilioned upon chaos,
  With all its cressets of immortal fire.

                           SHELLEY (_Hellas_).

       *       *       *       *       *

Vox, et praeterea nihil.

[Words (_literally voice_) and nothing more.]

                                                                 PROVERB.

    Plutarch, in his Apophthegm, Lacon. Incert. XIII, says that
    a man after plucking a nightingale and finding little flesh
    on it, said φωνὰ τύ τις ἐσσὶ, καὶ οὐδὲν ἄλλο, “Thou art voice
    and nothing more” (_King’s Classical and Foreign Quotations_).
    No doubt this was the origin of the saying. It was applied to
    the nightingale, and to Echo—and then used in Hamlet’s sense,
    “Words, words, words.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
  Stains the white radiance of Eternity.

                           SHELLEY (_Adonaïs_ LII).

    Two of the most marvellous lines in all literature. With them
    as a text volumes might be written.

       *       *       *       *       *

Campbell the poet, who had always a bad razor, I suppose, and was late of
rising, said he believed the man of civilization who lived to be sixty
had suffered more pain in littles in shaving every day than a woman with
a large family had from her lyings-in.

                                  JOHN BROWN (_Horae Subsecivae_ I, 457).

       *       *       *       *       *

Beauty is worse than wine, it intoxicates both the holder and the
beholder.

                                                        J. G. ZIMMERMANN.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)
  For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
      Could ever yet produce:
  No grape, that’s kindly ripe, could be
  So round, so plump, so soft as she,
      Nor half so full of juice.

  Her feet beneath her petticoat
  Like little mice stole in and out,
      As if they fear’d the light:
  But O, she dances such a way!
  No sun upon an Easter-day
      Is half so fine a sight.

  Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
  No daisy makes comparison
      (Who sees them is undone);
  For streaks of red were mingled there,
  Such as are on a Catherine pear,
      The side that’s next the sun.

  Her lips were red, and one was thin
  Compar’d to that was next her chin,
      (Some bee had stung it newly),
  But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face
  I durst no more upon them gaze
      Than on the sun in July.

                           SIR JOHN SUCKLING (_Ballad upon a Wedding_).

    “Some bee had stung it.” _It_, of course, means the full
    underlip, as against the less full upperlip.

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is the ascendancy which the great works of the Greek imagination
have established over the mind of man that.... he is tempted to ignore
the real superiority of our own religion, morality, civilization, and to
re-shape in fancy an _adult_ world on an _adolescent_ ideal.

                               F. W. H. MYERS (Essay on _Greek Oracles_).

       *       *       *       *       *

That early burst of admiration for Virgil of which I have already spoken
was followed by a growing passion for one after another of the Greek
and Latin poets. From ten to sixteen I lived much in the inward recital
of Homer, Æschylus, Lucretius, Horace, and Ovid. The reading of Plato’s
Gorgias at fourteen was a great event; but the study of the Phaedo at
sixteen affected upon me a kind of conversion. At that time, too, I
returned to my worship of Virgil, whom Homer had for some years thrust
into the background. I gradually wrote out Bucolics, Georgics, Aeneid
from memory....

The discovery at seventeen, in an old school book, of the poems of
Sappho, whom till then I had only known by name, brought an access of
intoxicating joy. Later on, the solitary decipherment of Pindar made
another epoch of the same kind. From the age of sixteen to twenty-three
there was no influence in my life comparable to _Hellenism_ in the
fullest sense of the word. That tone of thought came to me naturally; the
classics were but intensifications of my own being. They drew from me and
fostered evil as well as good; they might aid imaginative impulse and
detachment from sordid interests, but they had no check for pride.

When pushed thus far, the “Passion of the Past” must needs wear away
sooner or later into an unsatisfied pain. In 1864 I travelled in
Greece. I was mainly alone; nor were the traveller’s facts and feelings
mapped out for him then as now. Ignorant as I was, according to modern
standards, yet my emotions were all my own: and few men can have drunk
that departed loveliness into a more passionate heart. It was the life of
about the sixth century before Christ, on the isles of the Aegean, which
drew me most;—that intensest and most unconscious bloom of the Hellenic
spirit. Here alone in the Greek story do women play their due part with
men. What might the Greeks have made of the female sex had they continued
to care for it! Then it was that Mimnermus sang:—

  τίς δε βιός, τί δε τερπνὸν ἄνευ χρυσέης Ἀφροδίτης;
  τεθναίην, ὅτε μοι μηκέτι ταῦτα μέλοι.[51]

Then it was that Praxilla’s cry rang out across the narrow seas, that
call to fellowship, reckless and lovely with stirring joy. “Drink with
me!” she cried, “be young along with me! Love with me! wear with me the
garland crown! Mad be thou with my madness; be wise when I am wise!”

I looked through my open porthole close upon the Lesbian shore. There
rose the heathery promontories, and waves lapped upon the rocks in
dawning day:—lapped upon those rocks where Sappho’s feet had trodden;
broke beneath the heather on which had sat that girl unknown, _nearness
to whom made a man the equal of the gods_. I sat in Mytilene, to me a
sacred city, between the hill-crest and the sunny bay....

Gazing thence on Delos on the Cyclades, and on those straits and channels
of purple sea, I felt that nowise could I come closer still; never more
intimately than thus could embrace that vanished beauty. Alas for an
ideal which roots itself in the past! That longing cannot be allayed.

                        F. W. H. MYERS (_Fragments of Prose and Poetry_).

    The wonderful record of Myers in classical study will first be
    observed. If we did not know him to be absolutely trustworthy,
    we would find it practically impossible to believe his
    statement. Imagine, for instance, a boy of sixteen learning
    by heart _the whole of Virgil_ for his own pleasure! However,
    anything vouched for by Myers must be accepted as literally
    true.

    Extraordinary as this is, the above quotations introduce us to
    a subject quite as extraordinary and far more interesting and
    important, namely, the distortion of truth caused by extreme
    classical enthusiasm.[52] It is perfectly easy to see how
    such enthusiasm arises. Greek art and literature are not only
    intrinsically wonderful and valuable but, seeing that they were
    produced by a comparatively small population in a barbaric age,
    they constitute the greatest (secular) marvel in the history
    of the world. Everything tends to excite enthusiasm for this
    remote, alien, primitive, but most remarkable people. I need
    not speak of the art in which they stand unrivalled throughout
    the ages. As regards their literature, apart from its
    intrinsic excellence and the beauty of the language in which
    it is written, it has an additional fascination and charm,
    because it is the speech and song of the infancy of the world.
    Through it we see into the mind and realize the life of the
    most interesting race that ever lived. Possessing astounding
    intellect and intense originality, they were nevertheless the
    children of nature. Their earth was peopled with fauns and
    nymphs, their gods lived and moved and had their being in
    every natural object—and they had very little of our ideas of
    right and wrong. They had nothing of our wide knowledge and
    experience, yet they constructed a world of life and thought
    for themselves. It is absorbingly interesting to read their
    beautiful poetry, fine literature, and philosophic thought,
    bearing in mind that it was produced in the ignorant childhood
    and paganism of the human race, over two thousand years ago.
    And one of the most astonishing things about them is that
    essential product of civilization, a keen sense of humour. So
    curiously “modern” is their literature that the writers speak
    to us across the ages with as vivid a voice as if they were
    still alive. No other primitive race has been able to leave us
    any such adequate conception of its life and thought. Moreover,
    we can never forget how the Greek arose out of the tomb, where
    he had slept for many centuries, to preside at the re-birth of
    our own modern world—that emergence of Europe from medieval
    darkness which we call the Renaissance. It was largely Greek
    art and literature that stimulated the mental activity of the
    world and made us what we are to-day.

    Very great enthusiasm is, therefore, warranted in the Greek
    student—but there comes a point where enthusiasm may become
    pure _fanaticism_, and lead to that most deadly of all things,
    the perversion of the truth.

    In the above quotations two Greek poems are quoted, and another
    is referred to in the lines I have italicized. The first
    two[53] refer to vice, which to us is revolting and criminal,
    but to the whole Greek nation was natural, and recognised by
    law. The third expresses even more revolting passion. It will
    be seen, therefore, that Myers, in order to illustrate the
    “departed loveliness” of Greek life made a strange choice of
    quotations (which also, standing alone, would give a very false
    notion of classic Greek poetry).

    Seeing that Myers was one of the purest-minded of men, what is
    the explanation of this very remarkable fact? The explanation
    is simply that Myers was a _classical enthusiast_. He had
    forgotten the warning he himself gave in the first quotation.
    It is absolutely amazing how such an enthusiast, however
    brilliant a scholar and capable a man in other respects, can
    blind himself to the most obvious facts where anything Greek
    is concerned. It is very certain that Myers read into each
    poem a perfectly innocent meaning—and he would not be alone in
    that respect. Take, for instance, the third quotation which is
    from Sappho. In my youth the _great majority_ of classical men
    appeared to have convinced themselves that a poem of terribly
    fierce passion was an expression of mere friendship! Even our
    leading reference-book, Smith’s _Dictionary of Greek and Roman
    Biography_, gave the same absurd view until about 1877.[54]
    However, we must get away from this ugly subject and seek
    further illustrations elsewhere.

    This perverted enthusiasm seems to permeate all books of the
    last fifty or sixty years dealing with Greek life, art and
    literature that I have met with. This is a very large statement
    to make, and, of course, I do not mean that such flagrant
    instances as those above referred to are the rule. But to me
    there seems always to be _some_ bias which tends to exaggerate
    or falsify the facts to _some_ extent. We can trace this
    tendency back more than eighteen hundred years to Plutarch.
    (_On the Malice of Herodotus_). He, as Mr. Livingstone[55]
    says, “took the view that the Greeks of the great age
    could do no wrong, and rates the historian for ‘needlessly
    describing evil actions.’” And it is largely in this way that
    the enthusiast works—by _omitting facts_. I should think few
    readers unfamiliar with the classics will have known all the
    facts already put before them in these notes—because such
    facts, although known to all classical scholars, are kept in
    the background as much as possible. Again the tendency is to
    judge the Greeks by their greatest men—to imagine every Greek
    to have been a Plato!

    I might add greatly to what I have already said about the
    Greeks, but I must confine myself to a few matters, repeating
    nothing that has been said in previous notes. The Greeks had
    very little regard for truthfulness. An _oath_ was a matter of
    religion and was supposed to be binding upon them, but it was
    excusable to twist out of it. They also saw nothing immoral in
    theft. Hermes was the god of thieves, and “the wily Odysseus”
    was a favourite hero of the Greeks. Autolycus, the grandfather
    of Odysseus, was taught by Hermes himself to surpass all
    men in stealing and perjury. (_Od._ XIX, 395.) Hence it was
    thought quite a proper thing to make war for the purpose of
    robbing neighbours of territory or property. I need quote only
    the truly “German” opinions of _Socrates_ and _Aristotle_
    placed by Mr. Zimmern at the head of his chapter on Warfare
    in _The Greek Commonwealth_. “But, Socrates, it is possible
    to procure wealth for the State from our foreign enemies.”
    “Yes, certainly you may, if you are the stronger power” (Xen.
    _Mem._, III, 6, 7). “War is strictly a means of acquisition,
    to be employed against wild animals and against inferior races
    of men who, though intended by nature to be in subjection to
    us, are unwilling to submit[!], for war of such a kind is just
    by nature” (Aristotle, _Politics_, 1256). On considering that
    such sentiments are expressed by their greatest philosophers,
    we are not surprised to find that _the history of the Greeks is
    one of lies, perfidy, and cruelty_.[56] It further illustrates
    their unsympathetic pagan character when we find the Greek
    mother mourning for her dead son because he will not “feed
    her old age,” and Socrates valuing friendship because friends
    were useful.[57] When the enthusiast is confronted with the
    debased Greek religion he tells us, or leads us to think, that
    the people did not believe in their dissolute gods. As regards
    this I cannot do better than quote the terse statement of Mr.
    Livingstone. After pointing out that there were some advanced
    thinkers among the Greeks who were more or less sceptics
    (and that there were also some small sects who are said to
    have had higher _moral_ beliefs than their countrymen[58])
    he says, “We are concerned with the state religion, which
    Athenians learnt to reverence as children, which permeated
    the national literature, which crowned the high places of the
    city with its temples, which consecrated peace and war and
    everything solemn and ceremonial in civil life, which by its
    intimate connection with these things acquired that support
    of instinctive sentiment which is stronger than any moral or
    intellectual sanction.”[59] Something may be added to this.
    Why was the Greek so greatly concerned about his tomb and his
    burial rites? The main reason why he burdened himself with a
    wife and household was that a son should be left to see to
    those rites and look after his tomb. He did not see his wife
    before marriage, and, however beautiful he found her to be,
    the uneducated girl would be no companion for him; and her
    beauty would soon fade in the unwholesome confined life she
    led. Her office was fulfilled when she had borne him sons—and
    he looked for his pleasures elsewhere. Surely this one fact
    alone proves that the Greeks had a very real belief in their
    religion. Again why do we find that only Socrates and a few
    other thinkers appear to have been charged with impiety? Mr.
    Livingstone, curiously enough, argues from this that there was
    greater freedom of thought among the Greeks. Surely the simple
    and natural explanation is far preferable, namely, that there
    were _no other pronounced sceptics_ than those few advanced
    thinkers. Imagine the danger of declaring anything against the
    gods which would throw in doubt the divinity of the patron
    goddess Athena![60] It is often argued that the intelligent
    Greeks could no more have believed the monstrous stories
    of their gods, than we believe some of the Old Testament
    stories of Jehovah. But the position is entirely different. We
    disbelieve stories that offend our moral sense: the gods of
    the Greeks had a character similar to their own, and acted as
    they themselves would have acted if they had been gods. Also
    they had no ethnology, no knowledge of purer religions to teach
    them the falsity and depravity of their own—nor, indeed, would
    the proud Greeks have condescended to learn from barbarians
    (especially as they believed themselves descended from heroes
    who were sprung from the gods). Finally one has only to read
    the accounts of travellers in Greece to learn that the religion
    _even lingers on to-day_—see, for instance, S. C. Kaines
    Smith’s _Greek Art and National Life_ (pp. 153, 172), where the
    woodcutters, when a tree is falling, throw themselves on the
    ground and hide their faces in deadly fear of the Dryads,[61]
    and an _eminent Greek gentleman_ crosses himself at the name of
    the Nereïds. (See also W. H. D. Rouse’s _Tales from the Isles
    of Greece_. I learn from the _Spectator_ review of a book just
    published, _Balkan Home Life_, by Lucy M. J. Garnett, that the
    religion has a very strong hold on the people.)

    My statement has been very one-sided so far, as I have said
    very little of the virtues of the Greeks. These virtues were
    those of intelligent primitive people, love of freedom,
    justice, and equality (_but confined to their own nation and
    not including their own women and slaves_), personal courage,
    great patriotism, fidelity to kinsfolk and guests; they
    showed at times generosity to a valiant enemy and recognized
    some such duties as burying the dead. While I do not think
    we can carry the national virtues much further than this,
    there would be gradations of character among the Greeks, and
    probably many would be more or less kindly, others have a
    true affection for their wives, others show private virtues
    in various directions—we can only conjecture as to something
    of which there is very little evidence in their literature.
    On the one hand, we know that Socrates suffered martyrdom
    for the truth,[62] and we may surmise that there were other
    fine characters; on the other hand, we know that this highly
    intellectual _nation_ put the philosopher to death as a
    blasphemer against their profligate gods.

    But while we can give the Greeks credit for little of the
    morality of modern civilization, on the other hand we would be
    thinking very absurdly if we regarded their vices as though the
    people were on the same moral plane as ourselves. (This is the
    fact to be recognised. The ridiculous tendency of the modern
    enthusiast is to depict the Greeks as a highly moral nation
    striving for righteousness!) Strictly speaking, the Greek
    practices and habits should not be called vices, because the
    Greeks had no reason to believe that they were doing anything
    wrong. Their virtues and their vices were those of ordinary
    primitive life.[63] The moral principle, that highest product
    of creation, had not yet developed itself among the people to
    any appreciable extent, but we see it gradually emerging in
    the growing disbelief in the national religion among thinking
    men, and reaching an advanced stage in Plato, the greatest
    philosopher of antiquity. But to the average Greek, apart from
    religion (including respect for parents), the patriotism which
    they had learnt from Homer, their one great book, covered much
    of what they meant by “virtue”.[64] Whatever was good for the
    State was a virtue, whatever bad for the State a vice. We can
    hardly realize what Athens stood for in the Greek mind. For
    instance, Æschylus tells us that the patron goddess Athena
    came to Athens to preside over the balloting of the jurors and
    conduct the trial of Orestes, and also that the Furies lived
    among the citizens in a sacred grotto. The Greeks saw that they
    were immensely superior to the surrounding “barbarians,” and
    they regarded their State practically as an object of _worship_
    (as Rome was also regarded by the Romans).

