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diff --git a/old/8orts10.zip b/old/8orts10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..01d2487 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8orts10.zip diff --git a/old/9393-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/9393-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b27997d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9393-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,9568 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Dish of Orts, by George Macdonald + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Dish Of Orts, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Dish Of Orts + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9393] +This file was first posted on September 29, 2003 +Last Updated: October 10, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DISH OF ORTS *** + + + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + A DISH OF ORTS + </h1> + <h2> + By George Macdonald + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE. + </h2> + <p> + Since printing throughout the title <i>Orts</i>, a doubt has arisen in my + mind as to its fitting the nature of the volume. It could hardly, however, + be imagined that I associate the idea of <i>worthlessness</i> with the + work contained in it. No one would insult his readers by offering them + what he counted valueless scraps, and telling them they were such. These + papers, those two even which were caught in the net of the ready-writer + from extempore utterance, whatever their merits in themselves; are the + results of by no means trifling labour. So much a man <i>ought</i> to be + able to say for his work. And hence I might defend, if not quite justify + my title—for they are but fragmentary presentments of larger + meditation. My friends at least will accept them as such, whether they + like their collective title or not. + </p> + <p> + The title of the last is not quite suitable. It is that of the religious + newspaper which reported the sermon. I noted the fact too late for + correction. It ought to be <i>True Greatness</i>. + </p> + <p> + The paper on <i>The Fantastic Imagination</i> had its origin in the + repeated request of readers for an explanation of things in certain + shorter stories I had written. It forms the preface to an American edition + of my so-called Fairy Tales. + </p> + <p> + GEORGE MACDONALD. + </p> + <p> + EDENBRIDGE, KENT. <i>August 5, 1893.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE IMAGINATION: ITS FUNCTIONS AND ITS CULTURE. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A SKETCH OF INDIVIDUAL DEVELOPMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ST. GEORGE’S DAY, 1564. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE ART OF SHAKSPERE, AS REVEALED BY HIMSELF. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE ELDER HAMLET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ON POLISH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> BROWNING’S “CHRISTMAS EVE” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ESSAYS ON SOME OF THE FORMS OF LITERATURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE HISTORY AND HEROES OF MEDICINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> WORDSWORTH’S POETRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> SHELLEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> A SERMON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> TRUE CHRISTIAN MINISTERING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE FANTASTIC IMAGINATION </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE IMAGINATION: ITS FUNCTIONS AND ITS CULTURE. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1867.] + </p> + <p> + There are in whose notion education would seem to consist in the + production of a certain repose through the development of this and that + faculty, and the depression, if not eradication, of this and that other + faculty. But if mere repose were the end in view, an unsparing depression + of all the faculties would be the surest means of approaching it, provided + always the animal instincts could be depressed likewise, or, better still, + kept in a state of constant repletion. Happily, however, for the human + race, it possesses in the passion of hunger even, a more immediate saviour + than in the wisest selection and treatment of its faculties. For repose is + not the end of education; its end is a noble unrest, an ever renewed + awaking from the dead, a ceaseless questioning of the past for the + interpretation of the future, an urging on of the motions of life, which + had better far be accelerated into fever, than retarded into lethargy. + </p> + <p> + By those who consider a balanced repose the end of culture, the + imagination must necessarily be regarded as the one faculty before all + others to be suppressed. “Are there not facts?” say they. “Why forsake + them for fancies? Is there not that which, may be <i>known</i>? Why + forsake it for inventions? What God hath made, into that let man inquire.” + </p> + <p> + We answer: To inquire into what God has made is the main function of the + imagination. It is aroused by facts, is nourished by facts; seeks for + higher and yet higher laws in those facts; but refuses to regard science + as the sole interpreter of nature, or the laws of science as the only + region of discovery. + </p> + <p> + We must begin with a definition of the word <i>imagination</i>, or rather + some description of the faculty to which we give the name. + </p> + <p> + The word itself means an <i>imaging</i> or a making of likenesses. The + imagination is that faculty which gives form to thought—not + necessarily uttered form, but form capable of being uttered in shape or in + sound, or in any mode upon which the senses can lay hold. It is, + therefore, that faculty in man which is likest to the prime operation of + the power of God, and has, therefore, been called the <i>creative</i> + faculty, and its exercise <i>creation</i>. <i>Poet</i> means <i>maker</i>. + We must not forget, however, that between creator and poet lies the one + unpassable gulf which distinguishes—far be it from us to say <i>divides</i>—all + that is God’s from all that is man’s; a gulf teeming with infinite + revelations, but a gulf over which no man can pass to find out God, + although God needs not to pass over it to find man; the gulf between that + which calls, and that which is thus called into being; between that which + makes in its own image and that which is made in that image. It is better + to keep the word <i>creation</i> for that calling out of nothing which is + the imagination of God; except it be as an occasional symbolic expression, + whose daring is fully recognized, of the likeness of man’s work to the + work of his maker. The necessary unlikeness between the creator and the + created holds within it the equally necessary likeness of the thing made + to him who makes it, and so of the work of the made to the work of the + maker. When therefore, refusing to employ the word <i>creation</i> of the + work of man, we yet use the word <i>imagination</i> of the work of God, we + cannot be said to dare at all. It is only to give the name of man’s + faculty to that power after which and by which it was fashioned. The + imagination of man is made in the image of the imagination of God. + Everything of man must have been of God first; and it will help much + towards our understanding of the imagination and its functions in man if + we first succeed in regarding aright the imagination of God, in which the + imagination of man lives and moves and has its being. + </p> + <p> + As to <i>what</i> thought is in the mind of God ere it takes form, or what + the form is to him ere he utters it; in a word, what the consciousness of + God is in either case, all we can say is, that our consciousness in the + resembling conditions must, afar off, resemble his. But when we come to + consider the acts embodying the Divine thought (if indeed thought and act + be not with him one and the same), then we enter a region of large + difference. We discover at once, for instance, that where a man would make + a machine, or a picture, or a book, God makes the man that makes the book, + or the picture, or the machine. Would God give us a drama? He makes a + Shakespere. Or would he construct a drama more immediately his own? He + begins with the building of the stage itself, and that stage is a world—a + universe of worlds. He makes the actors, and they do not act,—they + <i>are</i> their part. He utters them into the visible to work out their + life—his drama. When he would have an epic, he sends a thinking hero + into his drama, and the epic is the soliloquy of his Hamlet. Instead of + writing his lyrics, he sets his birds and his maidens a-singing. All the + processes of the ages are God’s science; all the flow of history is his + poetry. His sculpture is not in marble, but in living and speech-giving + forms, which pass away, not to yield place to those that come after, but + to be perfected in a nobler studio. What he has done remains, although it + vanishes; and he never either forgets what he has once done, or does it + even once again. As the thoughts move in the mind of a man, so move the + worlds of men and women in the mind of God, and make no confusion there, + for there they had their birth, the offspring of his imagination. Man is + but a thought of God. + </p> + <p> + If we now consider the so-called creative faculty in man, we shall find + that in no <i>primary</i> sense is this faculty creative. Indeed, a man is + rather <i>being thought</i> than <i>thinking</i>, when a new thought + arises in his mind. He knew it not till he found it there, therefore he + could not even have sent for it. He did not create it, else how could it + be the surprise that it was when it arose? He may, indeed, in rare + instances foresee that something is coming, and make ready the place for + its birth; but that is the utmost relation of consciousness and will he + can bear to the dawning idea. Leaving this aside, however, and turning to + the <i>embodiment</i> or revelation of thought, we shall find that a man + no more <i>creates</i> the forms by which he would reveal his thoughts, + than he creates those thoughts themselves. + </p> + <p> + For what are the forms by means of which a man may reveal his thoughts? + Are they not those of nature? But although he is created in the closest + sympathy with these forms, yet even these forms are not born in his mind. + What springs there is the perception that this or that form is already an + expression of this or that phase of thought or of feeling. For the world + around him is an outward figuration of the condition of his mind; an + inexhaustible storehouse of forms whence he may choose exponents—the + crystal pitchers that shall protect his thought and not need to be broken + that the light may break forth. The meanings are in those forms already, + else they could be no garment of unveiling. God has made the world that it + should thus serve his creature, developing in the service that imagination + whose necessity it meets. The man has but to light the lamp within the + form: his imagination is the light, it is not the form. Straightway the + shining thought makes the form visible, and becomes itself visible through + the form. [Footnote: We would not be understood to say that the man works + consciously even in this. Oftentimes, if not always, the vision arises in + the mind, thought and form together.] + </p> + <p> + In illustration of what we mean, take a passage from the poet Shelley. + </p> + <p> + In his poem <i>Adonais</i>, written upon the death of Keats, representing + death as the revealer of secrets, he says:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The one remains; the many change and pass; + Heaven’s light for ever shines; earth’s shadows fly; + Life, like a dome of many coloured glass, + Stains the white radiance of eternity, + Until death tramples it to fragments.” + </pre> + <p> + This is a new embodiment, certainly, whence he who gains not, for the + moment at least, a loftier feeling of death, must be dull either of heart + or of understanding. But has Shelley created this figure, or only put + together its parts according to the harmony of truths already embodied in + each of the parts? For first he takes the inventions of his fellow-men, in + glass, in colour, in dome: with these he represents life as finite though + elevated, and as an analysis although a lovely one. Next he presents + eternity as the dome of the sky above this dome of coloured glass—the + sky having ever been regarded as the true symbol of eternity. This portion + of the figure he enriches by the attribution of whiteness, or unity and + radiance. And last, he shows us Death as the destroying revealer, walking + aloft through, the upper region, treading out this life-bubble of colours, + that the man may look beyond it and behold the true, the uncoloured, the + all-coloured. + </p> + <p> + But although the human imagination has no choice but to make use of the + forms already prepared for it, its operation is the same as that of the + divine inasmuch as it does put thought into form. And if it be to man what + creation is to God, we must expect to find it operative in every sphere of + human activity. Such is, indeed, the fact, and that to a far greater + extent than is commonly supposed. + </p> + <p> + The sovereignty of the imagination, for instance, over the region of + poetry will hardly, in the present day at least, be questioned; but not + every one is prepared to be told that the imagination has had nearly as + much to do with the making of our language as with “Macbeth” or the + “Paradise Lost.” The half of our language is the work of the imagination. + </p> + <p> + For how shall two agree together what name they shall give to a thought or + a feeling. How shall the one show the other that which is invisible? True, + he can unveil the mind’s construction in the face—that living + eternally changeful symbol which God has hung in front of the unseen + spirit—but that without words reaches only to the expression of + present feeling. To attempt to employ it alone for the conveyance of the + intellectual or the historical would constantly mislead; while the + expression of feeling itself would be misinterpreted, especially with + regard to cause and object: the dumb show would be worse than dumb. + </p> + <p> + But let a man become aware of some new movement within him. Loneliness + comes with it, for he would share his mind with his friend, and he cannot; + he is shut up in speechlessness. Thus + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He <i>may</i> live a man forbid + Weary seven nights nine times nine, +</pre> + <p> + or the first moment of his perplexity may be that of his release. Gazing + about him in pain, he suddenly beholds the material form of his immaterial + condition. There stands his thought! God thought it before him, and put + its picture there ready for him when he wanted it. Or, to express the + thing more prosaically, the man cannot look around him long without + perceiving some form, aspect, or movement of nature, some relation between + its forms, or between such and himself which resembles the state or motion + within him. This he seizes as the symbol, as the garment or body of his + invisible thought, presents it to his friend, and his friend understands + him. Every word so employed with a new meaning is henceforth, in its new + character, born of the spirit and not of the flesh, born of the + imagination and not of the understanding, and is henceforth submitted to + new laws of growth and modification. + </p> + <p> + “Thinkest thou,” says Carlyle in “Past and Present,” “there were no poets + till Dan Chaucer? No heart burning with a thought which it could not hold, + and had no word for; and needed to shape and coin a word for—what + thou callest a metaphor, trope, or the like? For every word we have there + was such a man and poet. The coldest word was once a glowing new metaphor + and bold questionable originality. Thy very ATTENTION, does it not mean an + <i>attentio</i>, a STRETCHING-TO? Fancy that act of the mind, which all + were conscious of, which none had yet named,—when this new poet + first felt bound and driven to name it. His questionable originality and + new glowing metaphor was found adoptable, intelligible, and remains our + name for it to this day.” + </p> + <p> + All words, then, belonging to the inner world of the mind, are of the + imagination, are originally poetic words. The better, however, any such + word is fitted for the needs of humanity, the sooner it loses its poetic + aspect by commonness of use. It ceases to be heard as a symbol, and + appears only as a sign. Thus thousands of words which were originally + poetic words owing their existence to the imagination, lose their + vitality, and harden into mummies of prose. Not merely in literature does + poetry come first, and prose afterwards, but poetry is the source of all + the language that belongs to the inner world, whether it be of passion or + of metaphysics, of psychology or of aspiration. No poetry comes by the + elevation of prose; but the half of prose comes by the “massing into the + common clay” of thousands of winged words, whence, like the lovely shells + of by-gone ages, one is occasionally disinterred by some lover of speech, + and held up to the light to show the play of colour in its manifold + laminations. + </p> + <p> + For the world is—allow us the homely figure—the human being + turned inside out. All that moves in the mind is symbolized in Nature. Or, + to use another more philosophical, and certainly not less poetic figure, + the world is a sensuous analysis of humanity, and hence an inexhaustible + wardrobe for the clothing of human thought. Take any word expressive of + emotion—take the word <i>emotion</i> itself—and you will find + that its primary meaning is of the outer world. In the swaying of the + woods, in the unrest of the “wavy plain,” the imagination saw the picture + of a well-known condition of the human mind; and hence the word <i>emotion</i>. + [Footnote: This passage contains only a repetition of what is far better + said in the preceding extract from Carlyle, but it was written before we + had read (if reviewers may be allowed to confess such ignorance) the book + from which that extract is taken.] + </p> + <p> + But while the imagination of man has thus the divine function of putting + thought into form, it has a duty altogether human, which is paramount to + that function—the duty, namely, which springs from his immediate + relation to the Father, that of following and finding out the divine + imagination in whose image it was made. To do this, the man must watch its + signs, its manifestations. He must contemplate what the Hebrew poets call + the works of His hands. + </p> + <p> + “But to follow those is the province of the intellect, not of the + imagination.”—We will leave out of the question at present that + poetic interpretation of the works of Nature with which the intellect has + almost nothing, and the imagination almost everything, to do. It is + unnecessary to insist that the higher being of a flower even is dependent + for its reception upon the human imagination; that science may pull the + snowdrop to shreds, but cannot find out the idea of suffering hope and + pale confident submission, for the sake of which that darling of the + spring looks out of heaven, namely, God’s heart, upon us his wiser and + more sinful children; for if there be any truth in this region of things + acknowledged at all, it will be at the same time acknowledged that that + region belongs to the imagination. We confine ourselves to that + questioning of the works of God which is called the province of science. + </p> + <p> + “Shall, then, the human intellect,” we ask, “come into readier contact + with the divine imagination than that human imagination?” The work of the + Higher must be discovered by the search of the Lower in degree which is + yet similar in kind. Let us not be supposed to exclude the intellect from + a share in every highest office. Man is not divided when the + manifestations of his life are distinguished. The intellect “is all in + every part.” There were no imagination without intellect, however much it + may appear that intellect can exist without imagination. What we mean to + insist upon is, that in finding out the works of God, the Intellect must + labour, workman-like, under the direction of the architect, Imagination. + Herein, too, we proceed in the hope to show how much more than is commonly + supposed the imagination has to do with human endeavour; how large a share + it has in the work that is done under the sun. + </p> + <p> + “But how can the imagination have anything to do with science? That + region, at least, is governed by fixed laws.