    It would have been interesting to discuss here the ethical
    views of the philosophers, but the subject is far too intricate
    for this note—and in any case they and their followers formed
    only a few exceptions among the Greeks. It will be seen later
    that the use of such words as “virtue,” “holiness,” etc.,
    causes a vast deal of meaning to be read into Plato which never
    entered that philosopher’s mind.

    The great outstanding fact about the Greeks is their
    astonishing intellect, combined with sound commonsense
    (σωφροσύνη) and a quite modern gift of humour. Their powerful
    intellect, however, had very poor material to work upon. In a
    previous note I have mentioned their remarkably limited idea of
    the world—but, while knowing this to be a fact, we still cannot
    realize the _mental attitude_ of men who had even _one_ false
    conception of such magnitude as regards their general outlook
    and thought. Let us take an instance of a different kind from
    the great philosopher Aristotle (384-322 B.C.), who came after
    Plato—bearing in mind that the average Greeks would be vastly
    more ignorant and superstitious than their greatest thinkers.
    In his _Mechanica_ Aristotle explains the power of a lever to
    make a small weight lift a larger one. His explanation is that
    a _circle has a certain magical character_. A very wonderful
    thing is a circle, because it is both _convex_ and _concave_;
    it is made by a _fixed_ point and a _moving_ line, which are
    contradictory to each other; and whatever has a circular
    movement moves _in opposite directions_. Also, Aristotle says,
    movement in a circle is the most _natural_ movement! Hence we
    get the result: the long arm of the lever moves in the _larger
    circle_ and has the greater amount of this magical _natural
    motion_, and so requires the lesser force! Again, let us take
    a story which was as firmly believed by Aristotle as the most
    ignorant of his countrymen. Our word halcyon is the Greek
    word _Alkuon_, meaning a bird, probably of the Kingfisher
    species. The Greeks supposed the word to be formed of two
    words, _hals kuon_, meaning “conceived in the sea”—therefore
    they believed the bird _was_ so conceived and that it was bred
    in a nest floating on the sea—and, as the sea must then be
    smooth, they further believed that a period of fourteen days’
    calm necessarily occurred about Christmas—finding there was
    no such period of calm around their own coasts they either
    thought that it must occur (and the birds breed) elsewhere,
    or, like Theocritus, that the bird could _charm_ the sea into
    tranquillity.[65]

    The Greeks believed queer things about animals. I take
    the following instances of birds alone from Mr. Rogers’
    Introduction to his _Birds of Aristophanes_, so that I need not
    give references. By looking at a plover, who returns the look,
    a man is cured of jaundice. Penelope, the wife of Odysseus,
    was said to have been so named because, having been cast into
    the sea, she was rescued by widgeons (Greek, _penelops_). The
    song of the dying swan was a belief of the Greeks. The raven
    was the bird of augury and had mysterious knowledge. The cranes
    fought the pygmies and swallowed stones for ballast. The
    young storks fed their aged parents. The sisken foresees the
    winter and snowstorms. Mr. Rogers has no need to discuss the
    yet more extravagant stories of the phœnix, sirens, harpies,
    etc. Plutarch (_De Is. and Os._ LXXI) tells us how the Greeks
    regarded birds and other animals in relation to the gods; he
    says that while they did not, like the Egyptians, _worship_
    animals, “they said and believed rightly that the dove was
    the sacred animal of Aphrodite, the raven of Apollo, the dog
    of Artemis, and so on.” (Possibly Aristophanes’ comedy did
    not win the prize, because the audience saw little humour in
    exaggerating the powers which they really believed the birds
    to have. To the Greeks the birds were _greater_ and the gods
    _smaller_ than we ourselves picture them. Ruskin’s translation
    of Od. V. 67,[66] the seabirds which “have care of the works
    of the sea,” seems much more likely to be correct than the
    accepted version that the birds live by diving and fishing.
    Consider how the Greeks would regard the birds that flew round
    and over their ships or fishing-nets and over the waves and
    rocks, where the sea-gods lay beneath—and compare _Il._ II,
    614.)[67]

    All that has been said about the Greeks in this and previous
    notes is intended, not so much to exhibit the character of that
    nation—a matter which does not greatly concern me—but for other
    reasons. In one instance the intention was to indicate how
    vast a gulf exists between Christianity and the ancient world.
    Many classical enthusiasts do not seem to realize this, and a
    definitely _pagan_ tendency is very apparent in their habits of
    thought.

    But the main object of pointing out the inferior state of
    civilization among the Greeks, their non-moral character
    in certain respects, their ignorance and superstition, and
    their low standard of morality generally, has to do with
    the important question of interpreting Greek literature and
    philosophy. It would matter very little that the enthusiast
    should picture the Greeks as a race of saints and demigods, if
    there were no beautiful and valuable literature to be coloured
    and falsified by reason of such views. It is only by realizing
    the actual life and thought of this primitive race that _we
    can understand their language_, that is to say, we can learn
    what meanings should be attached to the words they use. Only
    thus can we _interpret their literature_. We have already had
    two simple illustrations of this. In one case what appears
    to be a poetic fancy in Theocritus, when the voyager hopes
    the halcyons will calm the sea for him, is seen to be a wish
    that the birds _will actually exercise the power that they
    possess_. The other instance appears on page 294. But much more
    important is it that, in reading words of knowledge such as
    references to the starry heavens or the constitution of matter,
    or mental or moral phenomena, we should not attribute to the
    Greek writer conceptions far larger and higher than he had in
    his mind. To amplify what I have said in a previous note, let
    us take the words in Plato, Aristotle or, say, Euripides which
    are translated by such English words as “morality,” “purity,”
    “virtue,” “honour,” “religion,” etc. It is clear that the
    original Greek expressions cannot signify, for instance, either
    purity as we know it, or even abstention from unnatural vice or
    from infanticide.[68] We are, therefore, mistranslating when we
    use such English words (because they are the nearest equivalent
    to the Greek expressions), and this fact needs to be steadily
    borne in mind. Again when interpreting, say, a Greek play, it
    is necessary to bear in mind, not only the _supposed_ character
    of the _dramatist_, but also the _actual_, _known_ character of
    the _audience_ to whom the play was addressed. I now propose to
    give an illustration which will bring me on dangerous ground.

    Is it reasonable to ask if the Athenians, some few of whose
    characteristics have been outlined in these notes, would have
    flocked to hear, and have greatly enjoyed, a play replete with
    high moral teaching, and containing hymns that might have come
    out of a Church Hymnal? Now the _Bacchae_ of Euripides, one
    of the most popular of Greek plays, and the _Hippolytus_ of
    the same dramatist, have been translated by one great Greek
    scholar, Professor Gilbert Murray, in a manner that (at any
    rate, as regards the _Bacchae_) received the “hearty admiration
    and approval” of another great Greek scholar, Dr. Verrall.
    In this version, one after another of the debased Greek gods
    is called “God.” We also find such expressions as (note the
    capitals) “God’s grace,” “Virgin of God,” “Babe of God,” “God’s
    son,” and even “God’s true son” (who is Dionysus or Bacchus),
    “Spirit of God,” “Child of the Highest,” “Heaven,” “Purity,”
    “Saints” (who are the Maenads!), “righteous,” “divine,” “holy,”
    and so on.

    Professor Murray is put in a difficulty when two or more gods
    are referred to. In some cases he becomes illogical (and
    reminds us of the Kaiser), as when Dionysus has to say “God and
    me.” In others he has to use the Greek name for one god, and
    then the words sound blasphemous, as when he speaks of Dionysus
    who was “born from the thigh of Zeus and now is God.” These
    instances are taken quite at random and there must be many
    others.

    Take the following two lines as a short illustration of
    Professor Murray’s version:

      Where a voice of living waters never ceaseth
        In God’s quiet garden by the sea.

    The original reads: “Where the ambrosial fountains stream forth
    by the couches of the palaces of Zeus,” or, to give them a more
    musical turn, Mr. A. S. Way’s version is:

      Where the fountains ambrosial sunward are leaping
        By the couches where Zeus in his halls lieth sleeping.

    In Professor Murray’s two lines Zeus becomes “God,” “living
    waters” is taken from the Song of Solomon, and “God’s quiet
    garden” from Isaiah and Ezekiel. Such expressions, with their
    tender and beautiful associations, do not in the least convey
    the sense of the original. Used to describe the palace of a
    vicious, barbaric deity, they are a _mistranslation_. Also
    every one of the expressions referred to above is, wherever
    used, another mistranslation (although some may be necessitated
    by the limitation of language). Again there are other more
    pronounced mistranslations, some of which are pointed out by
    Verrall (_Bacchants of Euripides_). Thus where the very old
    man Cadmus, setting out on an unusual journey, merely says to
    his ancient comrade, “We have pleasantly forgotten that we are
    old” (_Bacchae_ 184-9). Professor Murray interpolates a stage
    direction, “_A mysterious strength and exaltation_” (from the
    god Dionysus) “_enters into him_”—and he alters the words of
    Cadmus to conform with the miracle:

      Sweetly and forgetfully
      The dim years fall from off me!

    Here, therefore, we find _an important episode_ deliberately
    introduced into the play.

    Take another instance which Verrall does not mention. In the
    very enthusiastic “Introductory Essay,” Professor Murray
    tells us that Euripides longed to escape from the bad, hard,
    irreligious Athenians[69] of that day, and proceeds as follows:

    “What else is wisdom?” he asks, in a marvellous passage:—

        What else is wisdom? What of man’s endeavour
      Or God’s high grace so lovely and so great?
      To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait;
      To hold a hand uplifted over Hate;
        And shall not loveliness be loved for ever?

    There is nothing here, nor in the translation that follows,
    to indicate that there has been any interference with the
    text. It is only upon turning to the notes _at the end of the
    translation_ (which the average reader would hardly study)
    that we find the third line is “_practically interpolated._”
    He gives reasons for this that are not easy to follow, and
    says “If I am wrong, the refrain is probably a mere cry for
    revenge;” I add that the latter is the generally accepted
    meaning, and the only meaning I can see in the original Greek.

    Now Professor Murray’s object in all this is to convey in
    words that appeal to our minds his conception of the devout,
    religious and, therefore, _highly moral_ attitude of, not only
    Euripides, _but also his Athenian audience_. The attitude of
    mind must be that of the _audience_, as well as the dramatist,
    because none but devout, religious people go to a “Service of
    Song,” and, as stated above, the _Bacchae_ was a very popular
    play among the Greeks. If, however, Professor Murray thought
    that, by colouring, altering, and adding to the play, he gave
    a more correct impression of it as it appeared to the Greeks,
    he was perfectly at liberty with that object to mistranslate as
    much as he pleased—_provided he told his readers and hearers
    that they were not reading or hearing the words that Euripides
    wrote_.

    Has he told them this? The book is entitled “Euripides
    _translated_ into English rhyming verse.” In the Preface he
    also begins by telling us definitely that it is a translation;
    later on he says: “As to the method of this translation ...
    my aim has been to build up something as like the original
    as I possibly could, in form and what one calls ‘Spirit.’ To
    do this, the first thing needed was a work of painstaking
    scholarship, a work in which there should be _no neglect
    of the letter_ in an attempt to snatch at the spirit.” He
    then goes on to tell us that “The remaining task” was to
    reproduce the poetry of the original and (here is the only
    admission that he has varied from the text) he ‘has often
    changed metaphors, altered the shapes of sentences, and the
    like.... On one occasion he has even omitted a line and a half’
    (because unnecessary) and he says, he ‘has added, of course
    by conjecture, a few stage directions.’ Let the non-classical
    reader look back over what has been said above and ask himself
    whether such words—however carefully studied—would have given
    him the least impression of what this “_translation_” actually
    amounts to.

    Without entering into any long discussion as to the so
    called “purity choruses” of the _Bacchae_, let us simply ask
    the question, Does this pious, fervently-religious version
    represent the actual play that the cruel, lying, treacherous
    and unspeakably sensual Greeks flocked to see and enjoy?
    Further comes a much more important question, Would such a
    “translation,” put before English readers, or staged before an
    English audience, give them a _true_ or a _false_ idea of the
    character of the Greeks?

    I might compare with this Ruskin’s view of the Greek character
    (_The Crown of Wild Olive._). This is what he says the Greeks
    won from their lives: “Free-heartedness, and graciousness, and
    undisturbed trust, and _requited love_, and _the sight of the
    peace of others, and the ministry to their pain_.” (Italics
    mine.) This is truly amazing! I am tempted to go back again
    to Professor Murray’s _Euripides_ (p. lxiii) and quote a like
    passage:

    “Love thou the day and the night,” he (Euripides) says in
    another place. “It is only so that Life can be made what it
    really is, a Joy: _by loving not only your neighbour_—he is so
    vivid an element in life that, unless you do love him, he will
    spoil all the rest!—but the actual details and processes of
    living, etc., etc.”

    The italics are again mine—but here it will be seen that
    Euripides has, _as a matter of course_, anticipated the great
    evangel of Christ! He has even gone a step further—but I
    must leave Professor Murray to his love of the “details and
    processes of living,” whatever that may mean.

    Finally, in this extraordinary essay, I come to something which
    is absolutely _repulsive_. I must first briefly premise that
    the Dionysiac mystery cult was not sectarian. It was orthodox,
    believing in the plurality and the profligacy of the gods. Its
    adherents had no more idea of morality or purity than other
    Greeks. Its rites were indecent. The so-called “purification
    rites,” including regulations regarding continence, were
    simply _training rules_ preparatory to their hideous orgies.
    The essential rite of the cult was practised by the Maenads
    or Bacchantes. They tore to pieces live animals (and at one
    time human beings) and devoured their raw, quivering flesh.
    As stated above, these horrible women are Professor Murray’s
    “Saints.” He now proceeds to _draw an analogy between their
    loathsome god Dionysus and Jesus Christ_! Thus Dionysus is born
    of God (Zeus) and a human mother. He is the “twice-born”—having
    been hidden in Zeus’s thigh after birth! He “_comes to his
    own_ people of Thebes, _and—his own receive him not_.”
    Again “It seemed to Euripides in that favourite metaphor of
    his, which was always a little more than a metaphor, that
    a _God had been rejected by the world_ that he came from.”
    Dionysus “_gives his Wine to all men_.... It is a mysticism
    which includes democracy, as it includes _the love of your
    neighbour_.” Dionysus “_has given man Wine, which is his Blood
    and a religious symbol_.” In the translation Dionysus is called
    “_God’s son_” and even “_God’s true son_.” Reading this and
    such statements as Miss Jane Harrison’s (see p. 292, n.), one
    stands amazed. Apparently this fanatical enthusiasm destroys
    the critical faculties, so that the enthusiast becomes utterly
    incapable of appreciating the beauty and value of Our Lord’s
    ethical teaching and its exemplification in His life.

    For my last illustration of how enthusiasm affects our leading
    classical authorities (and, therefore, leads to _perversion of
    the truth_) I take Mr. A. E. Zimmern’s _Greek Commonwealth_.
    This, like Mr. Livingstone’s work, is a very excellent book,
    which should be in all libraries.

    Mr. Zimmern quotes and _definitely endorses_ the well-known
    statement in Galton’s _Hereditary Genius_ (1869), which is as
    follows:—“The average ability of the Athenian race is, _on
    the lowest possible estimate_, very nearly two grades higher
    than our own, that is, _about as much as our race is above
    that of the African Negro_.” (The italics are mine.) Here I
    have happened by chance[70] upon an excellent illustration of
    classical enthusiasm, which is worth while dwelling upon at
    some length. In the first place Galton’s statement is perhaps
    the most absurd utterance ever made by an important thinker; in
    the second place _it appears to have been accepted by English
    and European authorities for nearly half a century_.

    Galton bases his argument on the number of great men produced
    by a nation in proportion to its population. He states that
    between 530 and 430 B.C. the Athenian Greeks produced fourteen
    highly illustrious men:—Themistocles, Miltiades, Aristides,
    Cimon, and Pericles (statesmen and commanders), Thucydides,
    Socrates, Xenophon, and Plato (literary and scientific men),
    Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes (poets),
    and Pheidias (sculptor). I take the minor objections to his
    statement first.

    He estimates the population of free-born Greeks in Attica at
    90,000. In this instance he was misled by the authorities of
    his time and is not to blame; _but I take Mr. Zimmern’s own
    figures, as he endorses Galton’s statement_. The 90,000 should
    have been, according to Mr. Zimmern’s more correct figures,
    180,000 to 200,000. _This alone cuts down Galton’s estimate
    of the “average ability” of the Greeks to at least one-half._
    Galton also excludes the resident aliens who, according to him,
    numbered 40,000, but according to Mr. Zimmern 96,000. Yet both
    these and the outside aliens must be considered, for there
    were intermarriages. Themistocles and Cimon had alien mothers,
    Thucydides also probably had an alien mother, or at any rate
    was partly of Thracian descent, and there would be _some_
    ground for the charge of usurping citizenship repeatedly made
    by Cleon against Aristophanes. Galton also takes no account of
    the slaves, the number of whom he estimates at 400,000, but
    Zimmern at about 112,000. These cannot be entirely omitted when
    we consider the life of the Greek women and the habits of the
    men. It should be remembered that the slaves were often Greeks
    of other States and also by reason of the practice of exposing
    children some would be Athenians and even of the best families
    (Plato’s _Laws_, 930, deals with children of slaves and Greek
    men and women). However, on these figures, it will be seen that
    Galton’s estimate has to be enormously reduced.

    Next, the _greatest_ of all the names in his list, Plato, has
    to be _struck out_. There can be no reasonable doubt that he
    was not born until 428 or 427 B.C. (This appears to have been
    well recognised in 1869 and it is unaccountable that Galton
    and his reviewers should not have known it.) However, there is
    _some_ evidence that he was born in 430, and let us assume that
    this is so. But, if we are to include in the 100 (or rather
    101) years everyone who _is born_ or _died_ in that time,
    we are actually taking a period of 200, not 100, years, and
    _doubling_ the proper estimate! Besides Plato, I may mention
    that Aristophanes and Xenophon could have been only about
    fourteen years of age in 430, Thucydides had not then begun
    to write, and of the eighteen plays extant of Euripides two
    only were written before 430. Here again is another enormous
    reduction of Galton’s estimate.

    Again let us take Galton’s opinion of the ability of these
    fourteen men. It is amazingly high. It will be seen that there
    are only _two grades_ between ourselves and the African negro.
    Again, in Galton’s table, “eminent men” are _two grades_ above
    “the mass of men who obtain the ordinary prizes of life.” _He
    now places the whole of these fourteen Greeks two grades above
    the eminent men!_ To what starry height he means to raise them,
    it is impossible to say, for the whole statement is exceedingly
    vague; but he tells us that two of the fourteen, Socrates and
    Pheidias, _stand alone as the greatest men that ever lived_.

    It is clear then that the fourteen Greeks have to be placed at
    a tremendous height in our estimation. It is impossible here to
    take each man and discuss his ability, but let us inquire what
    qualifications Galton had _as a critic_. We turn to his list
    of great modern English and European literary men. Although
    he goes back as far as the Fifteenth Century and his list
    comprises _only fifty-two_ writers, he finds room among them
    for such names as John Aikin and Maria Edgeworth! Again his
    ten great English poets are Milton, Byron, Chaucer, _Milman_,
    Cowper, _Dibdin_(!), Dryden, _Hook_, Coleridge, and Wordsworth.
    (Some names would no doubt be omitted because they did not
    throw light on questions of heredity, but these lists in any
    case are highly absurd.)

    We need not greatly prolong this part of the discussion. We
    might ask, however, what ground had Galton, for example, to
    place such men as Miltiades, Aristides, or Cimon even _on an
    equality with_, say, Cæsar, Alexander, or Marlborough. How can
    he class Xenophon as even _equal_ to our great writers? It
    is the interesting _facts_ he tells us of, not his literary
    ability, that makes this somewhat monotonous writer so very
    interesting. (The important point to remember is that Greek
    literature has a very special interest and value for us, quite
    apart from its great intrinsic _literary_ value. Taking De
    Quincey’s classification, see p. 227, it is both “literature of
    power” and “literature of knowledge.”)

    Now take another point which I might illustrate from Galton’s
    own pages. He tells us (in another connection) that about sixty
    years before the time he is writing (1869) there were Senior
    Wranglers in Cambridge who also obtained first classes in the
    Classical Tripos—and even at a later date men could take high
    rank in both departments. Is it then to be argued that the
    earlier men were the greater? Not so, but, as Galton says,
    knowledge had become so far advanced that it was no longer
    possible for a man to gain such a distinction in more than
    one of the two subjects. Here we have the point—the world of
    knowledge and activity is infinitely wider to-day than when it
    formed the subject of Greek speculation. Their great men were
    very original thinkers—but _in a very few subjects_. Moreover,
    they had no books to read, no foreign languages to learn. Even
    their social and political life was far less complicated and
    involved than our own.

    Again, where we speak of “average ability,” it is not correct
    to compare large populous countries, where great talents are
    often submerged (see Gray’s “Elegy”) with smaller communities
    that afford far ampler scope. Take my own State, South
    Australia, with its huge territory and a population of under
    half a million, less than that of one of the larger English
    towns. We have our Premier, Government, Parliament, Town
    Councils, Heads of Departments, University, schools, judges,
    lawyers, journalists and literary men, financiers, merchants,
    men who design and construct railways, irrigation and other
    important works, mining men, heads of institutions and so
    on—which means a large number of men of ability and resource
    in all departments of life. If we compare ourselves with an
    average half-million of Englishmen, how great our superiority
    would apparently be! And yet, we know that we are not actually
    more capable—our ability has been simply brought into play.
    Mr. W. M. Hughes might himself have been a “flower to blush
    unseen,” if he had not emigrated to Australia.

    We have so far dealt with minor matters, which have
    nevertheless reduced Galton’s arithmetical estimate by, say,
    75 per cent. at the very least. Let us now take the one great
    misrepresentation that must have immediately flashed upon the
    minds of all reviewers of Galton’s book, if they had not been
    blinded by classical enthusiasm. It is truly remarkable that
    not a single one of them seems to have called attention to the
    obvious fact that Galton takes the one great Athenian period,
    _as though it were an average period in their history_! From
    Homer’s time to the Fifth Century, B.C., would probably be
    about as long as from the Norman Conquest to the present time,
    or from King Alfred to Shakespeare—and there are again the many
    centuries that followed. Is the “average ability” of the Greeks
    during hundreds or thousands of years to be estimated on their
    one most brilliant period? The question needs no discussion.
    Galton might in the same way have taken our Elizabethan period
    when London had a population of 150,000, and Great Britain of
    about three millions—and proved _that our own ancestors_ were
    as far above ourselves as we are above the negro.[71]

    Mr. C. T. Whiting, of the Adelaide Public Library, knowing
    how my time was limited, very kindly volunteered to make
    an extensive search for references to Galton’s statement
    in such of the literature of the time as is available in
    Adelaide. In addition to a number of books, he has searched
    through _thirty-eight_ journals. He finds reviews of Galton’s
    book in the following:—_Athenæum_, _British Quarterly_,
    _Saturday Review_, _Edinburgh Review_, _Fortnightly Review_,
    _Chambers’ Journal_, _Journal of Anthropology_, _Atlantic
    Monthly_, _Frazer’s Magazine_, _Nature_, _Times_, _and
    Westminster Review_. The first seven do not refer at all to
    the statement—they apparently accept it as a matter of course.
    Of the last five _Frazer’s_ mentions the statement, and says
    vaguely that the chapter in which it is contained “offers
    several vulnerable points to the critic;” the _Westminster_
    states the fact without taking any exception to it; the
    _Atlantic Monthly_ raises the question whether Miltiades,
    Aristides, Cimon, and Xenophon were so very illustrious, and
    enters into an argument on Galton’s figures; the _Times_
    considers that we have had other men in different fields of
    human effort, who could be named with Socrates and Pheidias,
    and lays stress on the enormous increase of knowledge and
    activity in modern life; in _Nature_ A. R. Wallace, misreading
    Galton as referring only to the age of Pericles[72] admits the
    truth of the statement as applied to the Athenians of that
    time. None of them refer to the fact that Galton takes the most
    brilliant period of Greek history as a normal period—and the
    arguments, taken together, amount to very little. As regards
    the twenty-six journals which appear to have taken no notice
    of so startling a statement in an important book, the fact
    seems to indicate that to the writers for those journals
    the statement contained nothing of a remarkable or dubious
    character! (Even _Punch_ missed the chance of an amusing
    cartoon!)

    It may be objected that the reviewers of the book would not
    be classical men. But _first_ it must be remembered that the
    writers of 1869 would practically all have had a classical
    education and _secondly_ it needed no special classical
    knowledge to see the absurdity of the statement. Every one
    without exception would know, for example, that the period
    taken by Galton was the one great Greek period. The statement
    must also have excited interest on all sides. I myself remember
    how it was talked of when I was a boy in Melbourne, and I have
    heard it repeated as an acknowledged fact up to the present
    time—and, therefore, comment would have been expected _in
    every direction_. But apparently the statement was generally
    accepted. Mr. Whiting finds that in 1892, twenty-three years
    after, Galton calmly repeated the statement word for word,
    _without reference to any criticisms_. Again we find Mr.
    Zimmern accepting it as a matter of course in his _second_
    edition in 1915. As it was in his first edition, which would be
    reviewed in the classical journals, it must presumably have met
    with no adverse comments.

    But we have to go even further than this. Galton’s was one
    of those important books that are studied by _all Europe_.
    Seeing that he makes no mention of adverse criticism in his
    second edition, and Mr. Zimmern sees no reason to qualify the
    statement, it is fair to assume that no serious objection has
    been made in England or Europe during nearly half a century.
    So amazingly does classical enthusiasm pervade the thought of
    the world! I do not think I need say anything further on this
    subject.[73]

    Mr. Zimmern heads one of his chapters “Happiness or _the
    Rule of Love_,” the “Rule of Love” being his translation of
    εὐδαιμονία! This chapter is occupied exclusively by the famous
    Funeral Speech of Pericles. I invite the reader to look through
    that terribly hard speech, and see how much _love_ it contains!
    Again to another chapter the heading is “Gentleness or the Rule
    of Religion,” followed by two quotations which are evidently
    intended to be read as parallel passages:

      στέργοι δέ με σωφροσύνα
      δώρημα κάλλιστον θεῶν.[74]—Eur. _Medea_, 638.

      Give unto us made lowly wise
      The spirit of self-sacrifice.—Wordsworth.

    Apart from the question whether the proud Greek could ever
    by any possibility have become “lowly wise,” the word
    σωφροσύνη “temperance,” “moderation”—or perhaps better still,
    “commonsense”—becomes not only a “Rule of _Religion_” but even
    the highest conception of Christianity, self-sacrifice. It is
    very extraordinary. Imagine the _Greeks_—as we know them, and
    as Mr. Zimmern knows them—having the faintest conception of
    what we mean by self-sacrifice! It reminds one very much of
    Humpty Dumpty in _Through the Looking Glass_: “When _I_ use a
    word” (εὐδαιμονία or σωφροσύνη) “it means just what I choose it
    to mean—neither more nor less.”

    As this is my last note I am giving myself great latitude, but
    I must not prolong it into a treatise. I shall, as briefly
    as I can, refer to only one other matter, the Greek sense of
    beauty. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that we are
    given to believe that in this respect the Greeks are exalted
    high as gods above the rest of mankind. What is the fact?
    _They saw beauty in only one natural object, the human body._
    In a land of clear skies, wonderful sunsets, starry nights,
    remarkable for its ranges of mountains and extent of sea-coast,
    they were (with some tiny exceptions not worth mentioning)
    absolutely blind to any beauty in inanimate nature. Nor did any
    bird or beast or insect, tree or flower appeal to them to any
    appreciable extent as a thing of beauty. They admired only what
    was useful or added to their comfort—the laden fruit tree, the
    shady grove, the clear spring, the soft water-meadows.

    Various explanations have been given for the Greek failure to
    appreciate beauty in nature. Ruskin’s theory is most often
    quoted, that the Greeks were _so familiar_ with beautiful
    scenes that they could not appreciate them. In the first place
    he forgot that it was not always the bright tourist-season in
    Greece; they had their dark and wintry times. In the second
    place, I have lived all my life in the southern part of
    Australia, which has much the same climate as Greece, and I
    do not think there are any greater lovers of nature than the
    Australians.

    Is not the love of nature, as it came later,[75] also _higher_
    than love of the human form (omitting that facial expression
    which is an index of the soul)? Our ideals of human beauty
    appear to be purely _relative_ and depend on our surroundings,
    while the same beauty in nature appeals to the most diverse
    nations. Take for example the Japanese and Dutch artists who
    both loved nature much as we do—yet they admired very different
    types of the human figure. I understand that the Japanese,
    originally at least, regarded with positive disgust our tall
    English beauties.

    The beauty the Greeks saw in one object only, the human body,
    they reproduced in statues which have never been equalled in
    grace and charm, and are the admiration of the world. Their
    pure white marble statues and temples seem to be always present
    in our minds and to transfigure our conceptions of the
    Greeks. We unconsciously picture them as a race of glorious
    men and beautiful women moving in a city of marble.[76] We
    find ourselves forgetting what we know of their character and
    habits—and also forgetting the fact that both statues and
    temples were _painted_.

    With the disappearance of colour through the effect of time,
    the flesh effect has disappeared from their statues, and
    the chaste white marble gives an idealized and spiritual
    conception of the utmost purity. As stated before, this would
    be a conception quite alien to the Greek mind, which saw no
    beauty in physical purity. If, when we stand in admiring
    awe before that calm, majestic and exceedingly graceful and
    beautiful Venus of Milo, we imagine her as the Greeks saw
    her, how different is the picture! To begin with, the Greeks
    had little sense of colour, as is seen from their limited
    colour-vocabulary. For example, one word _porphureos_ was
    used for dark-purple, red, rose, sea-blue, violet, and other
    shades even to a shimmery white. Their colours were harsh,
    glaring, and put together in shockingly bad taste (from our
    point of view). In temples and sculpture reds and blues were
    the main colours used. In the Venus of Milo we must, therefore,
    picture the hair painted red or red-brown, the lips a hard
    red, eyebrows black, the eyes red or red-brown with black
    pupils, the dress with borders and patterns of crude reds and
    greens or reds and blues. As regards the flesh surfaces, we
    know they were wax-polished, but there is no literary record
    or actual trace of any tinting or colouring. The effect of the
    white marble would have been so horrible to us against the
    living eyes and face, that Mr. Kaines Smith (being one of our
    enthusiasts) suggests that the artist “might quite well” have
    used some colouring matter for the nude parts of the figure!
    We must further picture the statue standing in a temple, which
    must of course also have been painted. The structure would
    have its borders generally of harsh reds and blues, and the
    decorative sculpture of the pediments, metopes and friezes
    would be painted in most inconceivable colours. Thus in the
    metope relief of the slaying of the Hydra at Olympia, the hydra
    is blue, the background red, and the hair, lips, and eyes of
    Hercules are coloured. I might go on to the Elgin marbles, the
    greatest sculptures that we possess in the world, and show
    them gorgeous in bronze and colour. (Armour, horse-trappings,
    etc., were attached to the marble in bronze or other metal.)
    The two masterpieces of Pheidias, forty and sixty feet high
    respectively, which have not survived to us, were much more
    admired by the Greeks than the sculptures of the Parthenon.
    These were in barbaric ivory and gold, with the same living
    eyes, red lips, and so on. The fact is that the Greek, “builded
    better than he knew.” He unintentionally produced objects
    whose _spiritual_ beauty he was incapable of appreciating and,
    therefore, he gave them a grosser form that appealed to his own
    primitive sensual nature.