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” we answer. “But how much do we know of these laws? How much of + science already belongs to the region of the ascertained—in other + words, has been conquered by the intellect? We will not now dispute, your + vindication of the <i>ascertained</i> from the intrusion of the + imagination; but we do claim for it all the undiscovered, all the + unexplored.” “Ah, well! There it can do little harm. There let it run riot + if you will.” “No,” we reply. “Licence is not what we claim when we assert + the duty of the imagination to be that of following and finding out the + work that God maketh. Her part is to understand God ere she attempts to + utter man. Where is the room for being fanciful or riotous here? It is + only the ill-bred, that is, the uncultivated imagination that will amuse + itself where it ought to worship and work.” + </p> + <p> + “But the facts of Nature are to be discovered only by observation and + experiment.” True. But how does the man of science come to think of his + experiments? Does observation reach to the non-present, the possible, the + yet unconceived? Even if it showed you the experiments which <i>ought</i> + to be made, will observation reveal to you the experiments which <i>might</i> + be made? And who can tell of which kind is the one that carries in its + bosom the secret of the law you seek? We yield you your facts. The laws we + claim for the prophetic imagination. “He hath set the world <i>in</i> + man’s heart,” not in his understanding. And the heart must open the door + to the understanding. It is the far-seeing imagination which beholds what + might be a form of things, and says to the intellect: “Try whether that + may not be the form of these things;” which beholds or invents <i>a</i> + harmonious relation of parts and operations, and sends the intellect to + find out whether that be not <i>the</i> harmonious relation of them—that + is, the law of the phenomenon it contemplates. Nay, the poetic relations + themselves in the phenomenon may suggest to the imagination the law that + rules its scientific life. Yea, more than this: we dare to claim for the + true, childlike, humble imagination, such an inward oneness with the laws + of the universe that it possesses in itself an insight into the very + nature of things. + </p> + <p> + Lord Bacon tells us that a prudent question is the half of knowledge. + Whence comes this prudent question? we repeat. And we answer, From the + imagination. It is the imagination that suggests in what direction to make + the new inquiry—which, should it cast no immediate light on the + answer sought, can yet hardly fail to be a step towards final discovery. + Every experiment has its origin in hypothesis; without the scaffolding of + hypothesis, the house of science could never arise. And the construction + of any hypothesis whatever is the work of the imagination. The man who + cannot invent will never discover. The imagination often gets a glimpse of + the law itself long before it is or can be <i>ascertained</i> to be a law. + [Footnote: This paper was already written when, happening to mention the + present subject to a mathematical friend, a lecturer at one of the + universities, he gave us a corroborative instance. He had lately <i>guessed</i> + that a certain algebraic process could be shortened exceedingly if the + method which his imagination suggested should prove to be a true one—that + is, an algebraic law. He put it to the test of experiment—committed + the verification, that is, into the hands of his intellect—and found + the method true. It has since been accepted by the Royal Society. + </p> + <p> + Noteworthy illustration we have lately found in the record of the + experiences of an Edinburgh detective, an Irishman of the name of McLevy. + That the service of the imagination in the solution of the problems + peculiar to his calling is well known to him, we could adduce many proofs. + He recognizes its function in the construction of the theory which shall + unite this and that hint into an organic whole, and he expressly sets + forth the need of a theory before facts can be serviceable:— + </p> + <p> + “I would wait for my ‘idea’.... I never did any good without mine.... + Chance never smiled on me unless I poked her some way; so that my + ‘notion,’ after all, has been in the getting of it my own work only + perfected by a higher hand.” + </p> + <p> + “On leaving the shop I went direct to Prince’s Street,—of course + with an idea in my mind; and somehow I have always been contented with one + idea when I could not get another; and the advantage of sticking by one + is, that the other don’t jostle it and turn you about in a circle when you + should go in a straight line.” (Footnote: Since quoting the above I have + learned that the book referred to is unworthy of confidence. But let it + stand as illustration where it cannot be proof.)] + </p> + <p> + The region belonging to the pure intellect is straitened: the imagination + labours to extend its territories, to give it room. She sweeps across the + borders, searching out new lands into which she may guide her plodding + brother. The imagination is the light which redeems from the darkness for + the eyes of the understanding. Novalis says, “The imagination is the stuff + of the intellect”—affords, that is, the material upon which the + intellect works. And Bacon, in his “Advancement of Learning,” fully + recognizes this its office, corresponding to the foresight of God in this, + that it beholds afar off. And he says: “Imagination is much akin to + miracle-working faith.” [Footnote: We are sorry we cannot verify this + quotation, for which we are indebted to Mr. Oldbuck the Antiquary, in the + novel of that ilk. There is, however, little room for doubt that it is + sufficiently correct.] + </p> + <p> + In the scientific region of her duty of which we speak, the Imagination + cannot have her perfect work; this belongs to another and higher sphere + than that of intellectual truth—that, namely, of full-globed + humanity, operating in which she gives birth to poetry—truth in + beauty. But her function in the complete sphere of our nature, will, at + the same time, influence her more limited operation in the sections that + belong to science. Coleridge says that no one but a poet will make any + further <i>great</i> discoveries in mathematics; and Bacon says that + “wonder,” that faculty of the mind especially attendant on the child-like + imagination, “is the seed of knowledge.” The influence of the poetic upon + the scientific imagination is, for instance, especially present in the + construction of an invisible whole from the hints afforded by a visible + part; where the needs of the part, its uselessness, its broken relations, + are the only guides to a multiplex harmony, completeness, and end, which + is the whole. From a little bone, worn with ages of death, older than the + man can think, his scientific imagination dashed with the poetic, calls up + the form, size, habits, periods, belonging to an animal never beheld by + human eyes, even to the mingling contrasts of scales and wings, of + feathers and hair. Through the combined lenses of science and imagination, + we look back into ancient times, so dreadful in their incompleteness, that + it may well have been the task of seraphic faith, as well as of cherubic + imagination, to behold in the wallowing monstrosities of the + terror-teeming earth, the prospective, quiet, age-long labour of God + preparing the world with all its humble, graceful service for his unborn + Man. The imagination of the poet, on the other hand, dashed with the + imagination of the man of science, revealed to Goethe the prophecy of the + flower in the leaf. No other than an artistic imagination, however, + fulfilled of science, could have attained to the discovery of the fact + that the leaf is the imperfect flower. + </p> + <p> + When we turn to history, however, we find probably the greatest operative + sphere of the intellectuo-constructive imagination. To discover its laws; + the cycles in which events return, with the reasons of their return, + recognizing them notwithstanding metamorphosis; to perceive the vital + motions of this spiritual body of mankind; to learn from its facts the + rule of God; to construct from a succession of broken indications a whole + accordant with human nature; to approach a scheme of the forces at work, + the passions overwhelming or upheaving, the aspirations securely + upraising, the selfishnesses debasing and crumbling, with the vital + interworking of the whole; to illuminate all from the analogy with + individual life, and from the predominant phases of individual character + which are taken as the mind of the people—this is the province of + the imagination. Without her influence no process of recording events can + develop into a history. As truly might that be called the description of a + volcano which occupied itself with a delineation of the shapes assumed by + the smoke expelled from the mountain’s burning bosom. What history becomes + under the full sway of the imagination may be seen in the “History of the + French Revolution,” by Thomas Carlyle, at once a true picture, a + philosophical revelation, a noble poem. + </p> + <p> + There is a wonderful passage about <i>Time</i> in Shakespere’s “Rape of + Lucrece,” which shows how he understood history. The passage is really + about history, and not about time; for time itself does nothing—not + even “blot old books and alter their contents.” It is the forces at work + in time that produce all the changes; and they are history. We quote for + the sake of one line chiefly, but the whole stanza is pertinent. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Time’s glory is to calm contending kings, + To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light, + To stamp the seal of time in aged things, + To wake the morn and sentinel the night, + <i>To wrong the wronger till he render right;</i> + To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, + And smear with dust their glittering golden towers.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>To wrong the wronger till he render right.</i> Here is a historical + cycle worthy of the imagination of Shakespere, yea, worthy of the creative + imagination of our God—the God who made the Shakespere with the + imagination, as well as evolved the history from the laws which that + imagination followed and found out. + </p> + <p> + In full instance we would refer our readers to Shakespere’s historical + plays; and, as a side-illustration, to the fact that he repeatedly + represents his greatest characters, when at the point of death, as + relieving their overcharged minds by prophecy. Such prophecy is the result + of the light of imagination, cleared of all distorting dimness by the + vanishing of earthly hopes and desires, cast upon the facts of experience. + Such prophecy is the perfect working of the historical imagination. + </p> + <p> + In the interpretation of individual life, the same principles hold; and + nowhere can the imagination be more healthily and rewardingly occupied + than in endeavouring to construct the life of an individual out of the + fragments which are all that can reach us of the history of even the + noblest of our race. How this will apply to the reading of the gospel + story we leave to the earnest thought of our readers. + </p> + <p> + We now pass to one more sphere in which the student imagination works in + glad freedom—the sphere which is understood to belong more + immediately to the poet. + </p> + <p> + We have already said that the forms of Nature (by which word <i>forms</i> + we mean any of those conditions of Nature which affect the senses of man) + are so many approximate representations of the mental conditions of + humanity. The outward, commonly called the material, is <i>informed</i> + by, or has form in virtue of, the inward or immaterial—in a word, + the thought. The forms of Nature are the representations of human thought + in virtue of their being the embodiment of God’s thought. As such, + therefore, they can be read and used to any depth, shallow or profound. + Men of all ages and all developments have discovered in them the means of + expression; and the men of ages to come, before us in every path along + which we are now striving, must likewise find such means in those forms, + unfolding with their unfolding necessities. The man, then, who, in harmony + with nature, attempts the discovery of more of her meanings, is just + searching out the things of God. The deepest of these are far too simple + for us to understand as yet. But let our imagination interpretive reveal + to us one severed significance of one of her parts, and such is the + harmony of the whole, that all the realm of Nature is open to us + henceforth—not without labour—and in time. Upon the man who + can understand the human meaning of the snowdrop, of the primrose, or of + the daisy, the life of the earth blossoming into the cosmical flower of a + perfect moment will one day seize, possessing him with its prophetic hope, + arousing his conscience with the vision of the “rest that remaineth,” and + stirring up the aspiration to enter into that rest: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! + But long as godlike wish, or hope divine, + Informs my spirit, ne’er can I believe + That this magnificence is wholly thine! + —From worlds not quickened by the sun + A portion of the gift is won; + An intermingling of Heaven’s pomp is spread + On ground which British shepherds tread!” + </pre> + <p> + Even the careless curve of a frozen cloud across the blue will calm some + troubled thoughts, may slay some selfish thoughts. And what shall be said + of such gorgeous shows as the scarlet poppies in the green corn, the + likest we have to those lilies of the field which spoke to the Saviour + himself of the care of God, and rejoiced His eyes with the glory of their + God-devised array? From such visions as these the imagination reaps the + best fruits of the earth, for the sake of which all the science involved + in its construction, is the inferior, yet willing and beautiful support. + </p> + <p> + From what we have now advanced, will it not then appear that, on the + whole, the name given by our Norman ancestors is more fitting for the man + who moves in these regions than the name given by the Greeks? Is not the + <i>Poet</i>, the <i>Maker</i>, a less suitable name for him than the <i>Trouvère</i>, + the <i>Finder</i>? At least, must not the faculty that finds precede the + faculty that utters? + </p> + <p> + But is there nothing to be said of the function of the imagination from + the Greek side of the question? Does it possess no creative faculty? Has + it no originating power? + </p> + <p> + Certainly it would be a poor description of the Imagination which omitted + the one element especially present to the mind that invented the word <i>Poet</i>.—It + can present us with new thought-forms—new, that is, as revelations + of thought. It has created none of the material that goes to make these + forms. Nor does it work upon raw material. But it takes forms already + existing, and gathers them about a thought so much higher than they, that + it can group and subordinate and harmonize them into a whole which shall + represent, unveil that thought. [Footnote: Just so Spenser describes the + process of the embodiment of a human soul in his Platonic “Hymn in Honour + of Beauty.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She frames her house in which she will be placed + Fit for herself.... + And the gross matter by a sovereign might + Tempers so trim.... + For of the soul the body form doth take; + For soul is form, and doth the body make.”] +</pre> + <p> + The nature of this process we will illustrate by an examination of the + well-known <i>Bugle Song</i> in Tennyson’s “Princess.” + </p> + <p> + First of all, there is the new music of the song, which does not even + remind one of the music of any other. The rhythm, rhyme, melody, harmony + are all an embodiment in sound, as distinguished from word, of what can be + so embodied—the <i>feeling</i> of the poem, which goes before, and + prepares the way for the following thought—tunes the heart into a + receptive harmony. Then comes the new arrangement of thought and figure + whereby the meaning contained is presented as it never was before. We give + a sort of paraphrastical synopsis of the poem, which, partly in virtue of + its disagreeableness, will enable the lovers of the song to return to it + with an increase of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + The glory of midsummer mid-day upon mountain, lake, and ruin. Give nature + a voice for her gladness. Blow, bugle. + </p> + <p> + Nature answers with dying echoes, sinking in the midst of her splendour + into a sad silence. + </p> + <p> + Not so with human nature. The echoes of the word of truth gather volume + and richness from every soul that re-echoes it to brother and sister + souls. + </p> + <p> + With poets the <i>fashion</i> has been to contrast the stability and + rejuvenescence of nature with the evanescence and unreturning decay of + humanity:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet soon reviving plants and flowers, anew shall deck the plain; + The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, and flourish green again. + But man forsakes this earthly scene, ah! never to return: + Shall any following Spring revive the ashes of the urn?” + </pre> + <p> + But our poet vindicates the eternal in humanity:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow for ever and for ever. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; + And answer, echoes, answer, Dying, dying, dying.” + </pre> + <p> + Is not this a new form to the thought—a form which makes us feel the + truth of it afresh? And every new embodiment of a known truth must be a + new and wider revelation. No man is capable of seeing for himself the + whole of any truth: he needs it echoed back to him from every soul in the + universe; and still its centre is hid in the Father of Lights. In so far, + then, as either form or thought is new, we may grant the use of the word + Creation, modified according to our previous definitions. + </p> + <p> + This operation of the imagination in choosing, gathering, and vitally + combining the material of a new revelation, may be well illustrated from a + certain employment of the poetic faculty in which our greatest poets have + delighted. Perceiving truth half hidden and half revealed in the slow + speech and stammering tongue of men who have gone before them, they have + taken up the unfinished form and completed it; they have, as it were, + rescued the soul of meaning from its prison of uninformed crudity, where + it sat like the Prince in the “Arabian Nights,” half man, half marble; + they have set it free in its own form, in a shape, namely, which it could + “through every part impress.” Shakespere’s keen eye suggested many such a + rescue from the tomb—of a tale drearily told—a tale which no + one now would read save for the glorified form in which he has re-embodied + its true contents. And from Tennyson we can produce one specimen small + enough for our use, which, a mere chip from the great marble re-embodying + the old legend of Arthur’s death, may, like the hand of Achilles holding + his spear in the crowded picture, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Stand for the whole to be imagined.” + </pre> + <p> + In the “History of Prince Arthur,” when Sir Bedivere returns after hiding + Excalibur the first time, the king asks him what he has seen, and he + answers— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sir, I saw nothing but waves and wind.” + </pre> + <p> + The second time, to the same question, he answers— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sir, I saw nothing but the water<a href="#linknote-1" name="linknoteref-1" + id="linknoteref-1">1</a> wap, and the waves wan.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="linknote-1" id="linknote-1"> + <!-- Note --></a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 1 (<a href="#linknoteref-1">return</a>)<br /> [ The word <i>wap</i> is + plain enough; the word <i>wan</i> we cannot satisfy ourselves about. Had + it been used with regard to the water, it might have been worth remarking + that <i>wan</i>, meaning dark, gloomy, turbid, is a common adjective to a + river in the old Scotch ballad. And it might be an adjective here; but + that is not likely, seeing it is conjoined with the verb <i>wap</i>. The + Anglo-Saxon <i>wanian</i>, to decrease, might be the root-word, perhaps, + (in the sense of <i>to ebb</i>,) if this water had been the sea and not a + lake. But possibly the meaning is, “I heard the water <i>whoop</i> or <i>wail + aloud</i>” (from <i>Wópan</i>); and “the waves <i>whine</i> or <i>bewail</i>” + (from <i>Wánian</i> to lament). But even then the two verbs would seem to + predicate of transposed subjects.] + </p> + <p> + This answer Tennyson has expanded into the well-known lines— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, + And the wild water lapping on the crag;” + </pre> + <p> + slightly varied, for the other occasion, into— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I heard the water lapping on the crag, + And the long ripple washing in the reeds.” + </pre> + <p> + But, as to this matter of <i>creation</i>, is there, after all, I ask yet, + any genuine sense in which a man may be said to create his own + thought-forms? Allowing that a new combination of forms already existing + might be called creation, is the man, after all, the author of this new + combination? Did he, with his will and his knowledge, proceed wittingly, + consciously, to construct a form which should embody his thought? Or did + this form arise within him without will or effort of his—vivid if + not clear—certain if not outlined? Ruskin (and better authority we + do not know) will assert the latter, and we think he is right: though + perhaps he would insist more upon the absolute perfection of the vision + than we are quite prepared to do. Such embodiments are not the result of + the man’s intention, or of the operation of his conscious nature. His + feeling is that they are given to him; that from the vast unknown, where + time and space are not, they suddenly appear in luminous writing upon the + wall of his consciousness. Can it be correct, then, to say that he created + them? Nothing less so, as it seems to us. But can we not say that they are + the creation of the unconscious portion of his nature? Yes, provided we + can understand that that which is the individual, the man, can know, and + not know that it knows, can create and yet be ignorant that virtue has + gone out of it. From that unknown region we grant they come, but not by + its own blind working. Nor, even were it so, could any amount of such + production, where no will was concerned, be dignified with the name of + creation. But God sits in that chamber of our being in which the candle of + our consciousness goes out in darkness, and sends forth from thence + wonderful gifts into the light of that understanding which is His candle. + Our hope lies in no most perfect mechanism even of the spirit, but in the + wisdom wherein we live and move and have our being. Thence we hope for + endless forms of beauty informed of truth. If the dark portion of our own + being were the origin of our imaginations, we might well fear the + apparition of such monsters as would be generated in the sickness of a + decay which could never feel—only declare—a slow return + towards primeval chaos. But the Maker is our Light. + </p> + <p> + One word more, ere we turn to consider the culture of this noblest + faculty, which we might well call the creative, did we not see a something + in God for which we would humbly keep our mighty word:—the fact that + there is always more in a work of art—which is the highest human + result of the embodying imagination—than the producer himself + perceived while he produced it, seems to us a strong reason for + attributing to it a larger origin than the man alone—for saying at + the last, that the inspiration of the Almighty shaped its ends. + </p> + <p> + We return now to the class which, from the first, we supposed hostile to + the imagination and its functions generally. Those belonging to it will + now say: “It was to no imagination such as you have been setting forth + that we were opposed, but to those wild fancies and vague reveries in + which young people indulge, to the damage and loss of the real in the + world around them.” + </p> + <p> + “And,” we insist, “you would rectify the matter by smothering the young + monster at once—because he has wings, and, young to their use, + flutters them about in a way discomposing to your nerves, and destructive + to those notions of propriety of which this creature—you stop not to + inquire whether angel or pterodactyle—has not yet learned even the + existence. Or, if it is only the creature’s vagaries of which you + disapprove, why speak of them as <i>the</i> exercise of the imagination? + As well speak of religion as the mother of cruelty because religion has + given more occasion of cruelty, as of all dishonesty and devilry, than any + other object of human interest. Are we not to worship, because our + forefathers burned and stabbed for religion? It is more religion we want. + It is more imagination we need. Be assured that these are but the first + vital motions of that whose results, at least in the region of science, + you are more than willing to accept.” That evil may spring from the + imagination, as from everything except the perfect love of God, cannot be + denied. But infinitely worse evils would be the result of its absence. + Selfishness, avarice, sensuality, cruelty, would flourish tenfold; and the + power of Satan would be well established ere some children had begun to + choose. Those who would quell the apparently lawless tossing of the + spirit, called the youthful imagination, would suppress all that is to + grow out of it. They fear the enthusiasm they never felt; and instead of + cherishing this divine thing, instead of giving it room and air for + healthful growth, they would crush and confine it—with but one + result of their victorious endeavours—imposthume, fever, and + corruption. And the disastrous consequences would soon appear in the + intellect likewise which they worship. Kill that whence spring the crude + fancies and wild day-dreams of the young, and you will never lead them + beyond dull facts—dull because their relations to each other, and + the one life that works in them all, must remain undiscovered. Whoever + would have his children avoid this arid region will do well to allow no + teacher to approach them—not even of mathematics—who has no + imagination. + </p> + <p> + “But although good results may appear in a few from the indulgence of the + imagination, how will it be with the many?” + </p> + <p> + We answer that the antidote to indulgence is development, not restraint, + and that such is the duty of the wise servant of Him who made the + imagination. + </p> + <p> + “But will most girls, for instance, rise to those useful uses of the + imagination? Are they not more likely to exercise it in building castles + in the air to the neglect of houses on the earth? And as the world affords + such poor scope for the ideal, will not this habit breed vain desires and + vain regrets? Is it not better, therefore, to keep to that which is known, + and leave the rest?” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Is the world so poor?” we ask in return. The less reason, then, to be +satisfied with it; the more reason to rise above it, into the region of +the true, of the eternal, of things as God thinks them. This outward +world is but a passing vision of the persistent true. We shall not live +in it always. We are dwellers in a divine universe where no desires are +in vain, if only they be large enough. Not even in this world do all +disappointments breed only vain regrets. [Footnote: + “We will grieve not, rather find + Strength in what remains behind; + In the primal sympathy + Which, having been, must ever be; + In the soothing thoughts that spring + Out of human suffering; + In the faith that looks through death, + In years that bring the philosophic mind.”] +</pre> + <p> + And as to keeping to that which is known and leaving the rest—how + many affairs of this world are so well-defined, so capable of being + clearly understood, as not to leave large spaces of uncertainty, whose + very correlate faculty is the imagination? Indeed it must, in most things, + work after some fashion, filling the gaps after some possible plan, before + action can even begin. In very truth, a wise imagination, which is the + presence of the spirit of God, is the best guide that man or woman can + have; for it is not the things we see the most clearly that influence us + the most powerfully; undefined, yet vivid visions of something beyond, + something which eye has not seen nor ear heard, have far more influence + than any logical sequences whereby the same things may be demonstrated to + the intellect. It is the nature of the thing, not the clearness of its + outline, that determines its operation. We live by faith, and not by + sight. Put the question to our mathematicians—only be sure the + question reaches them—whether they would part with the well-defined + perfection of their diagrams, or the dim, strange, possibly + half-obliterated characters woven in the web of their being; their + science, in short, or their poetry; their certainties, or their hopes; + their consciousness of knowledge, or their vague sense of that which + cannot be known absolutely: will they hold by their craft or by their + inspirations, by their intellects or their imaginations? If they say the + former in each alternative, I shall yet doubt whether the objects of the + choice are actually before them, and with equal presentation. + </p> + <p> + What can be known must be known severely; but is there, therefore, no + faculty for those infinite lands of uncertainty lying all about the sphere + hollowed out of the dark by the glimmering lamp of our knowledge? Are they + not the natural property of the imagination? there, <i>for</i> it, that it + may have room to grow? there, that the man may learn to imagine greatly + like God who made him, himself discovering their mysteries, in virtue of + his following and worshipping imagination? + </p> + <p> + All that has been said, then, tends to enforce the culture of the + imagination. But the strongest argument of all remains behind. For, if the + whole power of pedantry should rise against her, the imagination will yet + work; and if not for good, then for evil; if not for truth, then for + falsehood; if not for life, then for death; the evil alternative becoming + the more likely from the unnatural treatment she has experienced from + those who ought to have fostered her. The power that might have gone forth + in conceiving the noblest forms of action, in realizing the lives of the + true-hearted, the self-forgetting, will go forth in building airy castles + of vain ambition, of boundless riches, of unearned admiration. The + imagination that might be devising how to make home blessed or to help the + poor neighbour, will be absorbed in the invention of the new dress, or + worse, in devising the means of procuring it. For, if she be not occupied + with the beautiful, she will be occupied by the pleasant; that which goes + not out to worship, will remain at home to be sensual. Cultivate the mere + intellect as you may, it will never reduce the passions: the imagination, + seeking the ideal in everything, will elevate them to their true and noble + service. Seek not that your sons and your daughters should not see + visions, should not dream dreams; seek that they should see true visions, + that they should dream noble dreams. Such out-going of the imagination is + one with aspiration, and will do more to elevate above what is low and + vile than all possible inculcations of morality. Nor can religion herself + ever rise up into her own calm home, her crystal shrine, when one of her + wings, one of the twain with which she flies, is thus broken or paralyzed. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The universe is infinitely wide, + And conquering Reason, if self-glorified, + Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall + Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone, + Imaginative Faith! canst overleap, + In progress towards the fount of love.” + </pre> + <p> + The danger that lies in the repression of the imagination may be well + illustrated from the play of “Macbeth.” The imagination of the hero (in + him a powerful faculty), representing how the deed would appear to others, + and so representing its true nature to himself, was his great impediment + on the path to crime. Nor would he have succeeded in reaching it, had he + not gone to his wife for help—sought refuge from his troublesome + imagination with her. She, possessing far less of the faculty, and having + dealt more destructively with what she had, took his hand, and led him to + the deed. From her imagination, again, she for her part takes refuge in + unbelief and denial, declaring to herself and her husband that there is no + reality in its representations; that there is no reality in anything + beyond the present effect it produces on the mind upon which it operates; + that intellect and courage are equal to any, even an evil emergency; and + that no harm will come to those who can rule themselves according to their + own will. Still, however, finding her imagination, and yet more that of + her husband, troublesome, she effects a marvellous combination of + materialism and idealism, and asserts that things are not, cannot be, and + shall not be more or other than people choose to think them. She says,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “These deeds must not be thought + After these ways; so, it will make us mad.” + + “The sleeping and the dead + Are but as pictures.” + </pre> + <p> + But she had over-estimated the power of her will, and under-estimated that + of her imagination. Her will was the one thing in her that was bad, + without root or support in the universe, while her imagination was the + voice of God himself out of her own unknown being. The choice of no man or + woman can long determine how or what he or she shall think of things. Lady + Macbeth’s imagination would not be repressed beyond its appointed period—a + time determined by laws of her being over which she had no control. It + arose, at length, as from the dead, overshadowing her with all the + blackness of her crime. The woman who drank strong drink that she might + murder, dared not sleep without a light by her bed; rose and walked in the + night, a sleepless spirit in a sleeping body, rubbing the spotted hand of + her dreams, which, often as water had cleared it of the deed, yet smelt so + in her sleeping nostrils, that all the perfumes of Arabia would not + sweeten it. Thus her long down-trodden imagination rose and took + vengeance, even through those senses which she had thought to subordinate + to her wicked will. + </p> + <p> + But all this is of the imagination itself, and fitter, therefore, for + illustration than for argument. Let us come to facts.—Dr. Pritchard, + lately executed for murder, had no lack of that invention, which is, as it + were, the intellect of the imagination—its lowest form. One of the + clergymen who, at his own request, attended the prisoner, went through + indescribable horrors in the vain endeavour to induce the man simply to + cease from lying: one invention after another followed the most earnest + asseverations of truth. The effect produced upon us by this clergyman’s + report of his experience was a moral dismay, such as we had never felt + with regard to human being, and drew from us the exclamation, “The man + could have had no imagination.” The reply was, “None whatever.” Never + seeking true or high things, caring only for appearances, and, therefore, + for inventions, he had left his imagination all undeveloped, and when it + represented his own inner condition to him, had repressed it until it was + nearly destroyed, and what remained of it was set on fire of hell. + [Footnote: One of the best weekly papers in London, evidently as much in + ignorance of the man as of the facts of the case, spoke of Dr. MacLeod as + having been engaged in “white-washing the murderer for heaven.” So far is + this from a true representation, that Dr. MacLeod actually refused to pray + with him, telling him that if there was a hell to go to, he must go to + it.] + </p> + <p> + Man is “the roof and crown of things.” He is the world, and more. + Therefore the chief scope of his imagination, next to God who made him, + will he the world in relation to his own life therein. Will he do better + or worse in it if this imagination, touched to fine issues and having free + scope, present him with noble pictures of relationship and duty, of + possible elevation of character and attainable justice of behaviour, of + friendship and of love; and, above all, of all these in that life to + understand which as a whole, must ever be the loftiest aspiration of this + noblest power of humanity? Will a woman lead a more or a less troubled + life that the sights and sounds of nature break through the crust of + gathering anxiety, and remind her of the peace of the lilies and the + well-being of the birds of the air? Or will life be less interesting to + her, that the lives of her neighbours, instead of passing like shadows + upon a wall, assume a consistent wholeness, forming themselves into + stories and phases of life? Will she not hereby love more and talk less? + Or will she be more unlikely to make a good match——? But here + we arrest ourselves in bewilderment over the word <i>good</i>, and seek to + re-arrange our thoughts. If what mothers mean by a <i>good</i> match, is + the alliance of a man of position and means—or let them throw + intellect, manners, and personal advantages into the same scale—if + this be all, then we grant the daughter of cultivated imagination may not + be manageable, will probably be obstinate. “We hope she will be obstinate + enough. [Footnote: Let women who feel the wrongs of their kind teach women + to be high-minded in their relation to men, and they will do more for the + social elevation of women, and the establishment of their rights, whatever + those rights may be, than by any amount of intellectual development or + assertion of equality. Nor, if they are other than mere partisans, will + they refuse the attempt because in its success men will, after all, be + equal, if not greater gainers, if only thereby they should be “feelingly + persuaded” what they are.] But will the girl be less likely to marry a <i>gentleman</i>, + in the grand old meaning of the sixteenth century? when it was no + irreverence to call our Lord + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The first true gentleman that ever breathed;” + </pre> + <p> + or in that of the fourteenth?