    (Apart from this the Greek sculptor was very limited by the
    paucity of his subjects. How tiresome are the never-ending
    Centaurs and Amazons!)[77]

    As regards Greek architecture, its ornament is a question of
    sculpture, its structure is the result of intellect combined
    with a certain amount of design due to their artistic sense of
    proportion. The Greeks did great service to humanity in working
    out the principles of building—but, thereafter, there was no
    scope for originality. Apart from its sculptural ornament,
    nothing more monotonous could well be imagined than a series of
    Greek temples, all of the same type and subject to definite,
    rigid rules of measurement.[78]

    Finally there are two matters I am bound to refer to in
    connection with these rough notes. First, in merely enumerating
    the salient features of a nation’s character, one gives no
    picture whatever of the _life_ they led. The Greek _men_ led
    a highly intellectual, artistic, and on the whole a very
    gay life. If we look around us to-day, we shall find among
    ourselves Greeks, intellectual men who are moral sceptics,
    who simply do not understand that moral motives exist, who
    do no act in their lives from a sense of principle, and who
    live a purely material life (unless perhaps some great crisis,
    the arrival of the angel of Death or some other overwhelming
    event, awakens them to a sense of higher things). We can see
    something like a parallel to the Greeks in the gay, immoral,
    artistic French aristocracy who lived in the midst of a
    starving peasantry before the Revolution—or in George Eliot’s
    fascinating renaissance story in _Romola_ of the young Greek
    Tito Melema. A man may be cruel, faithless and immoral, and yet
    live a gay artistic and intellectual life—but it is not such a
    life as would have appealed to Myers or to ourselves. Secondly,
    a clear knowledge of the truth about the Greek character does
    in no way detract from the miracle of their literature or of
    their art. It _adds_ to the wonder of it all. (If one may with
    the utmost reverence make another comparison, how can we fully
    appreciate the wonder and beauty of Christ’s teaching, if we
    forget the conditions of the time?) To find most beautiful
    poetry, fine literature, deep philosophic thought, amazing
    grace and charm in art emanating from this primitive race is
    purely astounding in itself. And it needs to be borne in mind
    that even the men who took part in Plato’s _Symposium_ lived in
    a different atmosphere from our own, and had a very different
    conception of the physical universe and the moral law. But this
    should _add_ to our admiration, our _veneration_, for a Plato
    who could rise to so great a sublimity of thought in spite of
    such semi-barbarous conditions and surroundings. These men
    also looked upon the world with younger and fresher eyes. We
    are two thousand three hundred years older than they are. They
    knew very little of the past history of the world and had only
    an insignificant fraction of our scientific knowledge. If any
    religious doubts had begun to arise in their minds, they still
    could not possibly have rid themselves of the belief instilled
    into them since childhood—and they lived among Nymphs and
    Fauns, and saw a god in every star and under every wave. Never
    had they heard or dreamt of any Love of God, or Love of Man.
    It is only the enthusiast who, by picturing the Greeks as a
    modern moral nation, detracts from our real interest in them
    and robs their literature of its fascination. If knowledge of
    the true Greek character were to destroy all our enjoyment in
    their art and literature, even then truth must prevail “though
    the heavens fall”; but the fact is far otherwise. The fuller
    our knowledge the more we shall enjoy the greatness and beauty
    of their art and poetry and the more absorbing will be our
    interest in their literature.




FOOTNOTES


[1] From Richard Hodgson’s Christmas Card, 1904, the Christmas before his
death.

[2] To the readers of the Adelaide edition (which was issued only in
Australia) I should explain why the book is now so much enlarged. The
first issue was prepared hastily and without sufficient care. (The
proceeds were to go to the Australian Repatriation Fund, and the book
was hurriedly put together and printed to be ready for a Repatriation
Day which was announced but actually was never held.) It was my
first experience in publishing, and I did not realize the care and
consideration required in issuing a book even of this character. Hence
(1) part of my manuscript was entirely overlooked; (2) I failed to see
that many quotations would be improved by adding their context; (3) I
did not go properly through the great mass of Hodgson’s correspondence;
and (4) I, wrongly, as I now think, excluded many quotations because I
thought certain subjects were unsuitable for the book. Besides extending
the scope of the collection by including those subjects I now have no
longer restricted myself to the seventy-eighty period. The notes also add
materially to the size of this volume.

[3] See Tennyson’s “Princess”:—

  Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail
  That brings our friends up from the underworld

[4] I occasionally thought I had hit on something new, but usually
discovered that I had been anticipated—and then deeply sympathized with
St. Jerome’s old tutor, Donatus. It will be remembered that Jerome, in
his commentary on “There is no new thing under the sun,” tells us that
Donatus used to say, Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt, “Confound the
fellows who anticipated us!”

[5] The flippancy is at times amusing, as when he says: “The account of
the whale swallowing Jonah, though the whale may have been large enough
to do so, borders greatly on the marvellous; but it would have approached
nearer to the just idea of a miracle if Jonah had swallowed the whale.”

[6] Altered from “That,” which may be a misprint. “Thou” gives the same
meaning and runs more smoothly.

[7] Compare “I never nursed a dear gazelle” (p. 181).

[8] See Milton’s imitation of a fugue. _Par. Lost XI._

[9] “I take the risk,” or “Mine the risk.”

[10] The above is a concrete illustration of Browning’s meaning in
the preceding quotation, but a far wider illustration is seen in the
terrible cruelties inflicted on the one side by the Inquisition and on
the other by the Protestants. This was again due to the introduction of
_intellectualism_, which distorted the Religion of Love into a Religion
of Hate.

[11] Cf. Coleridge, p. 313.

[12] The girls are bathing.

[13] The information in this note comes partly from _Notes and Queries_.

[14] See p. 40.

[15] It is unfortunate that this word is often used in the sense of
something unreal as mere idle fancy instead of an _active creative_
faculty, see pp. 357, 358.

[16] In 1843 Mrs. Browning’s fine appeal, “The Cry of the Children.”
appeared in “Blackwood,” but I presume had little effect. So also Hood’s
“Song of the Shirt,” “Bridge of Sighs,” and “Song of the Labourer,” were
written about the same time, but could have made little real impression.

[17] The family name is now apparently pronounced as it is spelt (see
“An English Pronouncing Dictionary,” by Daniel Jones, and the “Century”
and “Webster”). Such a change must often happen. I have cousins named
Colclough, who in Australia became so tired of correcting people that
they finally resigned themselves to the loss of the old pronunciation
“Cokely” and accepted the less euphonious “Colclo.”

[18] Was a phrase of Cowper’s in Bentham’s mind? The latter wrote
to Christopher Rowley, “We are strange creatures, my little friend;
everything that we do is in reality important, though half that we do
seems to be push-pin.”

[19] “Squyer” is a dissyllable. The final _e_ at the end of a line is
always sounded like _a_ in “China.” “Lokkes,” “sleves” and “faire”
are also dissyllables, because _e_, _ed_, _en_, _es_ are sounded as
syllables, except before vowels and certain words beginning with _h_.

[20] Micah vi. 8.

[21] One certainly protests. There is a great mass of medical and other
evidence to the contrary. Sir William Osler made notes of about 500
cases, and says, “To the great majority their death, like their birth,
was a sleep and a forgetting.”

[22] The “Summit,” completion or end.

[23] The eyes, smile, etc., referred to in the intermediate verses.

[24] No doubt one reason would be that given by the Australian black
woman for leaving her baby in the bush, “him too much cry.” The Greeks
had numerous slaves, and were fond of comfort; and their houses were, of
course, small and cramped compared with our own.

[25] Black care, Horace, Od. 3, 1, 40.

[26] Water-clocks, used like an hour-glass.

[27] When “Balder the Beautiful” was published in the _Contemporary_
(March-May, 1877), Buchanan had the following note, which he has not
repeated in his collected works: “Balder (in this poem) is the divine
spirit of earthly beauty and joy, and the only one of the gods who loves
and pities men. Sick of the darkness of heaven, he returns to the earth
which fostered him, and of which he is beloved, and now for the first
time he becomes conscious of that Shadow of Death, which darkens the lot
of all mortal things.”

[28] Quoted in E. Clodd’s _Story of Creation_.

[29] Italics mine.

[30] See, for instance, Kipling’s beautiful poem “A Dedication”

  The depth and dream of my desire,
    The bitter paths wherein I stray,
  Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
    Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

[31] Milton’s sonnet, “To the Lady Margaret Ley.”

[32] “They say unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? She saith unto them,
Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have
laid Him” (John xx. 13). The sermon is on the subject of the growth of
religious ideas.

[33] This standing by itself may give a somewhat wrong impression of
Menzies’ thought. As a matter of fact, the text of the sermon is: “I
am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more
abundantly” (John x. 10).

[34] So we speak of a “sea of heads”, “sea of faces,” “sea of sand,” “sea
of clouds,” “sea of vegetation,” etc.

[35] See sub-note at the end of this note.

[36] We can, however, agree that the language of all three poets,
Shelley, Sappho, and Simonides, is exquisitely beautiful. Professor
Naylor points out that it is a characteristic of the early Greek poets
to compress a description into a series of epithets full of expression,
without connecting words—compare Tennyson (“The Passing of Arthur”).

                                But it lies
  Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
  And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea.

[37] As Professor Darnley Naylor’s name appears at times in this book it
is necessary to mention that _he is so qualified_ and, therefore, is not
one of the gentlemen referred to.

I may mention here that Mr. Livingstone deserves censure for not giving
us an index to his valuable book. This neglect, being greatly provocative
of profanity, is an _offence against morality_. Much loss of time and
irritation have been caused to me in looking up passages I remembered in
his book—and I have at times given up the search in despair.

[38] See interesting remarks on Matthew Arnold and Addison in Herbert
Spencer’s “Study of Sociology,” Note 20 to Ch. 10. Professor Naylor
also in the preface to his _Latin and English Idiom_, points out that
_verbally accurate_ translation of the Classics tends to _ruin_ the
English of a student.

[39] For example: Miss Jane Harrison (_Mythology of Ancient Athens_)
says “all sweetness and love” come to mortals from the “holy” Charites
who “were in the fullest sense ‘givers of all grace.’” (That is to say,
these deities have the attributes of _God_, who is, of course, the sole
giver of all grace! Compare with this Professor Gilbert Murray on the god
Dionysus, p. 374.)

[40] Unshriven, without having received the sacrament.

[41] Crucifix.

[42] Homer tells us that Apollo and Poseidon “built” the walls of Troy;
the legend that Apollo moved stones into their places by music is of a
later date. See Ovid, _Heroid_, 16, 181; Propertius 3, 9, 39. See also
Tennyson’s “Oenone.”

[43] “Physician, heal thyself,” Luke iv, 23. Also, although it is not
very apropos, see the following from Nicharchus in the Greek Anthology
(G. B. Grundy’s translation):—

  MEDICAL ATTENDANCE

  Yesterday the Zeus of stone from the doctor had a call:
  Though he’s Zeus, and though he’s stone, yet to-day’s his funeral.

[44] This probably came from Erasmus. Compare:—

  “Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune.”

[45] Lincoln is alleged to have said, “You can fool some of the people
all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot
fool all of the people all of the time.”

[46] Showing that Sterne’s “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb”
(_Sentimental Journey_) was his rendering of an older saying.

[47] “Kubla Khan.”

[48] An aromatic herb with yellow flowers.

[49] See p. XVIII.

[50] Curiously enough, they do not recognize this, but rather pride
themselves upon being shrewd, commonsense, practical business-men, “a
nation of shopkeepers”—although their entire history shows the contrary.
That history is epitomized in such an expression as “England the
Unready,” or, in the King’s appeal, “Wake up, England!” That they are
idealists and dreamers can be shown by numberless facts. For example,
what have they supported in the sacred name of Liberty? The laissez-faire
doctrine, that law is an infringement of freedom, and, therefore, that
cruelty, abuses, and absurdities must not be interfered with; the
theory that England should be the home of freedom, and, therefore, that
the scum of Europe shall infect the nation; the “Palladium of English
Liberty,” Trial by Jury, which means the appointment of inexperienced,
irresponsible, and easily-biassed judges; the economic policy, which,
because it is falsely labelled Free Trade, becomes a fetish against which
no practical objection must be urged and no lesson learned from the
experience of other countries. On the other hand, our experience in the
present war is a proof that the imaginative faculties are more powerful
than mere intellect: for, when the Englishman bends his energies to the
business of war, he soon surpasses the German for all his fifty years’
preparation. See p. 39.

[51] “What is life, what gladness without the golden Aphrodite? May death
be mine when these joys no longer please me!”

[52] In the notes on the Greeks in this book it was necessary to keep
to one State and a particular period. Greece consisted of a number of
States of which Attica was one, with Athens as its centre. It comprised
only seven hundred square miles, and, allowing for its colonies, would
be about half the size of Lancashire. Its great and brilliant period
corresponded roughly with the middle half of the Fifth Century B.C. A
large proportion of the finest Greek art and literature was produced by
this tiny state in that short period. This is the miracle of antiquity.
It is to Attica during this period that my remarks mainly refer.

The reader will not be able to follow this note properly, unless he has
read the other notes on the same subject (see Index of Subjects).

[53] The second is not by Praxilla. It is to be found in Athenaeus (XV.
695), and is _written in the masculine_. Most curiously the same mistake
is made in the _Parnasse des Dames_, an 18th Century French book in which
Myers would not have been interested.

[54] One at least of the Sappho enthusiasts still survives. See Professor
T. G. Tucker’s _Sappho_.

[55] “_The Greek Genius and its meaning to us._”

[56] It should be remembered, however, that this is largely the history
of Prussia also.

[57] See Mr. Livingstone’s book.

[58] But see p. 374 as to Dionysiac sect.

[59] See an interesting passage in Plato’s Republic, I, 330. See also p.
173 as to Herodotus.

[60] This should be taken into account in interpreting the plays of
Euripides, who was probably a sceptic. The case of Aristophanes was
different—he was known to be orthodox and almost any licence was
permitted on the Comic Stage.

[61] Perhaps these woodcutters would not have entirely appreciated what
Mr. G. Lowes Dickinson (_The Greek View of Life_) says of the Greek
divinities. He tells us that the Greek originally felt “bewilderment
and terror in the presence of the powers of nature,” but his religion
developed “till at last from the womb of the dark enigma that haunted
him in the beginning _there emerged into the charmed light of a world of
ideal grace a pantheon of fair and concrete personalities_.” (The italics
are mine). The classical enthusiast always pictures the Greeks as _living
in fairyland_: actually the gods and lesser divinities were to them for
the most part objects of awe and dread. In this “world of ideal grace”
there would be, for example, the horrible Furies who dwelt in their
grotto in Athens!

[62] I think it correct to say this, although there were political
reasons also for prosecuting Socrates and, if he had shown less contempt
for his judges, he might have been acquitted.

[63] I do not know how far unnatural vice extended among other peoples;
but the statement in Plato’s “Symposium” that the Ionians and most of the
barbarians held it in evil repute is strongly condemnatory of the Greeks.

[64] See how this idea pervades the whole of the famous Funeral Speech of
Pericles, and how he defines what is “the good life” of a citizen.

[65] See Theoc. VII, 57, and what the Scholiast says. As to the subject
generally see the references given by Mr. Rogers in _The Birds of
Aristophanes_.

[66] _Modern Painters_, IV, XIII, 17.

[67] A few days after writing the above I was walking along the sea-beach
with friends, and we came to a man and boy who were drawing in a net.
It was a beautifully clear day, and no seagull or other bird could be
seen anywhere. I pointed this out to my friends, and said, “You’ll see
the patrol-bird arrive presently.” In a few minutes a gull appeared
from nowhere, flew round the net, and then, as though the business was
unimportant, flew away. The net when drawn in was empty! This is how the
bird probably appeared to the Greeks. When the net brought in a haul, and
the birds clamoured round it for their share, how very reasonable would
this again appear to the Greeks.

[68] See also as to the so-called “purification rites” in the mysteries,
p. 374.

[69] _The same pious Athenians who so enjoyed the Bacchae!_

[70] It is necessary to emphasize this, lest the reader should think that
these illustrations are exceptional and the result of prolonged research.
Actually I had no memoranda or other material when I began the many notes
to this book, and those notes were all completed in ten months. For this
note I simply took two books, Professor Murray’s and Mr. Zimmern’s, to
illustrate my thesis. I might have chosen far more “enthusiastic” works
than Mr. Zimmern’s excellent book.

[71] The whole argument seems to have little foundation. Are we to
assume, for example, that the “average ability” of the Greeks before
and after their great period, or of the English before and after the
Elizabethan age, was enormously inferior because the proportion of very
illustrious men was so much less? Why should not the average be higher,
the ability (through intermarriage) being more equally distributed?

[72] If Galton had referred only to the Athenians of the great period,
as Wallace imagined, the statement would have been even more absurd. It
would then mean that an African tribe of blacks might suddenly become
as intelligent as ourselves, continue so for two generations, and then
relapse at once into their old barbarism. Yet Dr. Verrall went some
distance in this direction, for he says the Athenians of the great period
“had plainly an immense superiority of mind in comparison with their
predecessors.” (_The Bacchants of Euripides_, _p. 168_).

[73] I may add, however, one personal remark. I am quite well aware—and
my friends persistently and painfully impress the fact upon me—that this
book will be reviewed by gentlemen who have been imbued from youth with
even greater enthusiasm, seeing that the tendency has grown stronger and
stronger since that time. Those reviewers will probably feel shocked
that the naked facts should be set before the general public. I can
quite understand this feeling, but I do not sympathize with it. Truth
comes first, and I have no sympathy with the feminine view of truth
(see p. 343), which is the same as the Jesuitical view. I do, however,
sympathize with them in one respect, that the truth should be stated
at an unfortunate time, when the beautiful Greek language and its
glorious literature seem likely to be put on a back shelf with Hebrew
and Sanskrit. It will be a sad thing if this should happen (I would much
prefer to sacrifice the inferior Latin, in spite of the special reasons
for its study), but the first and last word always is—_Truth_.

[74] “May moderation befriend me, the finest gift of the gods.”

[75] It would be interesting to trace the earliest references to love of
Nature. They may, perhaps, be found in the Bible. In the Song of Solomon
(which, however, in its present form is now supposed to date back only to
the Fourth Century, B.C., and, therefore not to be by Solomon) we have
the spring-song of love, with flowers and budding trees and vines and the
singing of birds (II, 10-13). Professor Naylor also reminds me of our
Lord’s Sermon on the Mount, “Consider the lilies, etc.”

I repeat here what I say in the Preface that Professor Naylor takes no
responsibility for any of the views I express in my notes on the Greeks.

[76] Their actual life was of course indescribably squalid and filthy, as
could only be expected in a primitive race.

[77] Even as regards the human form Greek art is limited, as is seen
in the Laocoon where the boys are simply miniature men. (The Laocoon,
although of very late date, is nevertheless Greek with all the traditions
of the art behind it.) I know very little on this subject, but it seems
to me that something of much importance yet remains to be discovered
about Greek sculpture.

[78] An excessive importance is attached to the cold conventional
foliated designs.




INDEX OF SUBJECTS


    Ability, Average. 374-78

    Absurd Prescriptions. 320

    Abt Vogler. 275

    Acquaintanceship, Pre-matrimonial. 131

    Acquiring and Using. 208

    Action and Inaction. 25

    Adelaide Edition. ix

    Adelaide Libraries. xii

    Adonis, Feast of. 86

    Advance, the Age’s. 272

    Adventure, Created Empire. 358

    Advice, like Snow. 315

    Advice, Micawber’s. 284

    Aestheticism. 310

    Age, Men Product of Their. 266

    Age, Old. 96, 164, 240

    Age, Old, over Cautious. 34

    Age, Spirit of The. 266

    Agnostic. 110-12

    Agnosticism. xi

    Aims, Great. 260

    Alcibiades. 292

    Alexander and Parmenio. 197

    Alice in Wonderland. 35

    Allotment Holders. 269

    Altruism. 116-7, 328

    Ambition. 109, 197

    America. 2, 240

    Amphibium. 236

    Anacreontic. 354

    Ancestral Stain. 24

    Ancient and Modern World. 95

    Ancients, Cruelty of. 172

    Ancients, Ethics of The. 207

    Angels. 106, 159, 348

    Animal Intelligence. 113

    Animals, Greeks and. 370

    Anthology, Greek, 8-11, 306

    Anthropomorphism. 112, 128

    Anticipated Thoughts. xii

    Anticipating Trouble. 121, 189, 305

    Apelles. 334

    Apelles, Proverbs of. 335

    Apollo’s Song. 302

    Apothegms. 12, 21, 39, 48, 49, 51, 59, 62, 63, 72, 73, 78, 80, 90,
      91, 94, 96, 97, 101, 107, 115, 116, 130, 131, 135, 139, 149, 150,
      151, 159, 160, 162, 165, 170, 172, 175, 178, 179, 182, 184, 192,
      196, 197, 198, 202-5, 215, 226, 228, 229, 233, 236, 240, 242,
      249-51, 256-7, 259, 262, 264, 268-9, 272-4, 279-80, 282-5, 287,
      295, 306-7, 312, 314-15, 319, 331-2, 335, 339, 341