—when Chaucer teaching “whom is worthy + to be called gentill,” writes thus:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The first stocke was full of rightwisnes, + Trewe of his worde, sober, pitous and free, + Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse, + Against the vice of slouth in honeste; + And but his heire love vertue as did he, + He is not gentill though he rich seme, + All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe.” + </pre> + <p> + Will she be less likely to marry one who honours women, and for their + sakes, as well as his own, honours himself? Or to speak from what many + would regard as the mother’s side of the question—will the girl be + more likely, because of such a culture of her imagination, to refuse the + wise, true-hearted, generous rich man, and fall in love with the talking, + verse-making fool, <i>because</i> he is poor, as if that were a virtue for + which he had striven? The highest imagination and the lowliest common + sense are always on one side. + </p> + <p> + For the end of imagination is <i>harmony</i>. A right imagination, being + the reflex of the creation, will fall in with the divine order of things + as the highest form of its own operation; “will tune its instrument here + at the door” to the divine harmonies within; will be content alone with + growth towards the divine idea, which includes all that is beautiful in + the imperfect imaginations of men; will know that every deviation from + that growth is downward; and will therefore send the man forth from its + loftiest representations to do the commonest duty of the most wearisome + calling in a hearty and hopeful spirit. This is the work of the right + imagination; and towards this work every imagination, in proportion to the + rightness that is in it, will tend. The reveries even of the wise man will + make him stronger for his work; his dreaming as well as his thinking will + render him sorry for past failure, and hopeful of future success. + </p> + <p> + To come now to the culture of the imagination. Its development is one of + the main ends of the divine education of life with all its efforts and + experiences. Therefore the first and essential means for its culture must + be an ordering of our life towards harmony with its ideal in the mind of + God. As he that is willing to do the will of the Father, shall know of the + doctrine, so, we doubt not, he that will do the will of THE POET, shall + behold the Beautiful. For all is God’s; and the man who is growing into + harmony with His will, is growing into harmony with himself; all the + hidden glories of his being are coming out into the light of humble + consciousness; so that at the last he shall be a pure microcosm, + faithfully reflecting, after his manner, the mighty macrocosm. We believe, + therefore, that nothing will do so much for the intellect or the + imagination as <i>being good</i>—we do not mean after any formula or + any creed, but simply after the faith of Him who did the will of his + Father in heaven. + </p> + <p> + But if we speak of direct means for the culture of the imagination, the + whole is comprised in two words—food and exercise. If you want + strong arms, take animal food, and row. Feed your imagination with food + convenient for it, and exercise it, not in the contortions of the acrobat, + but in the movements of the gymnast. And first for the food. + </p> + <p> + Goethe has told us that the way to develop the aesthetic faculty is to + have constantly before our eyes, that is, in the room we most frequent, + some work of the best attainable art. This will teach us to refuse the + evil and choose the good. It will plant itself in our minds and become our + counsellor. Involuntarily, unconsciously, we shall compare with its + perfection everything that comes before us for judgment. Now, although no + better advice could be given, it involves one danger, that of narrowness. + And not easily, in dread of this danger, would one change his tutor, and + so procure variety of instruction. But in the culture of the imagination, + books, although not the only, are the readiest means of supplying the food + convenient for it, and a hundred books may be had where even one work of + art of the right sort is unattainable, seeing such must be of some size as + well as of thorough excellence. And in variety alone is safety from the + danger of the convenient food becoming the inconvenient model. + </p> + <p> + Let us suppose, then, that one who himself justly estimates the + imagination is anxious to develop its operation in his child. No doubt the + best beginning, especially if the child be young, is an acquaintance with + nature, in which let him be encouraged to observe vital phenomena, to put + things together, to speculate from what he sees to what he does not see. + But let earnest care be taken that upon no matter shall he go on talking + foolishly. Let him be as fanciful as he may, but let him not, even in his + fancy, sin against fancy’s sense; for fancy has its laws as certainly as + the most ordinary business of life. When he is silly, let him know it and + be ashamed. + </p> + <p> + But where this association with nature is but occasionally possible, + recourse must be had to literature. In books, we not only have store of + all results of the imagination, but in them, as in her workshop, we may + behold her embodying before our very eyes, in music of speech, in wonder + of words, till her work, like a golden dish set with shining jewels, and + adorned by the hands of the cunning workmen, stands finished before us. In + this kind, then, the best must be set before the learner, that he may eat + and not be satisfied; for the finest products of the imagination are of + the best nourishment for the beginnings of that imagination. And the mind + of the teacher must mediate between the work of art and the mind of the + pupil, bringing them together in the vital contact of intelligence; + directing the observation to the lines of expression, the points of force; + and helping the mind to repose upon the whole, so that no separable + beauties shall lead to a neglect of the scope—that is the shape or + form complete. And ever he must seek to <i>show</i> excellence rather than + talk about it, giving the thing itself, that it may grow into the mind, + and not a eulogy of his own upon the thing; isolating the point worthy of + remark rather than making many remarks upon the point. + </p> + <p> + Especially must he endeavour to show the spiritual scaffolding or skeleton + of any work of art; those main ideas upon which the shape is constructed, + and around which the rest group as ministering dependencies. + </p> + <p> + But he will not, therefore, pass over that intellectual structure without + which the other could not be manifested. He will not forget the builder + while he admires the architect. While he dwells with delight on the + relation of the peculiar arch to the meaning of the whole cathedral, he + will not think it needless to explain the principles on which it is + constructed, or even how those principles are carried out in actual + process. Neither yet will the tracery of its windows, the foliage of its + crockets, or the fretting of its mouldings be forgotten. Every beauty will + have its word, only all beauties will be subordinated to the final beauty—that + is, the unity of the whole. + </p> + <p> + Thus doing, he shall perform the true office of friendship. He will + introduce his pupil into the society which he himself prizes most, + surrounding him with the genial presence of the high-minded, that this + good company may work its own kind in him who frequents it. + </p> + <p> + But he will likewise seek to turn him aside from such company, whether of + books or of men, as might tend to lower his reverence, his choice, or his + standard. He will, therefore, discourage indiscriminate reading, and that + worse than waste which consists in skimming the books of a circulating + library. He knows that if a book is worth reading at all, it is worth + reading well; and that, if it is not worth reading, it is only to the most + accomplished reader that it <i>can</i> be worth skimming. He will seek to + make him discern, not merely between the good and the evil, but between + the good and the not so good. And this not for the sake of sharpening the + intellect, still less of generating that self-satisfaction which is the + closest attendant upon criticism, but for the sake of choosing the best + path and the best companions upon it. A spirit of criticism for the sake + of distinguishing only, or, far worse, for the sake of having one’s + opinion ready upon demand, is not merely repulsive to all true thinkers, + but is, in itself, destructive of all thinking. A spirit of criticism for + the sake of the truth—a spirit that does not start from its chamber + at every noise, but waits till its presence is desired—cannot, + indeed, garnish the house, but can sweep it clean. Were there enough of + such wise criticism, there would be ten times the study of the best + writers of the past, and perhaps one-tenth of the admiration for the + ephemeral productions of the day. A gathered mountain of misplaced + worships would be swept into the sea by the study of one good book; and + while what was good in an inferior book would still be admired, the + relative position of the book would be altered and its influence lessened. + </p> + <p> + Speaking of true learning, Lord Bacon says: “It taketh away vain + admiration of anything, <i>which is the root of all weakness</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The right teacher would have his pupil easy to please, but ill to satisfy; + ready to enjoy, unready to embrace; keen to discover beauty, slow to say, + “Here I will dwell.” + </p> + <p> + But he will not confine his instructions to the region of art. He will + encourage him to read history with an eye eager for the dawning figure of + the past. He will especially show him that a great part of the Bible is + only thus to be understood; and that the constant and consistent way of + God, to be discovered in it, is in fact the key to all history. + </p> + <p> + In the history of individuals, as well, he will try to show him how to put + sign and token together, constructing not indeed a whole, but a probable + suggestion of the whole. + </p> + <p> + And, again, while showing him the reflex of nature in the poets, he will + not be satisfied without sending him to Nature herself; urging him in + country rambles to keep open eyes for the sweet fashionings and blendings + of her operation around him; and in city walks to watch the “human face + divine.” + </p> + <p> + Once more: he will point out to him the essential difference between + reverie and thought; between dreaming and imagining. He will teach him not + to mistake fancy, either in himself or in others for imagination, and to + beware of hunting after resemblances that carry with them no + interpretation. + </p> + <p> + Such training is not solely fitted for the possible development of + artistic faculty. Few, in this world, will ever be able to utter what they + feel. Fewer still will be able to utter it in forms of their own. Nor is + it necessary that there should be many such. But it is necessary that all + should feel. It is necessary that all should understand and imagine the + good; that all should begin, at least, to follow and find out God. + </p> + <p> + “The glory of God is to conceal a thing, but the glory of the king is to + find it out,” says Solomon. “As if,” remarks Bacon on the passage, + “according to the innocent play of children, the Divine Majesty took + delight to hide his works, to the end to have them found out; and as if + kings could not obtain a greater honour than to be God’s playfellows in + that game.” + </p> + <p> + One more quotation from the book of Ecclesiastes, setting forth both the + necessity we are under to imagine, and the comfort that our imagining + cannot outstrip God’s making. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen the travail which God hath given to the sons of men to be + exercised in it. He hath made everything beautiful in his time; also he + hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work + that God maketh from the beginning to the end.” + </p> + <p> + Thus to be playfellows with God in this game, the little ones may gather + their daisies and follow their painted moths; the child of the kingdom may + pore upon the lilies of the field, and gather faith as the birds of the + air their food from the leafless hawthorn, ruddy with the stores God has + laid up for them; and the man of science + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “May sit and rightly spell + Of every star that heaven doth shew, + And every herb that sips the dew; + Till old experience do attain + To something like prophetic strain.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SKETCH OF INDIVIDUAL DEVELOPMENT. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1880.] + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had thought to watch when God was making me!” said a child once + to his mother. “Only,” he added, “I was not made till I was finished, so I + couldn’t.” We cannot recall whence we came, nor tell how we began to be. + We know approximately how far back we can remember, but have no idea how + far back we may not have forgotten. Certainly we knew once much that we + have forgotten now. My own earliest definable memory is of a great funeral + of one of the Dukes of Gordon, when I was between two and three years of + age. Surely my first knowledge was not of death. I must have known much + and many things before, although that seems my earliest memory. As in what + we foolishly call maturity, so in the dawn of consciousness, both before + and after it has begun to be buttressed with <i>self</i>-consciousness, + each succeeding consciousness dims—often obliterates—that + which went before, and with regard to our past as well as our future, + imagination and faith must step into the place vacated of knowledge. We + are aware, and we know that we are aware, but when or how we began to be + aware, is wrapt in a mist that deepens on the one side into deepest night, + and on the other brightens into the full assurance of existence. Looking + back we can but dream, looking forward we lose ourselves in speculation; + but we may both speculate and dream, for all speculation is not false, and + all dreaming is not of the unreal. What may we fairly imagine as to the + inward condition of the child before the first moment of which his memory + affords him testimony? + </p> + <p> + It is one, I venture to say, of absolute, though, no doubt, largely + negative faith. Neither memory of pain that is past, nor apprehension of + pain to come, once arises to give him the smallest concern. In some way, + doubtless very vague, for his being itself is a border-land of awful + mystery, he is aware of being surrounded, enfolded with an atmosphere of + love; the sky over him is his mother’s face; the earth that nourishes him + is his mother’s bosom. The source, the sustentation, the defence of his + being, the endless mediation betwixt his needs and the things that supply + them, are all one. There is no type so near the highest idea of relation + to a God, as that of the child to his mother. Her face is God, her bosom + Nature, her arms are Providence—all love—one love—to him + an undivided bliss. + </p> + <p> + The region beyond him he regards from this vantage-ground of unquestioned + security. There things may come and go, rise and vanish—he neither + desires nor bemoans them. Change may grow swift, its swiftness grow + fierce, and pass into storm: to him storm is calm; his haven is secure; + his rest cannot be broken: he is accountable for nothing, knows no + responsibility. Conscience is not yet awake, and there is no conflict. His + waking is full of sleep, yet his very being is enough for him. + </p> + <p> + But all the time his mother lives in the hope of his growth. In the + present babe, her heart broods over the coming boy—the unknown + marvel closed in the visible germ. Let mothers lament as they will over + the change from childhood to maturity, which of them would not grow weary + of nursing for ever a child in whom no live law of growth kept unfolding + an infinite change! The child knows nothing of growth—desires none—but + grows. Within him is the force of a power he can no more resist than the + peach can refuse to swell and grow ruddy in the sun. By slow, + inappreciable, indivisible accretion and outfolding, he is lifted, + floated, drifted on towards the face of the awful mirror in which he must + encounter his first foe—must front himself. + </p> + <p> + By degrees he has learned that the world is around, and not within him—that + he is apart, and that is apart; from consciousness he passes to + self-consciousness. This is a second birth, for now a higher life begins. + When a man not only lives, but knows that he lives, then first the + possibility of a real life commences. By <i>real life</i>, I mean life + which has a share in its own existence. + </p> + <p> + For now, towards the world around him—the world that is not his + mother, and, actively at least, neither loves him nor ministers to him, + reveal themselves certain relations, initiated by fancies, desires, + preferences, that arise within himself—reasonable or not matters + little:—founded in reason, they can in no case be <i>devoid</i> of + reason. Every object concerned in these relations presents itself to the + man as lovely, desirable, good, or ugly, hateful, bad; and through these + relations, obscure and imperfect, and to a being weighted with a strong + faculty for mistake, begins to be revealed the existence and force of + Being other and higher than his own, recognized as <i>Will</i>, and first + of all in its opposition to his desires. Thereupon begins the strife + without which there never was, and, I presume, never can be, any growth, + any progress; and the first result is what I may call the third birth of + the human being. + </p> + <p> + The first opposing glance of the mother wakes in the child not only + answering opposition, which is as the rudimentary sac of his own coming + will, but a new something, to which for long he needs no name, so natural + does it seem, so entirely a portion of his being, even when most he + refuses to listen to and obey it. This new something—we call it <i>Conscience</i>—sides + with his mother, and causes its presence and judgment to be felt not only + before but after the event, so that he soon comes to know that it is well + with him or ill with him as he obeys or disobeys it. And now he not only + knows, not only knows that he knows, but knows he knows that he knows—knows + that he is self-conscious—that he has a conscience. With the first + sense of resistance to it, the power above him has drawn nearer, and the + deepest within him has declared itself on the side of the highest without + him. At one and the same moment, the heaven of his childhood has, as it + were, receded and come nigher. He has run from under it, but it claims + him. It is farther, yet closer—immeasurably closer: he feels on his + being the grasp and hold of his mother’s. Through the higher individuality + he becomes aware of his own. Through the assertion of his mother’s will, + his own begins to awake. He becomes conscious of himself as capable of + action—of doing or of not doing; his responsibility has begun. + </p> + <p> + He slips from her lap; he travels from chair to chair; he puts his circle + round the room; he dares to cross the threshold; he braves the precipice + of the stair; he takes the greatest step that, according to George + Herbert, is possible to man—that out of doors, changing the house + for the universe; he runs from flower to flower in the garden; crosses the + road; wanders, is lost, is found again. His powers expand, his activity + increases; he goes to school, and meets other boys like himself; new + objects of strife are discovered, new elements of strife developed; new + desires are born, fresh impulses urge. The old heaven, the face and will + of his mother, recede farther and farther; a world of men, which he + foolishly thinks a nobler as it is a larger world, draws him, claims him. + More or less he yields. The example and influence of such as seem to him + more than his mother like himself, grow strong upon him. His conscience + speaks louder. And here, even at this early point in his history, what I + might call his fourth birth <i>may</i> begin to take place: I mean the + birth in him of the Will—the real Will—not the pseudo-will, + which is the mere Desire, swayed of impulse, selfishness, or one of many a + miserable motive. When the man, listening to his conscience, wills and + does the right, irrespective of inclination as of consequence, then is the + man free, the universe open before him. He is born from above. To him + conscience needs never speak aloud, needs never speak twice; to him her + voice never grows less powerful, for he never neglects what she commands. + And when he becomes aware that he can will his will, that God has given + him a share in essential life, in the causation of his own being, then is + he a man indeed. I say, even here this birth may begin; but with most it + takes years not a few to complete it. For, the power of the mother having + waned, the power of the neighbour is waxing. If the boy be of common clay, + that is, of clay willing to accept dishonour, this power of the neighbour + over him will increase and increase, till individuality shall have + vanished from him, and what his friends, what society, what the trade or + the profession say, will be to him the rule of life. With such, however, I + have to do no more than with the deaf dead, who sleep too deep for words + to reach them. + </p> + <p> + My typical child of man is not of such. He is capable not of being + influenced merely, but of influencing—and first of all of + influencing himself; of taking a share in his own making; of determining + actively, not by mere passivity, what he shall be and become; for he never + ceases to pay at least a little heed, however poor and intermittent, to + the voice of his conscience, and to-day he pays more heed than he did + yesterday. + </p> + <p> + Long ere now the joy of space, of room, has laid hold upon him—the + more powerfully if he inhabit a wild and broken region. The human animal + delights in motion and change, motions of his members even violent, and + swiftest changes of place. It is as if he would lay hold of the infinite + by ceaseless abandonment and choice of a never-abiding stand-point, as if + he would lay hold of strength by the consciousness of the strength he has. + He is full of unrest. He must know what lies on the farther shore of every + river, see how the world looks from every hill: <i>What is behind? What is + beyond?