    Arcadia. 148

    Arnold, Matthew. 19, 176, 265, 266, 291

    Art. 317, 349

    Ascendancy, Greek, Misleading. 363

    Aspiration, Moral. 24, 139

    Astrology. 31, 40

    Athenian Ability. 374-5

    Athenian Religion. 367

    Athens. 365

    Audience, the Poet’s. 137

    Aunt, an Old Maiden. 130

    Australia and England. 7

    Australia and Literature. x

    “Avalon.” 307


    Babe Christabel. 22

    Babies. 52, 169

    Bacchus and Neptune. 306

    Backbiters. 306

    Bait. 339

    Balder and Death. 184

    Ballad upon a Wedding. 363

    Ballads and Legislation. 352

    Banbury Puritans. 253

    Baptism. 15

    “Barren Orthodoxy.” 16

    Battle Hymn, America’s. 240

    Beans, Corn and Poetry. 345

    Beauties, Proud. 159

    Beauty, Divinity of. 352

    Beauty, Divine use of. 193, 313

    Beauty, Invisible. 178

    Beauty, Inward. 17

    Beauty, Is Truth. 162

    Beauty, Necessity of. 164

    Beauty, Praise of. 338

    Beauty, Sense of. 178, 379

    Beauty, Worse than Wine. 362

    Beauty’s Silent Music. 321-22

    Bee, The. 222

    Beef and Beer. 69

    Belief. 83

    Belief, Loss of. 260, 327-29

    Belfast Address, The. 66

    Bell, The Dinner. 69

    Belle of the Ballroom. 206

    Beloved Die. 181

    Beneath My Window. 153

    Benefactor, A. 150

    Bentham, Jeremy. 116-7, 181-2

    Bereavement. 29-30

    Best, Imperfect. 135

    Best People Slandered. 148

    Bethlehem. 25

    Bible, Literal Interpretation of. 344

    Birth. 306

    Birth, Death As. 238

    Birthdays. 135, 160

    Bishop, Most Diligent, The. 137

    Blackstone. 181

    Blake, William. 105, 109, 266-7

    Blanco, White J. xi, 252

    Blindness. 53-4, 155

    Body and Mind. 283

    Book of Snobs. 280

    Bourdillon, F. W. x

    Bouts Rimés. 284

    Boys’ Pastimes. 229

    Brain, Atrophied. 319

    British Dominions and “Home.” 8

    British Empire Created by Adventure. 358

    Browning, E. B. 293

    Browning, R. xi, 19, 204

    Browning, R., Heaven of. 204

    Brownings’ Love Story, The. 45, 47

    Browning Society, The. 19

    Buchanan, R. x

    Bulwark, England A. 2

    Burial. 349

    Butcher, Professor. 348

    Butterfly, The Doleful. 261

    Buyer and Seller. 306

    Byronic Gloom. 170

    “By the North Sea.” 341-3


    Cabbages, Critics And. 360

    Cain, Father of Art and Science. 247

    Cambridge Examinations. 153-5, 208

    Cana, Miracle of. 361

    Canadian Boat Song. 198

    Carlyle’s French Revolution. 332

    Carlyle’s Requiem. 332

    Carnivorous. 148

    Carpe Diem. 195, 354

    Cat, Sabbatarian’s. 253

    Catholic and Protestant. 124

    Cato and Public Honours. 175

    Causality. xi

    Causes Small, Events Great. 161

    Celtic Imagination. 358

    Cerebration, Unconscious. 151

    “Chamouni and Rydal.” 175

    Champions, Incompetent. 138

    Changeless. 90, 152, 158

    Character. 141, 229, 260

    Character and Reputation. 196

    “Charge, A.” 82

    Charites, The. 292

    “Charitie, An Excelente Balade of.” 42

    Chatterton. 45

    Child, A. 310

    Child, Eyes of a. 147

    Child, Grace for a. 239

    Child, Mother and. 267

    Child Slaves. 48

    “Childhood and his Visitors.” 243

    Children. 143, 144, 146-7, 169-70

    Children, Cruelty to. 48, 96

    Children, Death of. 316

    Children, Employment of. 48

    Children, Games of. 229

    Children, Sufferings of. 96

    Children’s Hymn. 319

    Child’s Outlook, The. 146-7

    Chinese, The. 255

    Chivalry. 96

    Christ. 133, 142, 180, 318

    Christ, Has He Failed? 95

    Christ’s Love for Man. 268

    Christianity, Evidence for. 251

    Church of England. 15, 16

    Cigar Preferred to Woman. 242

    City Ideal, The. 269

    Civilization and Shambles. 148

    Classical Enthusiasm. 290, 292, 364, 366, 374

    Classical Men as Critics. 291

    Classics and English. 291

    Cleopatra. 270

    Cleon. 5

    Clifford. xi

    Coleridge, S. T. 74, 312, 313

    Colenso. xi, 344

    Committee of Shakespeares. 247

    Communication from the Dead. 36, 172

    Compensation. 158, 278

    Compliment, A Pretty. 359

    Composition, Inspiration and. 142

    Conceit. 258, 279

    Confession a Relief. 256

    Conservative, A. 261

    Conservatism. 181

    Consolation, Tobacco’s. 241-2

    Constancy. 301, 309

    Constitution, English, The. 181

    Contemplation, Time for. 318

    Content. 114

    Contentedness. 221, 252, 270

    Convulsionnaires. 349

    Contingencies. 140-1

    Coral Reef, The. 153

    Cosmical Development. 303-4

    Courage. 360

    “Courtin’, The.” 98

    Courting after Marriage. 236

    Courts, Law, Satan’s Home. 184

    Cowardice. 80

    Cowper. 108

    “Creation,” Story of, The. 189

    Creation, Continuous. 273

    Creeds, Beauty in Old. 343

    “Crisis, The Present.” 2

    Critics and Cabbages. 360

    Critics’ Misjudgments. 132

    Criticism, The Higher. 344

    Crofter Exiles, The. 198

    “Crossing the Bar.” xi

    Cruelty. 138, 172

    Culture, Speculative. 309

    Cunning. 226

    Cupid, Bust of. 160

    Cyclades, The. 364

    Cynic, The. 257

    Cyrus in Mesopotamia. 333


    Dahlia, The. 359

    “Dark Companion, The.” 55

    Darwin, Charles. xi, 318

    Darwinism. 64, 65, 66, 68

    Dauntlessness. vii, 257

    Day. 95

    Day is Dying. 249

    Days Lost. 135

    Dead, Communication from The. 36, 172

    Dead, Most and Merriest. 262

    Death, A Mockery. 232

    Death and Fear. 330

    Death as Birth. 238

    Death as Sleep. 148

    Death awakens. 114

    Death, Painless. 148

    Death, Shadow of. 184

    Death, Survival after. 151, 250, 329, 346-48

    “Death’s Jest Book.” 305-6

    Debate. 59, 205, 340

    Decisions in Life. 321

    Deeds, Indestructible. 12

    Deities. 31

    Deification of Man. xi, 129

    Democracy and Empire. 5

    Democracy, Greeks and. 5, 368

    Dependence, Man’s. 295

    De Quincey. 227

    Desert, London A. 105

    Despair. 170

    “De Tea Fabula.” 17

    Devil, The. 41, 42, 137, 159

    Dickinson, G. Lowes. 368

    Die, Longing to. 250

    Dining. 69-71

    Disciple, The. 179

    Divine Birth. 140

    Divine Discontent. 232

    Divine Love. 55

    Divine, The. 271

    Divine Will, The. 104, 303-5

    Divinities, Pleasing. 31

    Divinity. 351-2

    Divinity and Harmony. 108

    Divorce, Law of. 183

    Dogs before Men. 241

    Do it Now. 228

    Doubt. 179

    Downward Path, The. 34

    Drama. 214

    Dream, A Child’s. 147

    “Dream of Fair Women, A.” 270

    Dreams, Analysis of. 151

    Dreams, Unrealised in his Life. 316

    Dreamthorp. 158

    Drift, Letting Ourselves. 39

    Drink. 160, 306

    “Drink to me only with thine Eyes.” 10

    Drinking, Five Reasons for. 160

    Duchess, Painted, The. 249

    Duty. 1, 80-3, 349-50

    Duty of Delight. 192-3

    Dying Day. 249

    Dying Emperor. 238

    Dying, On. 148, 149


    Each for Each. 184

    Each Man Three Personalities. 59

    “Ear of Dionysius.” 172, 348

    Earth Dear, Heaven Free. 264

    Earth Goeth to Earth. 354

    Earth made for Man. 116

    Earth, Mother. 209-12

    Earth, Presiding Spirit of the. 278

    Earth, The Wholesome. 201

    East, The Unchanging. 152

    “Ecce Homo.” 16

    Economy. 284

    Education. 143, 180, 358

    Effective Literature. 6, 48, 352

    Effort. 250

    Electricity and Plant Life. 72

    Eliot, George. 327-8, 343

    Elizabethan Authors. 357

    Emerson’s Heaven. 205

    Emotion and Intellect. 202

    Emotions, The Blunting of. 274-5

    Empire and Adventure. 358

    Empire and Democracy. 5

    Empty Heads. 233

    Enduring Literature. 227

    England. 1, 2, 178

    English and Classics. 291

    English as Dreamers and Idealists. 358

    English Characteristics. 358

    English Conservatism. 181

    English Constitution. 181

    English Delusions. 358

    English Faults. 358

    English Superiority. 358

    English Visitors. 178

    English Wealth of Poetry. 358

    Enough. 204

    Enthusiasm, Early. 24

    Epigrams. 144, 226-28, 251

    Epitaphs. 96, 178, 287, 339, 354

    Epitaphs, Exaggeration In. 178

    Equality. 280

    Error dies. 132

    Essays. 347

    Estrangement. 280-1, 301

    Eternal Life. 214

    Eternal Love. 122

    Eternal Punishment. 123

    Eternity. 166

    Ethics, Ancient. 207-9

    Et in Arcadia Ego. 148

    Eugenics. 247

    Events Great, Cause Small. 161

    “Everlasting Yea,” The. 83

    Every Tale Told. 188

    Evil chiefly Mental. 280

    Evolution. 64-8, 189, 303-5, 306

    Evolution, A Speculation Opposed to. xi, 303-5

    Exaggeration. 178, 338

    Examinations. 153-55, 207-8

    Example to Others. 61, 351

    Excuses for Drinking. 160

    Exemplary Life. 268

    Exiles, Highland. 198-9

    Existence, Previous. 92, 203-4

    Experience. 73, 149-50, 256, 280, 309

    Eyes, Infants’, Solemnity of. 147


    Faculties. 323

    Fair Spectacle, A. 25

    Faith. 165

    Falsities, Rooted. 96

    Fame. 85, 175

    Familiarity destroys Romance, 280

    Faust. 41

    Fear and Death. 330

    Fearlessness. vii, 257

    Fear of Mrs. Grundy. 289

    Fellow Feeling. 335

    “Feast of Adonis, The.” 86

    Few Wise. 146

    Fickleness. 285-6

    Fidelity. 221, 232

    Fight On. 205

    First Love. 325, 352

    Fitzgerald’s Omar Khayyam. 268

    Flowers. 7, 149, 169

    Folly, Proof of Our. 314

    Fool, Gravest Man a. 257

    Fools, One makes Many. 146

    Fool, Playing The. 322

    Fooling the People. 306

    Fools, Majority Are. 146

    Fools, We are. 22

    Foresight. 351

    Forestalled. xii

    Forethought. 172

    Forgeries, Literary. 45, 231

    Forget Me. 28

    Forgiveness. 51, 135

    Franchise, Women and The. 314

    Fraud, The Worst. 229

    Freaks of Nature. 325

    Freedom. 1, 6, 80

    “Free Trade” Fetish. 358

    Friend and Foe. 107

    “Friend of Humanity, The.” 223

    Friends. 93

    Friends, Breach Between. 301

    Friends, Death of. 340

    Friendship, Temporary. 107

    Fugue. 13

    Furnivall, Dr. 19

    Future Life. 84, 127, 134, 204-5, 327-9, 346-8, 350

    Future, The. 361


    Gains. 195

    Galton, Sir F. 247, 374-8

    Game of Chance Clergy Favour. 91

    Gem, The. 277

    Genealogy. 247

    Genius and Thought. 78

    Genius, Prerogative, of. 78

    Genius, The Greek. 290, 366, 374

    Gentleman, The First. 133

    German Illusions. 166

    German, Sword, The. 3

    German Teaching. 2

    Germans Surpassed. 358

    Gethsemane, Solitude Of. 332

    Giant, Sleep as a Gentle. 115

    Gifts, Man’s. 63

    “Gipsy Child,” To a. 237

    Gissing’s “Henry Ryecroft.” 292

    Giving and Having. 188

    Giving is Receiving. 146

    Gladstone, W. E. 339

    Glaucus the Sea God. 129

    “Globe, Letty’s.” 327

    Gluttony. 306

    God. 1, 2, 128, 160, 197, 233, 260, 271

    God ever Present. 197, 285, 331

    God, Evolution of. 166

    God, Forgiveness Of. 287

    God, Forgotten. 1

    God, Guidance of. 285

    God, Living To. 261

    God, Man Like. 275

    God, Man’s Reflex. 128

    God Watching. 2

    Gods and Spectres. 144

    Gods are Brethren. 97

    Gods are Dumb. 111

    Gods, Greek. 293, 381

    Gods, The on the side of the Strongest. 49

    God’s Rest. 285

    Gods that Pity. 215

    Good, Doing. 150, 182, 201, 228

    Good in every Man. 259

    Good Nature. 151

    Good never Lost. 275

    Gorham Case, The. 15, 16

    Grace for a Child. 239

    Gravest Man a Fool. 257

    Gray’s Elegy. 109, 376

    Great Man, The. 260

    Great Men. 51

    Greece, Foundations of. 289

    Greece, Influence of. 289

    Greek Anthology, The. 8-11, 306

    Greek Civilization. 371

    “Greek Genius, The.” by R. W. Livingstone. 290, 366-7, 374

    Greek Glamour. 363-6

    Greek Gods. 293

    Greek Infanticide. 172-3

    Greek, Incorrect Translation from The. 173, 292-3, 372-3

    Greek Intellect. 289, 369

    Greek Life. 381

    Greek Plays. 371

    Greek Poetry. 290

    Greek Religion. 217-18, 366-8, 370-2

    Greek Sense of Beauty. 379

    Greek Sense of Colour. 380

    Greek Sense of Humour. 365, 369

    Greek Statesmen. 5, 375

    Greek Statues and Temples. 380-81

    Greek Vice. 369

    Greek Virtues. 368

    Greek Want of Humanity. 173-4

    Greek Women. 86-90, 173

    Greeks, Falsehood, Theft, etc. 366-7

    Greeks and Equality. 5

    Greeks, Ignorance of The. 293, 369-71

    Greeks or Germans? 5, 367

    Greeks, Shelley on the. 173, 289

    Grief, Nation’s. 3

    Grief, Dry-eyed and Silent. 12

    Grief, Solitary. 332

    Griffin, The. 311

    Grocer, The Fraudulent. 282

    Grown Up. 142

    Grundy, Mrs. 289


    Habit. 172

    Haeckel. 65-8

    Hafiz and Tamerlane. 338

    Happiness. 83, 233

    Harmony and Divinity. 108

    Harrison, F. xi

    Harrison, Jane. 292

    Harvard University Men. 2

    Harvest of Pain. 213, 263, 268

    Harvests, The Two. 233

    Head, Heart Rules The. 241

    Heart, A Wounded. 162

    Heart’s Compass. 324

    Heaven. 84, 123, 358

    Heaven alone Free. 264

    Heaven and Hell. 123

    Heaven, Browning’s. 204

    Heaven, Emerson’s. 205

    Heaven, Myers’. 205

    Heaven Remembered. 243

    Hebrides. 198

    Hebrew Prophets. 134

    Hegel’s Philosophy. 105

    Helen of Troy. 270

    Hell. 123-4

    Hellenism. 364

    Herbert’s Collection of Proverbs. 306

    Herodotus. 173

    Hero Worship. 323

    Hidden, What Can’t Be. 96

    High Failure, Low Success. 233

    Higher Criticism, The. 344

    “Higher Mountain, The.” 236

    Highland Evictions. 198-9

    Hilton, A. C. 50

    History’s Record. 2

    Hodgson, Richard. vii, ix, x, 207-9, 346

    Hogg, James. 340

    Home is Homely. 184

    Home, Satan At. 184

    Home Thoughts. 345

    Hope. 33, 42, 139, 359, 361

    Homer. 292

    Horrors. 148

    Human Life. 251

    Human Personality. 151, 346

    Human Settees. 287

    Humanity. 96, 138, 267

    Humanity, The Spirit of. 209

    Humour, Sense of. 248, 365

    Huxley, T. H. 64-6

    Hymn. 240, 319

    “Hymn to God the Father, A.” 61

    Hypnotism. 151

    Hysteria. 151


    “I am Sick for Yesterday.” 333

    Ideal City. 269

    Ideal Ills. 280

    Ideals. 156

    Ideals dragged to Earth. 269

    Ideas Outgrown. 179

    Ideas Superseded. 272

    Idleness. 108, 262

    “Identity.” 130

    Ills. 280

    Illusions. 274

    Imagination. 36-9, 146-7, 290, 357-8

    Imagination aids Intellect. 357-8

    Imagination, Characteristic of the English. 358

    Imagination, Practical Utility of, The. 39, 356-8

    “Imbuta.” 324

    Immortality. 346

    Immortality, Promise of. 317

    Immortality, Song and. 11, 347

    Imperfection, Essential to Life. 335

    Impudence. 20

    Inaction. 25

    Independent Thinkers. 51, 54

    Indexes, Want Of. 291

    Industry, Satan’s. 137

    Infant, Dead. 316

    Infanticide. 172-74

    Influence of undistinguished Lives. 333

    Influence of Women. 242, 333, 354

    Influence of Wordsworth. 176-8

    Ingratitude, Public. 1

    “In Memoriam.” 253

    Innocence, Lost. 97

    Insight. 323

    Insomnia. 240

    Inspiration. 10, 125, 214, 240

    Insults, Emperors and. 338

    Intellect and Morality. 323

    Intention, Counts with God. 194

    Interests, Conflicting. 282

    Interests, Vested. 96

    Intimacy and Indifference. 264

    Inventors. 72

    Invisible, Tidings of the. 90

    Inquisition, The. 16

    Irony. 183

    Irrevocable. 97

    Iscariot, Judas. 74

    Isocrates. 202

    Isolation. 265-66, 280-1, 301-2

    I, What Am? 103


    Jansenists, The. 349

    Jennie Kissed Me. 278

    “Jest Book, Death’s.” 305-6

    Jester’s Plea, The. 289

    Jesus, Logia Of. 331

    Johnson, Dr., and the Scots. 196-7

    Jonah and the Whale. 7

    Judas Iscariot. 74-7

    Judges, Competent. 132

    Justice and Empire. 5

    Justice and Money. 182-3

    Justice and Power. 166

    Justice of God, The. 287


    Kaiser. 3, 338

    Keats. 74

    Kind, Make Haste to Be. 201

    Kindred Souls, Failure to Recognise. 187

    Kipling, Rudyard. 131-2

    Know, What do the Wisest? 110

    Knowledge. 101, 110-11

    Knowledge, Obstacles To. 351

    “Kritik of Practical Reason.” 350


    “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” 271

    Labour, Loftiness of. 108

    Labour, Uses of. 204

    Ladder, Sorrows The. 263

    Ladder, Vices as a. 262-3

    “Lady’s ‘Yes’, The.” 153

    Lamb, Charles and Mary. 159-60

    “Lamb, The.” 115

    Land Crabs. 163

    Land, Silent The. 95

    Laissez-Faire. 358

    Laocoon, The. 380

    Late, Too. 58

    Latin, Pronunciation of. 19

    Law, Court of, Satan’s Home. 148

    Law, English. 181

    Law, Money and. 182-3

    Law Reform. 181-4

    Law Making, Ballad Making Before. 352

    Lead, The. 257

    Ledgers, Men change Swords for. 1

    “L’Envoi.” 244-6

    Lése-majesté. 338

    Let it be There. 62

    “Letty’s Globe.” 327

    Life. 13, 100, 114, 117-21, 152, 214, 227-8, 238-9, 251, 267-9, 310,
      354, 360, 362

    Life and Death. 250, 325

    Life, Cruelty of. 148, 239

    Life, is it Worth Living? 165

    Life, Memories of a Previous. 91-2

    Life, Perilous. 321

    Life, Prized. 250

    Life, Sadness of. 239

    Life, Secret of. 117

    Life, Short. 201

    Life, Struggle. 260

    Life, Sweet. 347

    Life, Tragedies of. 274-5, 294

    Life, Uncertain. 140

    Light, a Point in the Darkness. 269

    Light and Life. 252

    Light, the Speech between the Stars. 12

    Lincoln, President. 306

    Litany, Old Monkish. 309

    Literature, Classification of. 227

    Literature, Effective. 6, 48, 352

    Literature of the 16th and 17th Centuries. 283-4

    Literature Superseded and Surviving. 227

    Literature, why the best Survives. 132

    Literary Circles, Australia and English. x

    Lives, Sad. 294

    Living Past, The. 170

    Living, Sympathy with the. 192

    Locke, John, on Education. 180

    Logia of Jesus. 331

    London a Desert. 105-6

    Long Expected. 125

    Lost Days. 135

    “Lotos Eaters, The.” 329

    Love. 12, 13, 24, 27, 41, 49, 78, 142, 158, 164-5, 196, 205, 222,
      224, 244, 259, 306, 319, 355, 359

    Love, Analysis of. 103

    Love and a Cough. 96

    Love and Duty. 224

    Love and Life. 334

    Love and Self. 199

    Love, Brevity of. 13, 27, 30, 149, 162-3, 248, 274, 288

    Love, Brotherly. 134

    Love, Characteristics of. 134

    Love Divine. 54, 315

    Love Ennobles. 156

    Love Episode, A. 326

    Love, Eternal. 122

    Love, First. 324-5, 352-3

    “Love in the Valley.” 302

    Love, Mortal. 162

    Love, Quest of. 41

    Love, Second. 324

    Love, Herbert Spencer, on. 103

    Love, Stillborn. 255

    “Love Sweetness.” 330

    Love, The meaning of the World. 323

    Love, Wakes Men Once. 147

    Love, What is? 103

    Loved Things Die. 181

    Love’s Cruelty. 126-7

    Love’s Delay. 57-9

    “Love’s Last Messages.” 157

    Love’s Lovers. 248

    Lover, Role of, Brief. 322

    Lunacy. 35, 160, 215


    Machiavelli. 312

    Maiden Aunt, A. 130

    Maiden’s Heart, A. 107

    Make Haste. 201

    Making of Man, The. 216

    Malays. 263

    Mallock’s “New Republic.” 9, 310

    Man. 81, 275

    Man, Loveable. 259

    Man, Stereotyped. 150

    Man’s Dependence. 295

    Man’s Gains Remain his Own. 149-50

    Man’s Gifts. 63

    Man’s Greatness. 97

    Man’s Importance to Himself. 113

    Man’s Life. 100

    Man’s Perdition. 5

    Man’s Price. 77

    Man’s Vision. 323

    Man’s Work can help God. 165

    Many Fools. 146

    Marcus Aurelius. 215

    Marriage. 90-1, 236

    Marriage, only Game of Chance Clergy Favour. 91

    Marriage, Wife Requires to be Courted, after. 236

    Martineau, James. xi

    Martyr, The. 155

    Master of All. 160

    Master, Our. 143

    Marvel, A Two-fold. 131

    Materialism. xi, 64-6, 102, 303-5, 316, 327, 330

    Materialism, Modern. 303-4

    Matter. 104

    Matter, Mind and. 102

    Medical Prescriptions, Wesley’s. 320

    Meditations. 110-113

    Melrose Abbey. 69

    Memories. 161-2, 255, 314

    Memories of This Life Hereafter. 170

    Memories, Sweet. 255

    Memory. 33, 159

    Men and Beasts. 113

    Men and Dogs. 241

    Men before Angels. 348

    Men, Great. 51-2

    Men, Sameness of. 150

    Men, Tall. 233

    Men, Women made Foolish to Match. 80

    Menzies, P. S. Sermons of. 271-3

    Mercy. 287

    Mercies, Small. 221, 222

    Mermaid Tavern, The. 313-14

    Micawber’s Advice. 284

    “Milk of Paradise.” 313

    Mill, James. 101

    Mill, John Stuart. 116

    Milton. 155, 343

    Milton, Parody on. 274

    Miltons, Mute. 357, 376

    Mimnermus in Church. 347-8

    Mind Affected by Age. 179

    Mind and Body. 283

    Mind and Matter. 102

    Miracles. 315, 349

    Miscellaneous. 48, 51, 60, 62-3, 182-4, 196-8, 268-70, 294-5,
      332-5, 360-3

    Misfortunes of Others. 251

    Mistakes. 244

    Modern Religious Thought. 141

    Molière. 32, 284

    Money and Innocence. 97

    Money and Law. 182

    Money, God’s Estimate of. 204

    Monica’s Vision. 144

    Monkey, Man’s Descent from. 64

    Moon, The. 20

    Morality and Intellect. 323

    Mors et Vita. 348

    Moslem Rule. 25

    Moth, The. 222

    Mother Earth. 209-13

    Mother who Died Too, The. 316

    Müller, F. Von. 318

    Multiplex Personality. 150-1

    Murder. 34

    Murray’s, Gilbert, Euripides. 371-3

    Music. 154

    Music. 13-14, 108, 275-77, 302, 321-2

    Music, Beauty like. 321-22

    “Music in their Heart.” 55

    Muttons, Return to our. 182

    “My Commonplace Book.” 291

    Myers, F. W. H. 205, 277, 316-17, 346-7, 363-81

    Mythology, Greek. 292


    Nakedness. 239

    Nation’s Ballads and Legislation. 352

    Nation’s Heart, Song that Nerves a. 352

    “Natural Religion.” 330

    Nature. 47, 90, 188, 240, 246, 252, 283-4

    Nature, Contrary to. 47

    Nature Echoes and Reflects. 189

    Nature, Freaks of. 325

    Nature, Good. 151

    Nature, Intellectual and Moral Inseparable. 323

    Nature, Love of. 109, 164, 175-8, 222-3, 283, 379

    Nature, Love of, in 18th Century and Earlier. 178, 283, 379

    Nature the Old Nurse. 355

    Necessity of Lovely Things. 164

    Neither Good nor Bad. 134

    Nescience. 202

    New and Old Systems. 2

    New Gospel, The. 66-8

    Newton, Sir Isaac. 249

    Night and Death. 252

    Night, Death and Woman. 168

    Night has a Thousand Eyes. x, 334

    Night, Mysterious. 252

    Night, Ships that Pass in the. 280-1

    Nightingale, The. 11, 136, 279, 290, 292, 362

    Nobleness. 280

    Noblesse Oblige. 351

    Nonsense Lines. 152-3, 228-9

    Nostalgia. 203-4

    Not One Christian. 159

    Notes, The need for Author’s. xii, 71


    Oblivion. 259

    Object, A Common. 281

    Objects, Good. 4

    Obscurity, Browning’s. 19

    Octopus, The. 49-51

    Odysseus, Ship of. 217

    Old Age. 96, 164, 240

    Old College Rooms. 229

    Old Creeds. 343

    Old Monkish Litany. 309

    Old World Creed, An. 231

    Old Year, The. 129

    Omar Khayyam. 194, 268

    “O May I Join the Choir Invisible.” 327-8

    On a Fine Morning. 115-6

    One Loves, the Other Submits. 242

    One Poem, Fame for. 252

    One Port Alike they Sought. 281

    Opinion. 83, 102

    Opinion, Private, Income Necessary to. 54

    Opinion, Change of. 256

    Opportunities, Lost. 62

    Opportunity. 262

    Optimism. 350-1

    “O, so White! O, so Soft! O, so Sweet is She!” 335

    Ossian. 231

    “Ordeal of Richard Feverel.” 326

    Orthodoxy. xi, 16

    Others’ Misfortunes. 251

    “Ought.” 350

    Ouida. 215

    Ovid. 363

    Owen, Professor. 64

    Oxford. 19


    “Pace that Kills,” The. 174-5

    Pagan and Christian. 173

    Pain, The Harvest of. 213, 263, 268

    Paine, Thomas. 6

    Paradise, Milk of. 313

    Paradise, Spirit of. 39, 40, 278

    Paradise, Woman and. 63

    Pardon, is God’s Business. 287

    Pardons, Offender Never. 306

    Parnassus and Poverty. 180

    Parodies. 49, 220-1, 223-4, 248, 253, 274

    Paronomasia. 61, 349

    Parsons. 345

    Passion and Philosophy. 294

    Passions of Youth. 230

    Past Self. 255-6

    Past, The Living. 170

    Pater’s Philosophy. 309-10

    Path to Wisdom, Thorny. 21

    Paul, St. 133

    Peace and War. 4

    Peacefulness. 259-60

    Pearls of Thought. 268

    Pegasus, George Eliot’s. 343

    Penalty of Nobleness. 280

    People, Plenty of Willing. 240

    Perdition, Safety as. 5

    Pericles. 5

    Persian, From the. 268

    Personalities, each Man has Three. 59-60

    Personality, Human. 151, 346

    Pessimist. 257-8

    Pets. 225

    Pheidias. 380

    Philosophy, Various. 101-5, 116, 165, 294, 309

    Photography. 190

    Physician. 306

    Pictures, Word. 85-6, 121-2, 166-7, 225-6, 270-1, 302-3, 336-7, 356

    Pickwick Papers. 264

    Plagiarism. 32, 360

    Pleasure, Love Not. 83

    Poem, Famous for One. 252

    Poet alone Sees. 147

    Poet and His Audience. 137

    Poet, Autobiography of A. 125

    Poet, Song of the. 136

    Poet, The. 214, 236

    Poetic Imagination. 39, 40, 357-8

    Poetic Passion. 310

    Poets Condemned. 180

    Poets Known for One Production. 252

    Poets, poor Critics of their Own Work. 57, 289-90

    Poetry. 63, 207, 214

    Poetry and Poverty. 180

    Poetry Creates. 214

    Poetry Despised. 357-8

    Poetry, England’s Wealth of. 358

    Poetry Immortal. 11, 347

    Poetry, Important to Education. 358

    Poetry, Insight into. 17, 137

    Poetry, Legislation less Vital than. 352

    Poetry, Neglect of. 218, 358

    Poetry, Potent. 352

    Poetry, Scope of. 136

    Poetry, Subjects of, Alleged Exhaustion. 188

    Poetry Survives the Poet. 11, 347

    Poetry, Swinburne’s. 219, 343

    Poetry, Treasure-houses of. 10, 358

    Points of View. 17, 204-5, 251, 265-6, 280, 340, 350

    “Political Precepts.” 175

    Pollock, Sir F., Parodies by. 220-21

    Pope Pius IX. xii

    Popularity, Deferred. 132

    Popularity, Seeking. 339

    Possession Stagnates. 250

    Positivism. xi

    Posterity’s Verdict. 132

    Post-nuptial Courting. 236

    Potter’s Clay, The. 193-4

    Poverty and Parnassus. 180

    Power and Justice. 166

    “Practical.” 101

    Praise of Beauty. 338

    Praise of Tobacco. 241

    Prayer. 133, 282

    Pre-matrimonial Acquaintanceship. 131

    Prescriptions, Absurd Medical. 320

    Presiding Spirit, Earth’s. 278

    Pretence and Reality. 227, 262

    Price, The. 200

    Price, Man’s. 77

    Price, Wisdom’s. 21

    Pride. 156

    Prize Fighter, The. 337

    Progress or Lethargy. 125-6

    Progress, Slow but Sure. 143, 257

    Prometheus. 209

    Promise. 350

    Pronunciation. 19, 263-4

    Prophets, The Hebrew. 134

    Prosaic Person, The. 279

    Proserpine. 211

    Proverbs. 184, 197, 257, 306-7, 334-5

    Prudent Scot, A. 197

    Psychical Research, Society for. xi, 172, 329, 339, 340, 347, 348

    Psychology. 102

    Public Servants. 339

    “Pulley,” The. 63

    Pulsation Passage, Pater’s. 310

    Punishment, Eternal. 123

    Puns. 61, 349

    Purification. 73

    Puritan’s Cat that broke the Sabbath. 253

    Pursuit more than Prize. 250

    Puttenham, George. 356-7

    Pyrrhus and Cineas. 197-8


    Quakers. 247

    “Queen, My, Sequel to.” 57

    Query. 215-16

    Quest. 156

    “Question, A.” 127

    Questions. 325, 328-9, 341, 350

    Quixotism, One of Satan’s Pet Words. 159


    Raleigh, Sir Walter. 357

    Rank and Precedence. 280

    Reapers, Sowers and. 107

    Reason and Tradition. 159

    Reasoning, The Art of. 34-6

    Receptivity. 146

    Record, History’s. 2

    Reform. 255

    Regret. 139

    “Reinforcements,” Children as. 52-3

    Rejuvenation. 160

    “Religio Medici.” 108

    Religion. 122-4, 134, 159, 227, 272-3

    Religion and Love, Heralds of Heaven. 149

    Religion and Reason. 159

    Religion and Science, Conflict Between. xi, 64-8

    Remember Me. 60

    Remember or Forget. 27-30

    Reminiscence of Past Existence. 203-4

    Renaissance, The. 365

    Repentance. 41

    Reputation, and Character. 196

    “Requiem, A.” 234

    Requiem, Carlyle’s. 332

    Research, Society for Psychical. xi, 172, 329, 339, 340, 347, 348

    Rest. 63-4, 161, 285, 329

    Reticence, Safety in. 250

    Retribution. 137-8

    Reunion after Death. 348

    “Revelation, The.” 147

    Reverence. 349

    Rhymed Ends. 284

    Riches. 188, 204

    “Rights of Man, The.” 6

    “Rime of Redemption, The.” 295

    Rival, The. 34

    Rogue, The, a Fool. 226

    Roman Hardness. 172

    Romance. 280

    “Romance, To the True.” 36

    Romantic Revival. 109

    “Rose and the Wind, The.” 53

    Rossetti, Christina. 28

    Rothschild, Lord. 36

    Rowley Forgeries, The. 45

    Ruskin, John. 133


    Sabbatarian Puritan, The. 253

    “Sacrifice.” 5

    Sacrifice-Self. 199-201, 272

    Sacrifice-Self, Woman’s. 62, 72

    Sacrifice, Supreme. 2

    Sad Old Age. 164

    Sad Lines. 294

    Safety as Perdition. 5

    Sage, Narrow Stage for The. 322

    Sand and Sugar. 282

    Sand, Traced on. 286

    St. Augustine’s Ladder. 263

    St. Monica’s Vision. 144

    St. Jerome’s Tutor. xii

    Sappho. 290, 292, 364, 366

    Satan and Pardon. 41-2

    Satan at Home. 184

    Satan’s Diligence. 137

    Satan’s Pet Words. 159

    Sayce, A. H. 66-9

    Saying Nothing. 183-4

    Scaffold, Truth for Ever on the. 2

    Scepticism. 64-8, 110-12, 206

    Science and Wonder. 295

    Science, Religion and. xi., 64-8

    Scientist’s Analysis of Love. 103

    Scot, The Prudent. 197

    Scotland, Dr. Johnson and. 196-7

    Scotsman, Potentiality of The. 196

    Scott, Sir Walter. 33, 69-70

    Scottish Crofters, Song of The. 198

    Scottish Washerwomen. 167

    Scribes, The. 16

    Scriptures, Veracity of the. 344-5

    Search Perfects. 250

    Sea-song, A Great. 244-6

    “Sea, The Other Side of the.” 288

    Sea, The Purifying. 166

    Secret, Life’s. 117

    Security of Death. 73-4

    Seeley’s “Ecce Homo.” xii

    Self-Deception. 229

    Selfishness. 151, 169, 180-1

    Self-Reliance. 274

    Self-Sacrifice. 5, 62, 72, 83, 378-9

    Self-Surrender. 180, 199, 200-1

    “Sentiment Kills, ’Tis.” 284

    Sermons, P.S. Menzie’s. 271-3

    Seth and Astronomy. 247

    Settees, Human. 286-7

    Seventies and Eighties, The. xi

    Seventy Years Young. 240

    Sex in Souls. 93-4

    Sexes, Qualities of the. 93

    Shade and Silence. 162

    Shakespeare. 247, 290

    Shambles, Civilization and the. 148

    Shallow but Clear. 51

    Shaving. 362

    Shelley. 73-4, 289

    Ship of Life. 152

    Ships, all Romantic except our Own. 280

    Ships Bound to same Port. 281

    Ships that pass in the Night. 280-1

    Sic vos non Vobis. 107

    Sidgwick, Henry. 208

    “Sigurd, the Volsung.” 4

    Silence Safe. 250

    Silence Terrifying. 11

    Silent Land, The. 95

    Sin, Original. 61

    “Sin, Vision of, The.” 139-40

    Singer’s Plea, The. 352

    Singing. 240

    Skylark, Shelley’s. 290

    Slander. 148, 301, 306

    Slaves. 48, 80, 375

    Sleep. 115, 150-1, 157, 160

    Sleep and Death. 114

    Sleep, He Giveth His Beloved. 157

    Sleep, Vigilance and. 150

    Small Things, Neglect of. 196

    Smile, Beauty’s. 116

    Snobbery, Social. 178

    “Soapy Sam.” 65

    Society, the Browning. 19

    Society for Psychical Research. xi, 172, 329, 339, 340, 347, 348

    Solace. 115

    Soldiers Slighted. 1

    Solitude, a City’s. 106

    Solitude of Grief. 332

    Somnambulism. 151

    Song that Nerves a Nation’s Heart, is a Deed. 352

    Songs, A Nation’s. 352

    Sonnet, which Coleridge thought the Finest. 252

    “Sonnet, Scorn not the.” 45

    “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” 45, 144, 293

    Sorrow. 198, 213

    Sorrow, The Worship of. 83

    Sorrows, Light, Speak. 12

    Soul, The. 15, 32, 51, 55, 129, 165-6, 178, 238, 251, 360

    Soul’s Aspiration. 251

    Soul’s Beauty. 201

    Soul, Not the Eye, Sees. 178

    Soul, The Crisis of the. 284

    Soul, The Journey of the. 285

    Sowing and Reaping. 107

    Space, Terror of Infinite. 11

    “Spasmodic School.” 231

    Special Creation. 303-5

    Spell, for the Dying, A. 279

    Spencer, Herbert. 101, 103-4, 105

    “Spider, Noiseless Patient, A.” 360

    Spirit, Adventurous, Created Empire. 358

    Spirit, A Parting. 279

    Spirit of Paradise. 39, 40, 278

    Spirit of the Age. 266

    Spirit of the Universe. 246

    Spiritualism. 171-2

    “Spiritual Laws.” 25

    Spiritual World. 272

    Spiritual World’s Realities. 272

    Spring. 253, 350

    “Star, My.” 8-10, 131

    Star to Star. 12

    Stars and Duty, The. 350

    Stars and Fates. 40

    Stars, Silence of. 39

    Stars, Speech of. 12

    Stars, Tasks of the. 108

    State and Man. 166

    Stephen, Sir Leslie. 171

    Sterne’s “Sentimental Journey.” 283

    Strange Verses. 230

    Struggle, The, Availeth. 257

    Struggle, Life’s. 257, 260

    Stupidity, as Protection. 274

    Style. 291

    Success, Wisdom and. 34

    Sunshine to us is Darkness to others. 282

    Superstition. 15

    Supreme Power Produces Mind, The. 304-5

    Surroundings, Familiar. 62

    Survival after Death. 151, 250, 329, 346-8

    Swinburne. xi., 49-51, 219-21, 259, 341-3, 347

    Swiveller, Dick. 69

    “Sword, Apotheosis of the.” 3

    Swords and Ledgers. 1

    Sydney, Sir Philip. 357

    Sympathy with the Living, not the Dead. 192

    Symposium, Plato’s. 381

    Systems, Old and New. 2


    Talent, Lost. 357, 376

    Tall Men. 233

    Taking Thought. 318

    Tasks. 108

    Tastes Differ. 265

    Tavern, The Mermaid. 313-4

    Teachers. 109

    Tear Dries Soon. 306

    Tearless Grief. 12

    Tears, Harvest of. 213, 263, 268

    Tears, Women’s Secret. 232

    Temptation. 71

    Tennyson. xi

    Teuton, God of the. 4

    “The Night has a Thousand Eyes.” x, 334

    “The Other Side of the Sea.” 288

    Theosophy. xi, 172, 209

    “Thought, A Woman’s.” 311

    Thought and Happiness. 354

    Thought, Independence in. 51, 54

    Thought, Modern Religious. 141

    Thoughts Anticipated, Our. xii

    Thoughts, Revivifying Old. 78

    Three Personalities, Each Man has. 59

    Throne, Wrong for ever on the. 2

    Through a Glass Darkly. 241

    Thrush, The Wise. 345

    Thy Beauty’s Silent Music. 321

    Tidings of the Invisible. 90

    Time, Allotted. 322

    Time, All-powerful. 341-3

    Time Swift and We Slow. 136

    Time Wasted. 135-7, 166

    Tobacco. 241-2

    Tongue, Holding One’s, Never Repented. 250

    Too Late. 58

    Torpor. 108

    Toucan, The. 325

    “Trade, Free,” Fetish. 358

    Tradition. 159

    Training, Mental. 358

    Travel and Empire. 358

    Treason, Roman and German. 338

    Trial by Jury. 358

    Trial Test. 284

    Trinidad, Island of. 163

    Trivial Causes, and Great Events. 161

    Trouble, Anticipating. 121

    Troy, Helen of. 270

    Troy, The Walls of. 302

    Truth. 2, 104, 105

    Truth, Champions of. 138-9

    Truth, Daring to Speak the. 312

    Truth for Truth’s Sake, Love of. 343, 349

    Truth, Marching on. 240

    Truth, Pursuit of. 250

    Truths. 104

    Tucker, T. C., on Sappho. 366

    Tupman, The Susceptible. 264

    “Twilight, In the.” 91

    Twin, Happiness born a. 332

    Two for a Kiss. 332

    Two Lovers. 120


    “Ulysses.” 278

    Unconscious Cerebration. 151

    Under-world, The. x, 217

    Universe, The Infinity of the. 11

    Up-hill. 161

    Utilitarianism. 116

    Utility, Practical, of Imagination. 39, 291, 356-8

    “Utopianism,” one of Satan’s Pet Words. 159


    Venus of Milo, The. 380

    Veracity of the Scriptures, The. 344-5

    Verrall, Dr. 348

    Verses, Judging. 207

    Verses, Strange Wedding Eve. 230

    Vices as Ladders. 263

    Vigilance and Sleep. 150

    View, Points of. 17, 204-5, 251, 265-6, 280, 340, 350

    Virtue and Slander. 148

    Virtue, Varying standards of. 174

    Virtues, Christian. 359

    Vision. 200, 284, 323

    Vision of Sin, The. 139-40

    Vision, Man’s Degree of. 323

    Visits made to Boast of. 178

    Voice, Merely. 361-2

    Voices, Two. 248

    Von Müller, Baron F. 318

    Vox et Praeterea Nihil. 361


    Waking, State Of. 150-1

    Washerwomen, Scottish. 167

    Washington and Thomas Paine. 6

    War. 1, 2, 3, 6

    Wars, Effect Of. 52

    Wealth and Worth. 204

    Wealth of Poetry, England’s. 358

    “Wedding, The Night before The.” 230

    Wesley’s Character. 159

    Wesley’s Medical Prescriptions. 320

    What am I? 103-4, 241

    What do the Wisest Know? 110

    “What of the Darkness?” 53

    “When shall our Prayers End?” 321

    When we are all Asleep. 215-16

    Whence and Whither? 111, 152

    Whetstone cannot cut but Sharpens, A. 202

    White, J. Blanco. xi, 252

    Why not now? 197

    Wife must be Courted. 236

    Wife, The Troublesome. 339

    Wilberforce, Bishop. 64, 344

    Will, Strong in. 278

    Willing People. 240

    “Wind and the Rose, The.” 53

    Wisdom. 246, 310

    Wisdom and Cunning. 226

    Wisdom and Folly. 314

    Wisdom and Success. 34

    Wisdom, The Path Of. 21

    Wise, Few. 146

    Woman, 63, 72-3, 80, 94, 116, 203, 232, 242, 341, 343, 361

    Woman and Tobacco. 241-2

    Woman, Fickle. 34, 285-6

    Woman, Paradise and. 63

    Woman, Wasteful. 242

    Woman’s Influence. 242, 333, 354

    “Woman’s Thought, A.” 311

    Women, Cunning of. 314

    Women Foolish, made to match Men. 80

    Women, Greek. 86-90, 173, 367, 375

    Women, Jesuistical. 343

    Women, Obstinate. 72

    Women, Painted. 173, 249

    Women, Paradise and. 63

    Women Riddles. 94

    Women’s Chatter not changed in Two Thousand Years. 90

    Women’s Self Sacrifice. 62, 72, 361

    Wooing and Winning. 236

    Words, Mere. 361-2

    Wordsworth. 29-30, 54, 108-9, 175-8, 203-4, 248

    Wordsworth, Defects of. 248

    Wordsworth, Influence of. 54, 108, 177-8

    Wordsworth, Parodies on. 248, 253

    Work. 83, 108, 204, 240, 262, 278

    Work and Worship. 355

    Work Neglected, Remorse for. 136

    World, Ancient and Modern, The. 95

    World Creed, An Old. 231

    World is Young, The. 16

    World, Realities of the Spiritual. 272

    World, Seduction of. 22

    World, The Unjust. 170

    World, The Wanton. 22

    Worlds, Visible and Invisible. 236

    Worship. 141, 261

    Worth, Intrinsic. 277


    Xenophon. 376


    Yea, The Everlasting. 83

    Young Life. 273

    Young Seventy Years. 240

    Youth and Age. xvi, 130, 267

    Youth and Prohibition. 272-3

    Youth, Ardent. 174

    Youth, Heroic. 1


    Zimmern, A. E. 374




INDEX OF AUTHORS


    Aldrich, A. R. 24, 240

    Aldrich, H. 160

    Aldrich, T. B. 130, 137

    Alexander, W. 136

    Amiel. 149, 201

    Anonymous. 77, 135, 148, 182, 198, 225, 229, 286, 308, 349
      (See also Authors not traced).