</i> is his constant cry. To learn, to gather into himself, is his + longing. Nor do many years pass thus, it may be not many months, ere the + world begins to come alive around him. He begins to feel that the stars + are strange, that the moon is sad, that the sunrise is mighty. He begins + to see in them all the something men call beauty. He will lie on the sunny + bank and gaze into the blue heaven till his soul seems to float abroad and + mingle with the infinite made visible, with the boundless condensed into + colour and shape. The rush of the water through the still twilight, under + the faint gleam of the exhausted west, makes in his ears a melody he is + almost aware he cannot understand. Dissatisfied with his emotions he + desires a deeper waking, longs for a greater beauty, is troubled with the + stirring in his bosom of an unknown ideal of Nature. Nor is it an ideal of + Nature alone that is forming within him. A far more precious thing, a + human ideal namely, is in his soul, gathering to itself shape and + consistency. The wind that at night fills him with sadness—he cannot + tell why, in the daytime haunts him like a wild consciousness of strength + which has neither difficulty nor danger enough to spend itself upon. He + would be a champion of the weak, a friend to the great; for both he would + fight—a merciless foe to every oppressor of his kind. He would be + rich that he might help, strong that he might rescue, brave—that he + counts himself already, for he has not proved his own weakness. In the + first encounter he fails, and the bitter cup of shame and confusion of + face, wholesome and saving, is handed him from the well of life. He is not + yet capable of understanding that one such as he, filled with the glory + and not the duty of victory, could not but fail, and therefore ought to + fail; but his dismay and chagrin are soothed by the forgetfulness the days + and nights bring, gently wiping out the sins that are past, that the young + life may have a fresh chance, as we say, and begin again unburdened by the + weight of a too much present failure. + </p> + <p> + And now, probably at school, or in the first months of his college-life, a + new phase of experience begins. He has wandered over the border of what is + commonly called science, and the marvel of facts multitudinous, strung + upon the golden threads of law, has laid hold upon him. His intellect is + seized and possessed by a new spirit. For a time knowledge is pride; the + mere consciousness of knowing is the reward of its labour; the ever + recurring, ever passing contact of mind with a new fact is a joy full of + excitement, and promises an endless delight. But ever the thing that is + known sinks into insignificance, save as a step of the endless stair on + which he is climbing—whither he knows not; the unknown draws him; + the new fact touches his mind, flames up in the contact, and drops dark, a + mere fact, on the heap below. Even the grandeur of law as law, so far from + adding fresh consciousness to his life, causes it no small suffering and + loss. For at the entrance of Science, nobly and gracefully as she bears + herself, young Poetry shrinks back startled, dismayed. Poetry is true as + Science, and Science is holy as Poetry; but young Poetry is timid and + Science is fearless, and bears with her a colder atmosphere than the other + has yet learned to brave. It is not that Madam Science shows any + antagonism to Lady Poetry; but the atmosphere and plane on which alone + they can meet as friends who understand each other, is the mind and heart + of the sage, not of the boy. The youth gazes on the face of Science, cold, + clear, beautiful; then, turning, looks for his friend—but, alas! + Poetry has fled. With a great pang at the heart he rushes abroad to find + her, but descries only the rainbow glimmer of her skirt on the far + horizon. At night, in his dreams, she returns, but never for a season may + he look on her face of loveliness. What, alas! have evaporation, caloric, + atmosphere, refraction, the prism, and the second planet of our system, to + do with “sad Hesper o’er the buried sun?” From quantitative analysis how + shall he turn again to “the rime of the ancient mariner,” and “the moving + moon” that “went up the sky, and nowhere did abide”? From his window he + gazes across the sands to the mightily troubled ocean: “What is the storm + to me any more!” he cries; “it is but the clashing of countless + water-drops!” He finds relief in the discovery that, the moment you place + man in the midst of it, the clashing of water-drops becomes a storm, + terrible to heart and brain: human thought and feeling, hope, fear, love, + sacrifice, make the motions of nature alive with mystery and the shadows + of destiny. The relief, however, is but partial, and may be but temporary; + for what if this mingling of man and Nature in the mind of man be but the + casting of a coloured shadow over her cold indifference? What if she means + nothing—never was meant to mean anything! What if in truth “we + receive but what we give, and in our life alone doth Nature live!” What if + the language of metaphysics as well as of poetry be drawn, not from Nature + at all, but from human fancy concerning her! + </p> + <p> + At length, from the unknown, whence himself he came, appears an angel to + deliver him from this horror—this stony look—ah, God! of + soulless law. The woman is on her way whose part it is to meet him with a + life other than his own, at once the complement of his, and the visible + presentment of that in it which is beyond his own understanding. The + enchantment of what we specially call <i>love</i> is upon him—a + deceiving glamour, say some, showing what is not, an opening of the eyes, + say others, revealing that of which a man had not been aware: men will + still be divided into those who believe that the horses of fire and the + chariots of fire are ever present at their need of them, and those who + class the prophet and the drunkard in the same category as the fools of + their own fancies. But what this love is, he who thinks he knows least + understands. Let foolish maidens and vulgar youths simper and jest over it + as they please, it is one of the most potent mysteries of the living God. + The man who can love a woman and remain a lover of his wretched self, is + fit only to be cast out with the broken potsherds of the city, as one in + whom the very salt has lost its savour. With this love in his heart, a man + puts on at least the vision robes of the seer, if not the singing robes of + the poet. Be he the paltriest human animal that ever breathed, for the + time, and in his degree, he rises above himself. His nature so far + clarifies itself, that here and there a truth of the great world will + penetrate, sorely dimmed, through the fog-laden, self-shadowed atmosphere + of his microcosm. For the time, I repeat, he is not a lover only, but + something of a friend, with a reflex touch of his own far-off childhood. + To the youth of my history, in the light of his love—a light that + passes outward from the eyes of the lover—the world grows alive + again, yea radiant as an infinite face. He sees the flowers as he saw them + in boyhood, recovering from an illness of all the winter, only they have a + yet deeper glow, a yet fresher delight, a yet more unspeakable soul. He + becomes pitiful over them, and not willingly breaks their stems, to hurt + the life he more than half believes they share with him. He cannot think + anything created only for him, any more than only for itself. Nature is no + longer a mere contention of forces, whose heaven and whose hell in one is + the dull peace of an equilibrium; but a struggle, through splendour of + colour, graciousness of form, and evasive vitality of motion and sound, + after an utterance hard to find, and never found but marred by the + imperfection of the small and weak that would embody and set forth the + great and mighty. The waving of the tree-tops is the billowy movement of a + hidden delight. The sun lifts his head with intent to be glorious. No day + lasts too long, no night comes too soon: the twilight is woven of shadowy + arms that draw the loving to the bosom of the Night. In the woman, the + infinite after which he thirsts is given him for his own. + </p> + <p> + Man’s occupation with himself turns his eyes from the great life beyond + his threshold: when love awakes, he forgets himself for a time, and many a + glimpse of strange truth finds its way through his windows, blocked no + longer by the shadow of himself. He may now catch even a glimpse of the + possibilities of his own being—may dimly perceive for a moment the + image after which he was made. But alas! too soon, self, radiant of + darkness, awakes; every window becomes opaque with shadow, and the man is + again a prisoner. For it is not the highest word alone that the cares of + this world, the deceitfulness of riches, and the lust of other things + entering in, choke, and render unfruitful. Waking from the divine vision, + if that can be called waking which is indeed dying into the common day, + the common man regards it straightway as a foolish dream; the wise man + believes in it still, holds fast by the memory of the vanished glory, and + looks to have it one day again a present portion of the light of his life. + He knows that, because of the imperfection and dulness and weakness of his + nature, after every vision follow the inclosing clouds, with the threat of + an ever during dark; knows that, even if the vision could tarry, it were + not well, for the sake of that which must yet be done with him, yet be + made of him, that it should tarry. But the youth whose history I am + following is not like the former, nor as yet like the latter. + </p> + <p> + From whatever cause, then, whether of fault, of natural law, or of + supernal will, the flush that seemed to promise the dawn of an eternal + day, shrinks and fades, though, with him, like the lagging skirt of the + sunset in the northern west, it does not vanish, but travels on, a + withered pilgrim, all the night, at the long last to rise the aureole of + the eternal Aurora. And now new paths entice him—or old paths + opening fresh horizons. With stronger thews and keener nerves he turns + again to the visible around him. The changelessness amid change, the law + amid seeming disorder, the unity amid units, draws him again. He begins to + descry the indwelling poetry of science. The untiring forces at work in + measurable yet inconceivable spaces of time and room, fill his soul with + an awe that threatens to uncreate him with a sense of littleness; while, + on the other side, the grandeur of their operations fills him with such an + informing glory, the mere presence of the mighty facts, that he no more + thinks of himself, but in humility is great, and knows it not. Rapt + spectator, seer entranced under the magic wand of Science, he beholds the + billions of billions of miles of incandescent vapour begin a slow, scarce + perceptible revolution, gradually grow swift, and gather an awful speed. + He sees the vapour, as it whirls, condensing through slow eternities to a + plastic fluidity. He notes ring after ring part from the circumference of + the mass, break, rush together into a globe, and the glowing ball keep on + through space with the speed of its parent bulk. It cools and still cools + and condenses, but still fiercely glows. Presently—after tens of + thousands of years is the creative <i>presently</i>—arises fierce + contention betwixt the glowing heart and its accompanying atmosphere. The + latter invades the former with antagonistic element. He listens in his + soul, and hears the rush of ever descending torrent rains, with the + continuous roaring shock of their evanishment in vapour—to turn + again to water in the higher regions, and again rush to the attack upon + the citadel of fire. He beholds the slow victory of the water at last, and + the great globe, now glooming in a cloak of darkness, covered with a + wildly boiling sea—not boiling by figure of speech, under contending + forces of wind and tide, but boiling high as the hills to come, with + veritable heat. He sees the rise of the wrinkles we call hills and + mountains, and from their sides the avalanches of water to the lower + levels. He sees race after race of living things appear, as the earth + becomes, for each new and higher kind, a passing home; and he watches the + succession of terrible convulsions dividing kind from kind, until at + length the kind he calls his own arrives. Endless are the visions of + material grandeur unfathomable, awaked in his soul by the bare facts of + external existence. + </p> + <p> + But soon comes a change. So far as he can see or learn, all the motion, + all the seeming dance, is but a rush for death, a panic flight into the + moveless silence. The summer wind, the tropic tornado, the softest tide, + the fiercest storm, are alike the tumultuous conflict of forces, rushing, + and fighting as they rush, into the arms of eternal negation. On and on + they hurry—down and down, to a cold stirless solidity, where wind + blows not, water flows not, where the seas are not merely tideless and + beat no shores, but frozen cleave with frozen roots to their gulfy basin. + All things are on the steep-sloping path to final evanishment, uncreation, + non-existence. He is filled with horror—not so much of the dreary + end, as at the weary hopelessness of the path thitherward. Then a dim + light breaks upon him, and with it a faint hope revives, for he seems to + see in all the forms of life, innumerably varied, a spirit rushing upward + from death—a something in escape from the terror of the downward + cataract, of the rest that knows not peace. “Is it not,” he asks, “the + soaring of the silver dove of life from its potsherd-bed—the + heavenward flight of some higher and incorruptible thing? Is not vitality, + revealed in growth, itself an unending resurrection?” + </p> + <p> + The vision also of the oneness of the universe, ever reappearing through + the vapours of question, helps to keep hope alive in him. To find, for + instance, the law of the relation of the arrangements of the leaves on + differing plants, correspond to the law of the relative distances of the + planets in approach to their central sun, wakes in him that hope of a + central Will, which alone can justify one ecstatic throb at any seeming + loveliness of the universe. For without the hope of such a centre, delight + is unreason—a mockery not such as the skeleton at the Egyptian + feast, but such rather as a crowned corpse at a feast of skeletons. Life + without the higher glory of the unspeakable, the atmosphere of a God, is + not life, is not worth living. He would rather cease to be, than walk the + dull level of the commonplace—than live the unideal of men in whose + company he can take no pleasure—men who are as of a lower race, whom + he fain would lift, who will not rise, but for whom as for himself he + would cherish the hope they do their best to kill. Those who seem to him + great, recognize the unseen—believe the roots of science to be + therein hid—regard the bringing forth into sight of the things that + are invisible as the end of all Art and every art—judge the true + leader of men to be him who leads them closer to the essential facts of + their being. Alas for his love and his hope, alas for himself, if the + visible should exist for its own sake only!—if the face of a flower + means nothing—appeals to no region beyond the scope of the science + that would unveil its growth. He cannot believe that its structure exists + for the sake of its laws; that would be to build for the sake of its + joints a scaffold where no house was to stand. Those who put their faith + in Science are trying to live in the scaffold of the house invisible. + </p> + <p> + He finds harbour and comfort at times in the written poetry of his + fellows. He delights in analyzing and grasping the thought that informs + the utterance. For a moment, the fine figure, the delicate phrase, make + him jubilant and strong; but the jubilation and the strength soon pass, + for it is not any of the <i>forms</i>, even of the thought-forms of truth + that can give rest to his soul. + </p> + <p> + History attracts him little, for he is not able to discover by its records + the operation of principles yielding hope for his race. Such there may be, + but he does not find them. What hope for the rising wave that knows in its + rise only its doom to sink, and at length be dashed on the low shore of + annihilation? + </p> + <p> + But the time would fail me to follow the doubling of the soul coursed by + the hounds of Death, or to set down the forms innumerable in which the + golden Haemony springs in its path, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of sovran use + ‘Gainst all enchantments, mildew blast, or damp. +</pre> + <p> + And now the shadows are beginning to lengthen towards the night, which, + whether there be a following morn or no, is the night, and spreads out the + wings of darkness. And still as it approaches the more aware grows the man + of a want that differs from any feeling I have already sought to describe—a + sense of insecurity, in no wise the same as the doubt of life beyond the + grave—a need more profound even than that which cries for a living + Nature. And now he plainly knows, that, all his life, like a conscious + duty unfulfilled, this sense has haunted his path, ever and anon + descending and clinging, a cold mist, about his heart. What if this lack + was indeed the root of every other anxiety! Now freshly revived, this + sense of not having, of something, he knows not what, for lack of which + his being is in pain at its own incompleteness, never leaves him more. And + with it the terror has returned and grows, lest there should be no Unseen + Power, as his fathers believed, and his mother taught him, filling all + things and <i>meaning</i> all things,—no Power with whom, in his + last extremity, awaits him a final refuge. With the quickening doubt falls + a tenfold blight on the world of poetry, both that in Nature and that in + books. Far worse than that early chill which the assertions of science + concerning what it knows, cast upon his inexperienced soul, is now the + shivering death which its pretended denials concerning what it knows not, + send through all his vital frame. The soul departs from the face of + beauty, when the eye begins to doubt if there be any soul behind it; and + now the man feels like one I knew, affected with a strange disease, who + saw in the living face always the face of a corpse. What can the world be + to him who lives for thought, if there be no supreme and perfect Thought,—none + but such poor struggles after thought as he finds in himself? Take the + eternal thought from the heart of things, no longer can any beauty be + real, no more can shape, motion, aspect of nature have significance in + itself, or sympathy with human soul. At best and most the beauty he + thought he saw was but the projected perfection of his own being, and from + himself as the crown and summit of things, the soul of the man shrinks + with horror: it is the more imperfect being who knows the least his + incompleteness, and for whom, seeing so little beyond himself, it is + easiest to imagine himself the heart and apex of things, and rejoice in + the fancy. The killing power of a godless science returns upon him with + tenfold force. The ocean-tempest is once more a mere clashing of + innumerable water-drops; the green and amber sadness of the evening sky is + a mockery of sorrow; his own soul and its sadness is a mockery of himself. + There is nothing in the sadness, nothing in the mockery. To tell him as + comfort, that in his own thought lives the meaning if nowhere else, is + mockery worst of all; for if there be no truth in them, if these things be + no embodiment, to make them serve as such is to put a candle in a + death’s-head to light the dying through the place of tombs. To his former + foolish fancy a primrose might preach a childlike trust; the untoiling + lilies might from their field cast seeds of a higher growth into his + troubled heart; now they are no better than the colour the painter leaves + behind him on the doorpost of his workshop, when, the day’s labour over, + he wipes his brush on it ere he depart for the night. The look in the eyes + of his dog, happy in that he is short-lived, is one of infinite sadness. + All graciousness must henceforth be a sorrow: it has to go with the + sunsets. That a thing must cease takes from it the joy of even an aeonian + endurance—for its <i>kind</i> is mortal; it belongs to the nature of + things that cannot live. The sorrow is not so much that it shall perish as + that it could not live—that it is not in its nature a real, that is, + an eternal thing. His children are shadows—their life a dance, a + sickness, a corruption. The very element of unselfishness, which, however + feeble and beclouded it may be, yet exists in all love, in giving life its + only dignity adds to its sorrow. Nowhere at the root of things is love—it + is only a something that came after, some sort of fungous excrescence in + the hearts of men grown helplessly superior to their origin. Law, nothing + but cold, impassive, material law, is the root of things—lifeless + happily, so not knowing itself, else were it a demon instead of a creative + nothing. Endeavour is paralyzed in him. “Work for posterity,” says he of + the skyless philosophy; answers the man, “How can I work without hope? + Little heart have I to labour, where labour is so little help. What can I + do for my children that would render their life less hopeless than my own! + Give me all you would secure for them, and my life would be to me but the + worse mockery. The true end of labour would be, to lessen the number + doomed to breathe the breath of this despair.” + </p> + <p> + Straightway he developes another and a deeper mood. He turns and regards + himself. Suspicion or sudden insight has directed the look. And there, in + himself, he discovers such imperfection, such wrong, such shame, such + weakness, as cause him to cry out, “It were well I should cease! Why + should I mourn after life? Where were the good of prolonging it in a being + like me? ‘What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and + earth!’” Such insights, when they come, the seers do their best, in + general, to obscure; suspicion of themselves they regard as a monster, and + would stifle. They resent the waking of such doubt. Any attempt at the + raising in them of their buried best they regard as an offence against + intercourse. A man takes his social life in his hand who dares it. Few + therefore understand the judgment of Hamlet upon himself; the common + reader is so incapable of imagining he could mean it of his own general + character as a man, that he attributes the utterance to shame for the + postponement of a vengeance, which indeed he must have been such as his + critic to be capable of performing upon no better proof than he had yet + had. When the man whose unfolding I would now represent, regards even his + dearest love, he finds it such a poor, selfish, low-lived thing, that in + his heart he shames himself before his children and his friends. How + little labour, how little watching, how little pain has he endured for + their sakes! He reads of great things in this kind, but in himself he does + not find them. How often has he not been wrongfully displeased—wrathful + with the innocent! How often has he not hurt a heart more tender than his + own! Has he ever once been faithful to the height of his ideal? Is his + life on the whole a thing to regard with complacency, or to be troubled + exceedingly concerning? Beyond him rise and spread infinite seeming + possibilities—height beyond height, glory beyond glory, each rooted + in and rising from his conscious being, but alas! where is any hope of + ascending them? These hills of peace, “in a season of calm weather,” seem + to surround and infold him, as a land in which he could dwell at ease and + at home: surely among them lies the place of his birth!—while + against their purity and grandeur the being of his consciousness shows + miserable—dark, weak, and undefined—a shadow that would fain + be substance—a dream that would gladly be born into the light of + reality. But alas if the whole thing be only in himself—if the + vision be a dream of nothing, a revelation of lies, the outcome of that + which, helplessly existent, is yet not created, therefore cannot create—if + not the whole thing only be a dream of the impotent, but the impotent be + himself but a dream—a dream of his own—a self-dreamed dream—with + no master of dreams to whom to cry! Where then the cherished hope of one + day atoning for his wrongs to those who loved him!—they are nowhere—vanished + for ever, upmingled and dissolved in the primeval darkness! If truth be + but the hollow of a sphere, ah, never shall he cast himself before them, + to tell them that now at last, after long years of revealing separation, + he knows himself and them, and that now the love of them is a part of his + very being—to implore their forgiveness on the ground that he hates, + despises, contemns, and scorns the self that showed them less than + absolute love and devotion! Never thus shall he lay his being bare to + their eyes of love! They do not even rest, for they do not and will not + know it. There is no voice nor hearing in them, and how can there be in + him any heart to live! The one comfort left him is, that, unable to follow + them, he shall yet die and cease, and fare as they—go also + nowhither! + </p> + <p> + To a man under the dismay of existence dissociated from power, unrooted + in, unshadowed by a creating Will, who is Love, the Father of Man—to + him who knows not being and God together, the idea of death—a death + that knows no reviving, must be, and ought to be the blessedest thought + left him. “O land of shadows!” well may such a one cry! “land where the + shadows love to ecstatic self-loss, yet forget, and love no more! land of + sorrows and despairs, that sink the soul into a deeper Tophet than death + has ever sounded! broken kaleidoscope! shaken camera! promiser, speaking + truth to the ear, but lying to the sense! land where the heart of my + friend is sorrowful as my heart—the more sorrowful that I have been + but a poor and far-off friend! land where sin is strong and righteousness + faint! where love dreams mightily and walks abroad so feeble! land where + the face of my father is dust, and the hand of my mother will never more + caress! where my children will spend a few years of like trouble to mine, + and then drop from the dream into the no-dream! gladly, O land of + sickliest shadows—gladly, that is, with what power of gladness is in + me, I take my leave of thee! Welcome the cold, pain-soothing embrace of + immortal Death! Hideous are his looks, but I love him better than Life: he + is true, and will not deceive us. Nay, he only is our saviour, setting us + free from the tyranny of the false that ought to be true, and sets us + longing in vain.” + </p> + <p> + But through all the man’s doubts, fears, and perplexities, a certain + whisper, say rather, an uncertain rumour, a vague legendary murmur, has + been at the same time about, rather than in, his ears—never ceasing + to haunt his air, although hitherto he has hardly heeded it. He knows it + has come down the ages, and that some in every age have been more or less + influenced by a varied acceptance of it. Upon those, however, with whom he + has chiefly associated, it has made no impression beyond that of a + remarkable legend. It is the story of a man, represented as at least + greater, stronger, and better than any other man. With the hero of this + tale he has had a constantly recurring, though altogether undefined + suspicion that he has something to do. It is strongest, though not even + then strong, at such times when he is most aware of evil and imperfection + in himself. Betwixt the two, the idea of this man and his knowledge of + himself, seems to lie, dim-shadowy, some imperative duty. He knows that + the whole matter concerning the man is commemorated in many of the oldest + institutions of his country, but up to this time he has shrunk from the + demands which, by a kind of spiritual insight, he foresaw would follow, + were he once to admit certain things to be true. He has, however, known + some and read of more who by their faith in the man conquered all anxiety, + doubt, and fear, lived pure, and died in gladsome hope. On the other hand, + it seems to him that the faith which was once easy has now become almost + an impossibility. And what is it he is called upon to believe? One says + one thing, another another. Much that is asserted is simply unworthy of + belief, and the foundation of the whole has in his eyes something of the + look of a cunningly devised fable. Even should it be true, it cannot help + him, he thinks, for it does not even touch the things that make his woe: + the God the tale presents is not the being whose very existence can alone + be his cure. + </p> + <p> + But he meets one who says to him, “Have you then come to your time of + life, and not yet ceased to accept hearsay as ground of action—for + there is action in abstaining as well as in doing? Suppose the man in + question to have taken all possible pains to be understood, does it follow + of necessity that he is now or ever was fairly represented by the bulk of + his followers? With such a moral distance between him and them, is it + possible?” + </p> + <p> + “But the whole thing has from first to last a strange aspect!” our thinker + replies. + </p> + <p> + “As to the <i>last</i> that is not yet come. And as to its <i>aspect</i>, + its reality must be such as human eye could never convey to reading heart. + Every human idea of it <i>must</i> be more or less wrong. And yet perhaps + the truer the aspect the stranger it would be. But is it not just with + ordinary things you are dissatisfied? And should not therefore the very + strangeness of these to you little better than rumours incline you to + examine the object of them? Will you assert that nothing strange can have + to do with human affairs? Much that was once scarce credible is now so + ordinary that men have grown stupid to the wonder inherent in it. Nothing + around you serves your need: try what is at least of another class of + phenomena. What if the things rumoured belong to a <i>more</i> natural + order than these, lie nearer the roots of your dissatisfied existence, and + look strange only because you have hitherto been living in the outer + court, not in the <i>penetralia</i> of life? The rumour has been vital + enough to float down the ages, emerging from every storm: why not see for + yourself what may be in it? So powerful an influence on human history, + surely there will be found in it signs by which to determine whether the + man understood himself and his message, or owed his apparent greatness to + the deluded worship of his followers! That he has always had foolish + followers none will deny, and none but a fool would judge any leader from + such a fact. Wisdom as well as folly will serve a fool’s purpose; he turns + all into folly. I say nothing now of my own conclusions, because what you + imagine my opinions are as hateful to me as to you disagreeable and + foolish.” + </p> + <p> + So says the friend; the man hears, takes up the old story, and says to + himself, “Let me see then what I can see!” + </p> + <p> + I will not follow him through the many shadows and slow dawns by which at + length he arrives at this much: A man claiming to be the Son of God says + he has come to be the light of men; says, “Come to me, and I will give you + rest;” says, “Follow me, and you shall find my Father; to know him is the + one thing you cannot do without, for it is eternal life.” He has learned + from the reported words of the man, and from the man himself as in the + tale presented, that the bliss of his conscious being is his Father; that + his one delight is to do the will of that Father—the only thing in + his eyes worthy of being done, or worth having done; that he would make + men blessed with his own blessedness; that the cry of creation, the cry of + humanity shall be answered into the deepest soul of desire; that less than + the divine mode of existence, the godlike way of being, can satisfy no + man, that is, make him content with his consciousness; that not this world + only, but the whole universe is the inheritance of those who consent to be + the children of their Father in heaven, who put forth the power of their + will to be of the same sort as he; that to as many as receive him he gives + power to become the sons of God; that they shall be partakers of the + divine nature, of the divine joy, of the divine power—shall have + whatever they desire, shall know no fear, shall love perfectly, and shall + never die; that these things are beyond the grasp of the knowing ones of + the world, and to them the message will be a scorn; but that the time will + come when its truth shall be apparent, to some in confusion of face, to + others in joy unspeakable; only that we must beware of judging, for many + that are first shall be last, and there are last that shall be first. + </p> + <p> + To find himself in such conscious as well as vital relation with the + source of his being, with a Will by which his own will exists, with a + Consciousness by and through which he is conscious, would indeed be the + end of all the man’s ills! nor can he imagine any other, not to say better + way, in which his sorrows could be met, understood and annihilated. For + the ills that oppress him are both within him and without, and over each + kind he is powerless. If the message were but a true one! If indeed this + man knew what he talked of! But if there should be help for man from + anywhere beyond him, some <i>one</i> might know it first, and may not this + be the one? And if the message be so great, so perfect as this man + asserts, then only a perfect, an eternal man, at home in the bosom of the + Father, could know, or bring, or tell it. According to the tale, it had + been from the first the intent of the Father to reveal himself to man as + man, for without the knowledge of the Father after man’s own modes of + being, he could not grow to real manhood. The grander the whole idea, the + more likely is it to be what it claims to be! and if not high as the + heavens above the earth, beyond us yet within our reach, it is not for us, + it cannot be true. Fact or not, the existence of a God such as Christ, a + God who is a good man infinitely, is the only idea containing hope enough + for man! If such a God has come to be known, marvel must surround the + first news at least of the revelation of him. Because of its marvel, shall + men find it in reason to turn from the gracious rumour of what, if it be + true, must be the event of all events? And could marvel be lovelier than + the marvel reported? But the humble men of heart alone can believe in the + high—they alone can perceive, they alone can embrace grandeur. + Humility is essential greatness, the inside of grandeur. + </p> + <p> + Something of such truths the man glimmeringly sees. But in his mind awake, + thereupon, endless doubts and questions. What if the whole idea of his + mission was a deception born of the very goodness of the man? What if the + whole matter was the invention of men pretending themselves the followers + of such a man? What if it was a little truth greatly exaggerated? Only, be + it what it may, less than its full idea would not be enough for the wants + and sorrows that weaken and weigh him down! + </p> + <p> + He passes through many a thorny thicket of inquiry; gathers evidence upon + evidence; reasons upon the goodness of the men who wrote: they might be + deceived, but they dared not invent; holds with himself a thousand + arguments, historical, psychical, metaphysical—which for their + setting-forth would require volumes; hears many an opposing, many a + scoffing word from men “who surely know, else would they speak?” and finds + himself much where he was before. But at least he is haunting the possible + borders of discovery, while those who turn their backs upon the idea are + divided from him by a great gulf—it may be of moral difference. To + him there is still a grand auroral hope about the idea, and it still draws + him; the others, taking the thing from merest report of opinion, look + anywhere but thitherward. He who would not trust his best friend to set + forth his views of life, accepts the random judgements of unknown others + for a sufficing disposal of what the highest of the race have regarded as + a veritable revelation from the Father of men. He sees in it therefore + nothing but folly; for what he takes for the thing nowhere meets his + nature. Our searcher at least holds open the door for the hearing of what + voice may come to him from the region invisible: if there be truth there, + he is where it will find him. + </p> + <p> + As he continues to read and reflect, the perception gradually grows clear + in him, that, if there be truth in the matter, he must, first of all, and + beyond all things else, give his best heed to the reported words of the + man himself—to what he says, not what is said about him, valuable as + that may afterwards prove to be. And he finds that concerning these words + of his, the man says, or at least plainly implies, that only the obedient, + childlike soul can understand them. It follows that the judgement of no + man who does not obey can be received concerning them or the speaker of + them—that, for instance, a man who hates his enemy, who tells lies, + who thinks to serve God and Mammon, whether he call himself a Christian or + no, has not the right of an opinion concerning the Master or his words—at + least in the eyes of the Master, however it may be in his own. This is in + the very nature of things: obedience alone places a man in the position in + which he can see so as to judge that which is above him. In respect of + great truths investigation goes for little, speculation for nothing; if a + man would know them, he must obey them. Their nature is such that the only + door into them is obedience. And the truth-seeker perceives—which + allows him no loophole of escape from life—that what things the Son + of Man requires of him, are either such as his conscience backs for just, + or such as seem too great, too high for any man. But if there be help for + him, it must be a help that recognizes the highest in him, and urges him + to its use. Help cannot come to one made in the image of God, save in the + obedient effort of what life and power are in him, for God is action. In + such effort alone is it possible for need to encounter help. It is the + upstretched that meets the downstretched hand. He alone who obeys can with + confidence pray—to him alone does an answer seem a thing that may + come. And should anything spoken by the Son of Man seem to the seeker + unreasonable, he feels in the rest such a majesty of duty as compels him + to judge with regard to the other, that he has not yet perceived its true + nature, or its true relation to life. + </p> + <p> + And now comes the crisis: if here the man sets himself honestly to do the + thing the Son of Man tells him, he so, and so first, sets out positively + upon the path which, if there be truth in