    Aristotle. 367, 369, 370

    Arnold, E., Sir 58, 105

    Arnold, M. 15, 127, 152, 162, 226, 236, 237, 265

    Aurelius, Marcus. 215

    Augustine, St. 263

    Austin, A. 282

    Authors not traced. 27, 35, 73, 91, 112, 120, 124, 127, 130, 136,
      142, 161, 164, 225, 227, 231, 236, 240, 241, 242, 261, 268, 314
      (See also Anonymous).


    Bacon. 151, 178, 206, 226, 233

    Bailey, P. J. 12, 21, 48, 101, 229, 257

    Bain, A. 102, 205

    Balzac. 162

    Bateson, W. 247

    Beaumont, F. 313

    Beddoes, T. L. 157, 262, 305

    Bentham, Jeremy. 116, 181

    Billing, W. 354

    Blackstone. 181

    Blake, W. 106, 109, 115, 166

    Blanc, C. 283

    Boreham, F. W. 52, 205

    Bossuet. 123

    Boswell. 124, 196, 197

    Bourdillon, F. W. 334

    Boyd, A. K. H. 197, 198

    Brathwaite, R. 228, 253

    Bray. 153-155

    Bromfield, J. 170

    Brougham. 182

    Brown, John. 362

    Brown, T. E. 169, 180

    Brown, B. 122

    Browne, Sir T. 72, 108, 123, 138, 236

    Browning, E. B. 12, 24, 45, 144, 152, 157, 213, 285, 354

    Browning, R. 13, 20, 24, 46, 71, 84, 104, 114, 118, 149, 193, 195,
      204, 218, 224, 225, 233, 234, 242, 249, 255, 256, 260, 262, 269,
      270, 275, 276, 284, 285, 303, 313, 317, 319, 333, 349, 356

    Bryant, W. C. 285

    Buchanan, R. 3, 20, 74, 84, 97, 114, 184, 215, 269, 287, 294

    Burns, R. 41

    Bunyan. 176

    Byron. 71, 104, 170, 332


    Calverley, C. S. 69, 107, 352

    Campbell, T. 116

    Campion, T. 126, 321

    Canning, G. 223

    Carlyle, T. 7, 83, 323, 331, 332, 355

    Carroll, Lewis. 35, 70, 190

    Chatterton, T. 42

    Chaucer. 121, 212

    Choerilus. 188

    Cholmondeley, Hester. 77

    Cleveland, John. 197

    Clough, A. H. 125, 152, 167, 241, 257, 281

    Colenso, Bishop. 344

    Coleridge, D. 295

    Coleridge, S. T. xvi, 30, 51, 72, 74, 78, 85, 93, 114, 146, 210, 226,
      252, 271, 301, 312, 315, 336, 343, 344, 350

    Collins, M. 145

    Congreve. 97

    Conway, M. D. 6, 54, 343

    Corcoran, P. 337

    Corneille, T. 270

    Cory, W. 11, 347

    Cowley, A. 238

    Cowper, W. 117

    Crashaw, Richard. 361


    Darwin, C. 318

    Dekker, T. 133

    De Musset, A. 360

    De Quincey. 34, 132, 227

    De Rabutin. 49

    De Staël, Mme. 51, 164, 313

    Dickens, Chas. 34, 90, 98, 264, 284

    Dickinson, G. Lowes. 368

    Disraeli. 228

    Dobson, A. 360

    Donatus. xii

    Donne, J. 61, 73, 247, 286

    Douglas, M. 232

    Dryden, J. 70, 118

    Du Lorens. 339


    Earle, J. 310

    Edmunds, A. J. 170, 171

    Eliot, George. iii, 12, 21, 33, 39, 62, 80, 96, 97, 120, 131, 139,
      159, 170, 192, 203, 227, 249, 255, 256, 262, 269, 274, 279, 314,
      322, 327, 333, 335, 336, 355, 361

    Elmogadessi, A. E. 222

    Emerson, R. W. 1, 5, 25, 121, 133, 158, 189, 205, 210, 221, 260,
      280, 351, 355

    Epitaphs. 96, 188, 232, 354

    Euripides. 372, 374


    Fitzgerald, E. 132, 147, 194

    Fletcher of Saltoun. 352

    Foote, S. 228

    Fox, Caroline. 295, 313, 361

    Franklin. 135

    Fuller, T. 172


    Galton, Sir F. 374

    Gascoigne, G. 80, 321

    Gibbon. 49

    Gilder, R. W. 311

    Gissing, G. 265, 292

    Glover, T, R. 165

    Goethe. 17, 136

    Goldsmith, O. 139

    Gordon, A. L. 360

    Gosse, E. 128, 333, 338

    Greek Anthology. 8, 9, 10, 11, 306

    Gray, T. 109


    Hafiz. 63

    Hardinge, W. M. 8

    Hardy, T. 115

    Harrison, Jane. 292

    Hawthorne, N. 351

    Heine, H. 222, 287

    Helps, A. 54, 233

    Herbert, G. 63, 306

    Herodotus. 311, 333

    Herrick, R. 73, 122, 239

    Hilton, A. C. 49

    Hobhouse, Professor. 165

    Hodgson, R. 102, 104, 105, 108, 136, 207, 259, 267, 288, 340, 359

    Holland, Lord. 359

    Holmes, O. W. 59, 161, 240

    Homer. 218

    Hood, T. 30, 349

    Horace. 19, 202, 325

    Howe, Mrs. J. W. 240

    Hugo, Victor. 59, 285, 321, 338

    Hunt, Leigh. 252, 278

    Hunter, W. A. 338

    Huxley, T. H. 64, 134


    Irving, W. 165

    Isocrates. 202


    James, W. 148, 165

    Jefferies, R. 351

    Jeffrey, Lord. 132

    Jerome, St. xii

    Johnson, Dr. 178, 196

    Jones, Sir W. 268

    Jonson, Ben. 10, 178, 335, 339


    Kant, I. 349, 350

    Keats, J. 118, 121, 125, 149, 160, 162, 166, 271, 303, 314

    Keble, J. 55

    Kinglake, A. W. 25

    Kingsley, Chas. 47, 221, 232

    Kipling, R. 7, 36, 194, 242, 244

    Knight, E. F. 163

    Knowles, F. L. 332


    Lamb, Chas. 36, 159, 312, 316

    Landor, W. S. 59, 322, 325, 330

    Lang, A. 90

    Latimer, Bishop. 137

    Lecky, W. E. H. 135

    Le Gallienne, R. 53, 188

    Leigh, H. S. 182, 253

    Lessing. 250

    Lichtenberg. 146

    Lilly, W. S. 207

    Lincoln, Abraham. 150, 306

    Lind, Jenny. 261

    Litany, Monkish. 309

    Littledale, R. F. 123

    Livingstone, R. W. 290

    Locke, J. 179, 180, 226

    Locker-Lampson, F. 289

    Logia of Jesus. 331

    Longfellow. 263, 280, 355

    Lovelace, R. 321

    Loveman, R. 350

    Lowell, J. R. 2, 80, 91, 98, 113, 150, 229, 264, 268

    Lowry, H. D. 29, 146, 253

    Lyall, Sir A. 57, 110

    Lynch, T. T. 52, 239

    Lytton, Bulwer. 241

    Lytton, Earl of. 70, 359


    Macaulay, Lord. 312

    MacDonald, G. 40, 42, 63, 86, 169, 179, 212, 244, 269, 287

    Macpherson, J. 231

    Maine, Sir Henry. 101

    Mangan, J. C. 131

    Marlowe. 41

    Marston, P. B. 53

    Martial. 91, 183

    Martineau, J. 15, 34, 51, 66, 83, 101, 140, 141, 257, 280, 303, 314

    Masnair. 189

    Mason, C. A. 282

    Massey, G. 22, 125, 143, 253, 274, 315

    Maule, W. H. 183

    Melville, H. 286

    Melville, G. S. Whyte-. 324

    Menzies, P. S. 271

    Meredith, George. 122, 213, 251, 258, 294, 302, 326

    Meredith, Owen. 70, 359

    Middleton, R. 136

    Mill, J. S. 54

    Milton. 139, 155, 211, 214, 311

    Moasi. 351

    Molière. 32, 341

    Monod, A. 196

    Montaigne. 114, 149, 229, 312

    Montenaeken, L. 119

    Moody, W. V. vii

    Moore, T. 181, 325, 358

    Morris, Lewis. 16

    Morris, W. 4, 30, 41, 60, 271, 275

    Murray, Gilbert. 372, 374

    Myers, F. W. H. 133, 150, 199, 205, 277, 316, 339, 340, 346, 363


    Naylor, H. D. 9, 10, 292

    Neale, J. M. 263

    Nicharchus. 306

    Niebuhr. 214

    Noel, Roden. 13

    Novalis. 144, 149, 196, 202


    Oldys, W. 354

    Oliphant, L. 178

    Osler, W. 148

    O’Sullivan, V. 319

    Ouida. 214, 215


    Paine, Thomas. 6, 134, 196, 247

    Pascal. 11, 293

    Pater, W. 309

    Patmore, Coventry. 147, 156, 242, 309

    Paul, St. 134

    Payne, J. 149, 162, 163, 295, 318

    Percy. 156

    Penn, William. 228

    Phillips, J. 274

    Phillips, S. 323

    Piozzi, Mrs. 196

    Plato. 129

    Pliny. 215, 334

    Plutarch. 175, 198, 250, 362, 370

    Poe, E. A. 259

    Pollock, Sir F. 221

    Pope, A. 19, 91, 94, 148, 204, 249, 251, 256, 275

    Praed, W. M. 206, 243, 356

    Procter, B. W. (Barry Cornwall) 117

    Proverbs. 39, 51, 184, 197, 257, 306, 361

    Prowse, W. J. 174, 236

    Puttenham, G. 356, 357


    Quarles, Francis. 1

    Quiller-Couch, Sir A. 17


    Raleigh, Sir W. 233

    Renan. 68

    Richter, J. P. F. 72

    Rogers, R. C. 307

    Rogers, Samuel. 36, 105, 132

    Rossetti, C. 27, 28, 58, 86, 161, 180

    Rossetti, D. G. 12, 49, 79, 122, 135, 201, 248, 255, 324, 330

    Ruskin, J. 132, 137, 159, 164, 192, 275, 283, 335, 370, 373


    Sadi. 277

    Sand, George. 360

    Sappho. 292

    Sayce, A. H. 66

    Schreiner, Olive. 96, 239, 251

    Scott, Sir W. 69, 279

    Scott, W. B. 337

    Scotus Erigena. 42

    Sears, E. H. 260

    Seebohm, B. 96

    Seeley, Sir J. R. 16, 95, 172, 267, 330

    Selden. 90

    Seneca. 12, 33, 295, 337

    Shakespeare, W. viii, 27, 36, 72, 73, 102, 167, 184, 286, 302, 336

    Shelley. 10, 73, 85, 107, 114, 173, 209, 210, 211, 214, 231, 239,
      279, 289, 361, 362

    Shepherd, N. G. 34

    Sidney, Sir Phillip. 159

    Simonides. 290

    Smith, Adam. 346

    Smith, Alexander. 27, 78, 113, 158, 230, 264, 281, 347

    Smith, S. C. Kaines. 368, 380

    Smith, Sydney. 70, 78, 124, 227, 325

    Smith, W. C. 96, 200, 258, 259, 345

    Sophocles. 107

    Spartianus. 238

    Spenser, E. 25, 205

    Spencer, Herbert. 101, 103, 291

    Squire, J. C. 141

    Sterling, John. 313

    Sterne, L. 41, 100, 283, 307

    Stephen, J. K. 131, 248

    Stephens, J. B. 55

    Stetson, C. P. 261, 359

    Stevenson, R. L. 51, 81, 229, 255

    Stowe, H. B. 144

    Suckling, Sir John. 362

    Swift, Jonathan. 72

    Swinburne, A. C. 31, 42, 46, 78, 202, 216, 219, 220, 259, 274,
      341, 347


    Tabb, J. B. 85, 187, 316

    Tacitus. 49

    Tamerlane. 338

    Taylor, Jeremy. 197, 252

    Tennyson, A. x, 85, 129, 136, 139, 156, 199, 250, 263, 270, 278,
      282, 290, 302, 329, 352, 356

    Thackeray. 62, 81, 130, 263, 266

    Theobald, L. 337

    Theocritus. 86

    Thomas, E. M. 316

    Thompson, Francis. 11, 93

    Thomson, J. 95, 105, 166, 167, 225, 234

    Thoreau, H. D. 344

    Thucydides. 5

    Trench, H. 82

    Truman, J. 175

    Turner, C. Tennyson. 327

    Tupper, M. 115

    Tyndall, J. 65


    Vaughan, H. 84, 203, 284

    Vaughan, R. A. 188, 282

    Verrall, A. W. 377

    Verrall, Mrs. A. W. 194

    Virgil. 107, 285

    Voltaire. 32, 49, 160


    Waddington, S. 201, 348

    Wallace, A. R. 280, 377

    Waller, E. 72, 240

    Walpole, H. 284

    Warner, C. D. 201, 314, 345

    Waterhouse, E. 142

    Way, A, S. 372

    Wesley, J. 320

    Westbury, F. A. 28

    Westwood, T. 62

    White, J. Blanco. 252

    Whitman, Walt. 360

    Whittier, J. G. 3, 28, 142, 160, 195

    Whyte-Melville, G. J. 324

    Wilberforce, Bishop. 344

    Williamson, F. S. 168

    Wordsworth, W. 1, 29, 40, 45, 82, 90, 97, 109, 122, 125, 135, 138,
      146, 152, 164, 204, 211, 212, 223, 246, 248, 276, 278, 303, 340,
      350, 378

    Wotton, Sir H. 232


    Xenophanes. 128

    Xenophon. 292, 367


    Yeats, W. B. 345

    Younghusband, Sir F. 178


    Zimmermann, J. G. 362

    Zimmern, A. E. 374, 378

PRINTED BY BALDING AND MANSELL, LONDON AND WISBECH.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of My Commonplace Book, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60637 ***