these things, will conduct him + to a knowledge of the whole matter; not until then is he a disciple. If + the message be a true one, the condition of the knowledge of its truth is + not only reasonable but an unavoidable necessity. If there be help for + him, how otherways should it draw nigh? He has to be assured of the + highest truth of his being: there can be no other assurance than that to + be gained thus, and thus alone; for not only by obedience does a man come + into such contact with truth as to know what it is, and in regard to truth + knowledge and belief are one. That things which cannot appear save to the + eye capable of seeing them, that things which cannot be recognized save by + the mind of a certain development, should be examined by eye incapable, + and pronounced upon by mind undeveloped, is absurd. The deliverance the + message offers is a change such that the man shall <i>be</i> the rightness + of which he talked: while his soul is not a hungered, athirst, aglow, a + groaning after righteousness—that is, longing to be himself honest + and upright, it is an absurdity that he should judge concerning the way to + this rightness, seeing that, while he walks not in it, he is and shall be + a dishonest man: he knows not whither it leads and how can he know the + way! What he <i>can</i> judge of is, his duty at a given moment—and + that not in the abstract, but as something to be by him <i>done</i>, + neither more, nor less, nor other than <i>done</i>. Thus judging and + doing, he makes the only possible step nearer to righteousness and + righteous judgement; doing otherwise, he becomes the more unrighteous, the + more blind. For the man who knows not God, whether he believes there is a + God or not, there can be, I repeat, no judgement of things pertaining to + God. To our supposed searcher, then, the crowning word of the Son of Man + is this, “If any man is willing to do the will of the Father, he shall + know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.” + </p> + <p> + Having thus accompanied my type to the borders of liberty, my task for the + present is over. The rest let him who reads prove for himself. Obedience + alone can convince. To convince without obedience I would take no bootless + labour; it would be but a gain for hell. If any man call these things + foolishness, his judgement is to me insignificant. If any man say he is + open to conviction, I answer him he can have none but on the condition, by + the means of obedience. If a man say, “The thing is not interesting to + me,” I ask him, “Are you following your conscience? By that, and not by + the interest you take or do not take in a thing, shall you be judged. Nor + will anything be said to you, or of you, in that day, whatever <i>that day</i> + mean, of which your conscience will not echo every syllable.” + </p> + <p> + Oneness with God is the sole truth of humanity. Life parted from its + causative life would be no life; it would at best be but a barrack of + corruption, an outpost of annihilation. In proportion as the union is + incomplete, the derived life is imperfect. And no man can be one with + neighbour, child, dearest, except as he is one with his origin; and he + fails of his perfection so long as there is one being in the universe he + could not love. + </p> + <p> + Of all men he is bound to hold his face like a flint in witness of this + truth who owes everything that makes for eternal good, to the belief that + at the heart of things and causing them to be, at the centre of monad, of + world, of protoplastic mass, of loving dog, and of man most cruel, is an + absolute, perfect love; and that in the man Christ Jesus this love is with + us men to take us home. To nothing else do I for one owe any grasp upon + life. In this I see the setting right of all things. To the man who + believes in the Son of God, poetry returns in a mighty wave; history + unrolls itself in harmony; science shows crowned with its own aureole of + holiness. There is no enlivener of the imagination, no enabler of the + judgment, no strengthener of the intellect, to compare with the belief in + a live Ideal, at the heart of all personality, as of every law. If there + be no such live Ideal, then a falsehood can do more for the race than the + facts of its being; then an unreality is needful for the development of + the man in all that is real, in all that is in the highest sense true; + then falsehood is greater than fact, and an idol necessary for lack of a + God. They who deny cannot, in the nature of things, know what they deny. + When one sees a chaos begin to put on the shape of an ordered world, he + will hardly be persuaded it is by the power of a foolish notion bred in a + diseased fancy. + </p> + <p> + Let the man then who would rise to the height of his being, be persuaded + to test the Truth by the deed—the highest and only test that can be + applied to the loftiest of all assertions. To every man I say, “Do the + truth you know, and you shall learn the truth you need to know.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ST. GEORGE’S DAY, 1564. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1864.] + </p> + <p> + All England knows that this year (1864) is the three hundredth since + Shakspere was born. The strong probability is likewise that this month of + April is that in which he first saw the earthly light. On the twenty-sixth + of April he was baptized. Whether he was born on the twenty-third, to + which effect there may once have been a tradition, we do not know; but + though there is nothing to corroborate that statement, there are two facts + which would incline us to believe it if we could: the one that he <i>died</i> + on the twenty-third of April, thus, as it were, completing a cycle; and + the other that the twenty-third of April is St. George’s Day. If there is + no harm in indulging in a little fanciful sentiment about such a grand + fact, we should say that certainly it was <i>St. George for merry England</i> + when Shakspere was born. But had St. George been the best saint in the + calendar—which we have little enough ground for supposing he was—it + would better suit our subject to say that the Highest was thinking of his + England when he sent Shakspere into it, to be a strength, a wonder, and a + gladness to the nations of his earth. + </p> + <p> + But if we write thus about Shakspere, influenced only by the fashion of + the day, we shall be much in the condition of those <i>fashionable</i> + architects who with their vain praises built the tombs of the prophets, + while they had no regard to the lessons they taught. We hope to be able to + show that we have good grounds for our rejoicing in the birth of that + child whom after-years placed highest on the rocky steep of Art, up which + so many of those who combine feeling and thought are always striving. + </p> + <p> + First, however, let us look at some of the more powerful of the influences + into the midst of which he was born. For a child is born into the womb of + the time, which indeed enclosed and fed him before he was born. Not the + least subtle and potent of those influences which tend to the education of + the child (in the true sense of the word <i>education</i>) are those which + are brought to bear upon him <i>through</i> the mind, heart, judgement of + his parents. We mean that those powers which have operated strongly upon + them, have a certain concentrated operation, both antenatal and + psychological, as well as educational and spiritual, upon the child. Now + Shakspere was born in the sixth year of Queen Elizabeth. He was the eldest + son, but the third child. His father and mother must have been married not + later than the year 1557, two years after Cranmer was burned at the stake, + one of the two hundred who thus perished in that time of pain, resulting + in the firm establishment of a reformation which, like all other changes + for the better, could not be verified and secured without some form or + other of the <i>trial by fire</i>. Events such as then took place in every + part of the country could not fail to make a strong impression upon all + thinking people, especially as it was not those of high position only who + were thus called upon to bear witness to their beliefs. John Shakspere and + Mary Arden were in all likelihood themselves of the Protestant party; and + although, as far as we know, they were never in any especial danger of + being denounced, the whole of the circumstances must have tended to + produce in them individually, what seems to have been characteristic of + the age in which they lived, earnestness. In times such as those, people + are compelled to think. + </p> + <p> + And here an interesting question occurs: Was it in part to his mother that + Shakspere was indebted for that profound knowledge of the Bible which is + so evident in his writings? A good many copies of the Scriptures must have + been by this time, in one translation or another, scattered over the + country. [Footnote: And it seems to us probable that this diffusion of the + Bible, did more to rouse the slumbering literary power of England, than + any influences of foreign literature whatever.] No doubt the word was + precious in those days, and hard to buy; but there might have been a copy, + notwithstanding, in the house of John Shakspere, and it is possible that + it was from his mother’s lips that the boy first heard the Scripture + tales. We have called his acquaintance with Scripture <i>profound</i>, and + one peculiar way in which it manifests itself will bear out the assertion; + for frequently it is the very spirit and essential aroma of the passage + that he reproduces, without making any use of the words themselves. There + are passages in his writings which we could not have understood but for + some acquaintance with the New Testament. We will produce a few specimens + of the kind we mean, confining ourselves to one play, “Macbeth.” + </p> + <p> + Just mentioning the phrase, “temple-haunting martlet” (act i. scene 6), as + including in it a reference to the verse, “Yea, the sparrow hath found an + house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, + even thine altars, O Lord of hosts,” we pass to the following passage, for + which we do not believe there is any explanation but that suggested to us + by the passage of Scripture to be cited. + </p> + <p> + Macbeth, on his way to murder Duncan, says,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou sure and firm-set earth, + Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear + Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, + And take the present horror from the time + Which now suits with it.” + </pre> + <p> + What is meant by the last two lines? It seems to us to be just another + form of the words, “For there is nothing covered, that shall not be + revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye + have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye + have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the + house-tops.” Of course we do not mean that Macbeth is represented as + having this passage in his mind, but that Shakspere had the feeling of it + when he wrote thus. What Macbeth means is, “Earth, do not hear me in the + dark, which is suitable to the present horror, lest the very stones prate + about it in the daylight, which is not suitable to such things; thus + taking ‘the present horror <i>from</i> the time which now suits with it.’” + </p> + <p> + Again, in the only piece of humour in the play—if that should be + called humour which, taken in its relation to the consciousness of the + principal characters, is as terrible as anything in the piece—the + porter ends off his fantastic soliloquy, in which he personates the porter + of hell-gate, with the words, “But this place is too cold for hell: I’ll + devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some of all + professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.” Now + what else had the writer in his mind but the verse from the Sermon on the + Mount, “For wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to + destruction, and many there be which go in thereat”? + </p> + <p> + It may be objected that such passages as these, being of the most commonly + quoted, imply no profound acquaintance with Scripture, such as we have + said Shakspere possessed. But no amount of knowledge of the <i>words</i> + of the Bible would be sufficient to justify the use of the word <i>profound</i>. + What is remarkable in the employment of these passages, is not merely that + they are so present to his mind that they come up for use in the most + exciting moments of composition, but that he embodies the spirit of them + in such a new form as reveals to minds saturated and deadened with the <i>sound</i> + of the words, the very visual image and spiritual meaning involved in + them. “<i>The primrose way!</i>” And to what? + </p> + <p> + We will confine ourselves to one passage more:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Macbeth + Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above + Put on their instruments.” + </pre> + <p> + In the end of the 14th chapter of the Revelation we have the words, + “Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; + for the harvest of the earth is ripe.” We suspect that Shakspere wrote, + ripe <i>to</i> shaking. + </p> + <p> + The instances to which we have confined ourselves do not by any means + belong to the most evident kind of proof that might be adduced of + Shakspere’s acquaintance with Scripture. The subject, in its ordinary + aspect, has been elsewhere treated with far more fulness than our design + would permit us to indulge in, even if it had not been done already. Our + object has been to bring forward a few passages which seem to us to + breathe the very spirit of individual passages in sacred writ, without + direct use of the words themselves; and, of course, in such a case we can + only appeal to the (no doubt) very various degrees of conviction which + they may rouse in the minds of our readers. + </p> + <p> + But there is one singular correspondence in another <i>almost</i> literal + quotation from the Gospel, which is to us wonderfully interesting. We are + told that the words “eye of a needle,” in the passage about a rich man + entering the kingdom of heaven, mean the small side entrance in a city + gate. Now, in “Richard II,” act v. scene 5, <i>Richard</i> quotes the + passage thus:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It is as hard to come as for a camel + To thread the postern of a needle’s eye;” + </pre> + <p> + showing that either the imagination of Shakspere suggested the real + explanation, or he had taken pains to acquaint himself with the + significance of the simile. We can hardly say that the correspondence + might be <i>merely</i> fortuitous; because, at the least, Shakspere looked + for and found a suitable figure to associate with the words <i>eye of a + needle</i>, and so fell upon the real explanation; except, indeed, he had + no particular significance in using the word that meant a <i>little</i> + gate, instead of a word meaning any kind of entrance, which, with him, + seems unlikely. + </p> + <p> + We have not by any means proven that Shakspere’s acquaintance with the + Scriptures had an early date in his history; but certainly the Bible must + have had a great influence upon him who was the highest representative + mind of the time, its influence on the general development of the nation + being unquestionable. This, therefore, seeing the Bible itself was just + dawning full upon the country while Shakspere was becoming capable of + understanding it, seems the suitable sequence in which to take notice of + that influence, and of some of those passages in his works which testify + to it. + </p> + <p> + But, besides <i>the</i> Bible, every nation has <i>a</i> Bible, or at + least <i>an</i> Old Testament, in its own history; and that Shakspere paid + especial attention to this, is no matter of conjecture. We suspect his + mode of writing historical plays is more after the fashion of the Bible + histories than that of most writers of history. Indeed, the development + and consequences of character and conduct are clear to those that read his + histories with open eyes. Now, in his childhood Shakspere may have had + some special incentive to the study of history springing out of the fact + that his mother’s grandfather had been “groom of the chamber to Henry + VII.,” while there is sufficient testimony that a further removed ancestor + of his father, as well, had stood high in the favour of the same monarch. + Therefore the history of the troublous times of the preceding century, + which were brought to a close by the usurpation of Henry VII., would + naturally be a subject of talk in the quiet household, where books and + amusements such as now occupy our boys, were scarce or wanting altogether. + The proximity of such a past of strife and commotion, crowded with + eventful change, must have formed a background full of the material of + excitement to an age which lived in the midst of a peculiarly exciting + history of its own. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the chief intellectual characteristic of the age of Elizabeth was + <i>activity</i>; this activity accounting even for much that is + objectionable in its literature. Now this activity must have been growing + in the people throughout the fifteenth century; the wars of the Roses, + although they stifled literature, so that it had, as it were, to be born + again in the beginning of the following century, being, after all, but as + the “eager strife” of the shadow-leaves above the “genuine life” of the + grass,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And the mute repose + Of sweetly breathing flowers.” + </pre> + <p> + But when peace had fallen on the land, it would seem as if the impulse to + action springing from strife still operated, as the waves will go on + raving upon the shore after the wind has ceased, and found one outlet, + amongst others, in literature, and peculiarly in dramatic literature. + Peace, rendered yet more intense by the cessation of the cries of the + tormentors, and the groans of the noble army of suffering martyrs, made, + as it were, a kind of vacuum; and into that vacuum burst up the + torrent-springs of a thousand souls—the thoughts that were no longer + repressed—in the history of the past and the Utopian speculation on + the future; in noble theology, capable statesmanship, and science at once + brilliant and profound; in the voyage of discovery, and the change of the + swan-like merchantman into a very fire-drake of war for the defence of the + threatened shores; in the first brave speech of the Puritan in Elizabeth’s + Parliament, the first murmurs of the voice of liberty, soon to thunder + throughout the land; in the naturalizing of foreign genius by translation, + and the invention, or at least adoption, of a new and transcendent rhythm; + in the song, in the epic, in the drama. + </p> + <p> + So much for the general. Let us now, following the course of his life, + recall, in a few sentences, some of the chief events which must have + impressed the all-open mind of Shakspere in the earlier portion of his + history. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it would not be going back too far to begin with the Massacre of + Paris, which took place when he was eight years old. It caused so much + horror in England, that it is not absurd to suppose that some black rays + from the deed of darkness may have fallen on the mind of such a child as + Shakspere. + </p> + <p> + In strong contrast with the foregoing is the next event to which we shall + refer. + </p> + <p> + When he was eleven years old, Leicester gave the Queen that magnificent + reception at Kenilworth which is so well known from its memorials in our + literature. It has been suggested as probable, with quite enough of + likelihood to justify a conjecture, that Shakspere may have been present + at the dramatic representations then so gorgeously accumulated before her + Majesty. If such was the fact, it is easy to imagine what an influence the + shows must have had on the mind of the young dramatic genius, at a time + when, happily, the critical faculty is not by any means so fully awake as + are the receptive and exultant faculties, and when what the nature chiefly + needs is excitement to growth, without which all pruning, the most + artistic, is useless, as having nothing to operate upon. + </p> + <p> + When he was fifteen years old, Sir Thomas North’s translation of Plutarch + (through the French) was first published. Any reader who has compared one + of Shakspere’s Roman plays with the corresponding life in Plutarch, will + not be surprised that we should mention this as one of those events which + must have been of paramount influence upon Shakspere. It is not likely + that he became acquainted with the large folio with its medallion + portraits first placed singly, and then repeated side by side for + comparison, as soon as it made its appearance, but as we cannot tell when + he began to read it, it seems as well to place it in the order its + publication would assign to it. Besides, it evidently took such a hold of + the man, that it is most probable his acquaintance with it began at a very + early period of his history. Indeed, it seems to us to have been one of + the most powerful aids to the development of that perception and + discrimination of character with which he was gifted to such a remarkable + degree. Nor would it be any derogation from the originality of his genius + to say, that in a very pregnant sense he must have been a disciple of + Plutarch. In those plays founded on Plutarch’s stories he picked out every + dramatic point, and occasionally employed the very phrases of North’s + nervous, graphic, and characteristic English. He seems to have felt that + it was an honour to his work to embody in it the words of Plutarch + himself, as he knew them first. From him he seems especially to have + learned how to bring out the points of a character, by putting one man + over against another, and remarking wherein they resembled each other and + wherein they differed; after which fashion, in other plays as well as + those, he partly arranged his dramatic characters. + </p> + <p> + Not long after he went to London, when he was twenty-two, the death of Sir + Philip Sidney at the age of thirty-two, must have had its unavoidable + influence on him, seeing all Europe was in mourning for the death of its + model, almost ideal man. In England the general mourning, both in the + court and the city, which lasted for months, is supposed by Dr. Zouch to + have been the first instance of the kind; that is, for the death of a + private person. Renowned over the civilized world for everything for which + a man could be renowned, his literary fame must have had a considerable + share in the impression his death would make on such a man as Shakspere. + For although none of his works were published till after his death, the + first within a few months of that event, his fame as a writer was widely + spread in private, and report of the same could hardly fail to reach one + who, although he had probably no friends of rank as yet, kept such keen + open ears for all that was going on around him. But whether or not he had + heard of the literary greatness of Sir Philip before his death, the + “Arcadia,” which was first published four years after his death (1590), + and which in eight years had reached the third edition—with another + still in Scotland the following year—must have been full of interest + to Shakspere. This book is very different indeed from the ordinary + impression of it which most minds have received through the confident + incapacity of the critics of last century. Few books have been published + more fruitful in the results and causes of thought, more sparkling with + fancy, more evidently the outcome of rich and noble habit, than this + “Arcadia” of Philip Sidney. That Shakspere read it, is sufficiently + evident from the fact that from it he has taken the secondary but still + important plots in two of his plays. + </p> + <p> + Although we are anticipating, it is better to mention here another book, + published in the same year, namely, 1590, when Shakspere was + six-and-twenty: the first three books of Spenser’s “Faery Queen.” Of its + reception and character it is needless here to say anything further than, + of the latter, that nowadays the depths of its teaching, heartily prized + as that was by no less a man than Milton, are seldom explored. But it + would be a labour of months to set out the known and imagined sources of + the knowledge and spiritual pabulum of the man who laid every mental + region so under contribution, that he has been claimed by almost every + profession as having been at one time or another a student of its peculiar + science, so marvellously in him was the power of assimilation combined + with that of reproduction. + </p> + <p> + To go back a little: in 1587, when he was three-and-twenty, Mary Queen of + Scots was executed. In the following year came that mighty victory of + England, and her allies the winds and the waters, over the towering pride + of the Spanish Armada. Out from the coasts, like the birds from their + cliffs to defend their young, flew the little navy, many of the vessels + only able to carry a few guns; and fighting, fire-ships and tempest left + this island,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This precious stone set in the silver sea,” + </pre> + <p> + still a “blessed plot,” with an accumulated obligation to liberty which + can only be paid by helping others to be free; and when she utterly + forgets which, her doom is sealed, as surely as that of the old empires + which passed away in their self-indulgence and wickedness. + </p> + <p> + When Shakspere was about thirty-two, Sir Walter Raleigh published his + glowing account of Guiana, which instantly provided the English mind with + an earthly paradise or fairy-land. Raleigh himself seems to have been too + full of his own reports for us to be able to suppose that he either + invented or disbelieved them; especially when he represents the heavenly + country to which, in expectation of his execution, he is looking forward, + after the fashion of those regions of the wonderful West:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then the blessed Paths wee’l travel, + Strow’d with Rubies thick as gravel; + Sealings of Diamonds, Saphire floors, + High walls of Coral, and Pearly Bowers.” + </pre> + <p> + Such were some of the influences which widened the region of thought, and + excited the productive power, in the minds of the time. After this period + there were fewer of such in Shakspere’s life; and if there had been more + of them they would have been of less import as to their operation on a + mind more fully formed and more capable of choosing its own influences. + Let us now give a backward glance at the history of the art which + Shakspere chose as the means of easing his own mind of that wealth which, + like the gold and the silver, has a moth and rust of its own, except it be + kept in use by being sent out for the good of our neighbours. + </p> + <p> + It was a mighty gain for the language and the people when, in the middle + of the fourteenth century, by permission of the Pope, the miracle-plays, + most probably hitherto represented in Norman-French, as Mr. Collier + supposes, began to be represented in English. Most likely there had been + dramatic representations of a sort from the very earliest period of the + nation’s history; for, to begin with the lowest form, at what time would + there not, for the delight of listeners, have been the imitation of animal + sounds, such as the drama of the conversation between an attacking poodle + and a fiercely repellent puss? Through innumerable gradations of childhood + would the art grow before it attained the first formal embodiment in such + plays as those, so-called, of miracles, consisting just of Scripture + stories, both canonical and apocryphal, dramatized after the rudest + fashion. Regarded from the height which the art had reached two hundred + and fifty years after, “how dwarfed a growth of cold and night” do these + miracle-plays show themselves! But at a time when there was no printing, + little preaching, and Latin prayers, we cannot help thinking that, + grotesque and ill-imagined as they are, they must have been of unspeakable + value for the instruction of a people whose spiritual digestion was not of + a sort to be injured by the presence of a quite abnormal quantity of husk + and saw-dust in their food. And occasionally we find verses of true poetic + feeling, such as the following, in “The Fall of Man:”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Deus.</i> Adam, that with myn handys I made, + Where art thou now? What hast thou wrought? + + <i>Adam.</i> A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade, + I here thi voys, but I se the nought; +</pre> + <p> + implying that the separation between God and man, although it had + destroyed the beatific vision, was not yet so complete as to make the + creature deaf to the voice of his Maker. Nor are the words of Eve, with + which she begs her husband, in her shame and remorse, to strangle her, odd + and quaint as they are, without an almost overpowering pathos:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now stomble we on stalk and ston; + My wyt awey is fro me gon: + Wrythe on to my necke bon + With, hardnesse of thin honde.” + </pre> + <p> + To this Adam commences his reply with the verses,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Wyff, thi wytt is not wurthe a rosche. + Leve woman, turn thi thought.” + </pre> + <p> + And this portion of the general representation ends with these verses, + spoken by Eve:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Alas! that ever we wrought this synne. + Oure bodely sustenauns for to wynne, + Ye must delve and I xal spynne, + In care to ledyn oure lyff.” + </pre> + <p> + In connexion with these plays, one of the contemplations most interesting + to us is, the contrast between them and the places in which they were + occasionally represented. For though the scaffolds on which they were + shown were usually erected in market-places or churchyards, sometimes they + rose in the great churches, and the plays were represented with the aid of + ecclesiastics. Here, then, we have the rude beginnings of the dramatic + art, in which the devil is the unfortunate buffoon, giving occasion to the + most exuberant laughter of the people—here is this rude boyhood, if + we may so say, of the one art, roofed in with the perfection of another, + of architecture; a perfection which now we can only imitate at our best: + below, the clumsy contrivance and the vulgar jest; above, the solemn + heaven of uplifted arches, their mysterious glooms ringing with the + delight of the multitude: the play of children enclosed in the heart of + prayer aspiring in stone. But it was not by any means all laughter; and so + much, nearer than architecture is the drama to the ordinary human heart, + that we cannot help thinking these grotesque representations did far more + to arouse the inward life and conscience of the people than all the glory + into which the out-working spirit of the monks had compelled the stubborn + stone to bourgeon and blossom. + </p> + <p> + But although, no doubt, there was some kind of growth going on in the + drama even during the dreary fifteenth century, we must not suppose that + it was by any regular and steady progression that it arrived at the + grandeur of the Elizabethan perfection. It was rather as if a dry, knotty, + uncouth, but vigorous plant suddenly opened out its inward life in a + flower of surpassing splendour and loveliness. When the representation of + real historical persons in the miracle-plays gave way before the + introduction of unreal allegorical personages, and the miracle-play was + almost driven from the stage by the “play of morals” as it was called, + there was certainly no great advance made in dramatic representation. The + chief advantage gained was room for more variety; while in some important + respects these plays fell off from the merits of the preceding kind. + Indeed, any attempt to teach morals allegorically must lack that vivifying + fire of faith working in the poorest representations of a history which + the people heartily believed and loved. Nor when we come to examine the + favourite amusement of later royalty, do we find that the interludes + brought forward in the pauses of the banquets of Henry VIII. have a claim + to any refinement upon those old miracle-plays. They have gained in + facility and wit; they have lost in poetry. They have lost pathos too, and + have gathered grossness. In the comedies which soon appear, there is far + more of fun than of art; and although the historical play had existed for + some time, and the streams of learning from the inns of court had flowed + in to swell that of the drama, it is not before the appearance of + Shakspere that we find any <i>whole</i> of artistic or poetic value. And + this brings us to another branch of the subject, of which it seems to us + that the importance has never been duly acknowledged. We refer to the use, + if not invention, of <i>blank verse</i> in England, and its application to + the purposes of the drama. It seems to us that in any contemplation of + Shakspere and his times, the consideration of these points ought not to be + omitted. + </p> + <p> + We have in the present day one grand master of blank verse, the Poet + Laureate. But where would he have been if Milton had not gone before him; + or if the verse amidst which he works like an informing spirit had not + existed at all? No doubt he might have invented it himself; but how + different would the result have been from the verse which he will now + leave behind him to lie side by side for comparison with that of the + master of the epic! All thanks then to Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey! who, + if, dying on the scaffold at the early age of thirty, he has left no + poetry in itself of much value, yet so wrote that he refined the poetic + usages of the language, and, above all, was the first who ever made blank + verse in English. He used it in translating the second and fourth books of + Virgil’s “Aeneid.” This translation he probably wrote not long before his + execution, which took place in 1547, seventeen years before the birth of + Shakspere. There are passages of excellence in the work, and very rarely + does a verse quite fail. But, as might be expected, it is somewhat stiff, + and, as it were, stunted in sound; partly from the fact that the lines are + too much divided, where <i>distinction</i> would have been sufficient. It + would have been strange, indeed, if he had at once made a free use of a + rhythm which every boy-poet now thinks he can do what he pleases with, but + of which only a few ever learn the real scope and capabilities. Besides, + the difficulty was increased by the fact that the nearest approach to it + in measure was the heroic couplet, so well known in our language, although + scarce one who has used it has come up to the variousness of its modelling + in the hands of Chaucer, with whose writings Surrey was of course + familiar. But various as is its melody in Chaucer, the fact of there being + always an anticipation of the perfecting of a rhyme at the end of the + couplet would make one accustomed to heroic verse ready to introduce a + rhythmical fall and kind of close at the end of every blank verse in + trying to write that measure for the first time. Still, as we say, there + is good verse in Surrey’s translation. Take the following lines for a + specimen, in which the fault just mentioned is scarcely perceptible. + Mercury is the subject of them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His golden wings he knits, which him transport, + With a light wind above the earth and seas; + And then with him his wand he took, whereby + He calls from hell pale ghosts. +</pre> + + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “By power whereof he drives the winds away, + And passeth eke amid the troubled clouds, + Till in his flight he ‘gan descry the top + And the steep flanks of rocky Atlas’ hill + That with his crown sustains the welkin up; + Whose head, forgrown with pine, circled alway + With misty clouds, is beaten with wind and storm; + His shoulders spread with snow; and from his chin + The springs descend; his beard frozen with ice. + Here Mercury with equal shining wings + First touched.” + </pre> + <p> + In all comparative criticism justice demands that he who began any mode + should not be compared with those who follow only on the ground of + absolute merit in the productions themselves; for while he may be inferior + in regard to quality, he stands on a height, as the inventor, to which + they, as imitators, can never ascend, although they may climb other and + loftier heights, through the example he has set them. It is doubtful, + however, whether Surrey himself invented this verse, or only followed the + lead of some poet of Italy or Spain; in both which countries it is said + that blank verse had been used before Surrey wrote English in that + measure. + </p> + <p> + Here then we have the low beginnings of blank verse. It was nearly a + hundred and twenty years before Milton took it up, and, while it served + him well, glorified it; nor are we aware of any poem of worth written in + that measure between. Here, of course, we speak of the epic form of the + verse, which, as being uttered <i>ore rotundo</i>, is necessarily of + considerable difference from the form it assumes in the drama. + </p> + <p> + Let us now glance for a moment at the forms of composition in use for + dramatic purposes before blank verse came into favour with play-writers. + The nature of the verse employed in the miracle-plays will be sufficiently + seen from the short specimens already given. These plays were made up of + carefully measured and varied lines, with correct and superabundant + rhymes, and no marked lack of melody or rhythm. But as far as we have made + acquaintance with the moral and other rhymed plays which followed, there + was a great falling off in these respects. They are in great measure + composed of long, irregular lines, with a kind of rhythmical progress + rather than rhythm in them. They are exceedingly difficult to read + musically, at least to one of our day. Here are a few verses of the sort, + from the dramatic poem, rather than drama, called somewhat improperly “The + Moral Play of God’s Promises,” by John Bale, who died the year before + Shakspere was born. It is the first in Dodsley’s collection. The verses + have some poetic merit. The rhythm will be allowed to be difficult at + least. The verses are arranged in stanzas, of which we give two. In most + plays the verses are arranged in rhyming couplets only. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Pater Coelestis.</i> + + I have with fearcenesse mankynde oft tymes corrected, + And agayne, I have allured hym by swete promes. + I have sent sore plages, when he hath me neglected, + And then by and by, most comfortable swetnes. + To wynne hym to grace, bothe mercye and ryghteousnes + I have exercysed, yet wyll he not amende. + Shall I now lose hym, or shall I him defende? + + In hys most myschefe, most hygh grace will I sende, + To overcome hym by favoure, if it may be. + With hys abusyons no longar wyll I contende, + But now accomplysh my first wyll and decre. + My worde beynge flesh, from hens shall set hym fre, + Hym teachynge a waye of perfyght ryhteousnesse, + That he shall not nede to perysh in hys weaknesse. +</pre> + <p> + To our ears, at least, the older miracle-plays were greatly superior. It + is interesting to find, however, in this apparently popular mode of + “building the rhyme”—certainly not the <i>lofty</i> rhyme, for no + such crumbling foundation could carry any height of superstructure—the + elements of the most popular rhythm of the present day; a rhythm admitting + of any number of syllables in the line, from four up to twelve, or even + more, and demanding only that there shall be not more than four accented + syllables in the line. A song written with any spirit in this measure has, + other things <i>not</i> being quite equal, yet almost a certainty of + becoming more popular than one written in any other measure. Most of Barry + Cornwall’s and Mrs. Heman’s songs are written in it. Scott’s “Lay of the + Last Minstrel,” Coleridge’s “Christabel,” Byron’s “Siege of Corinth,” + Shelley’s “Sensitive Plant,” are examples of the rhythm. Spenser is the + first who has made good use of it. One of the months in the “Shepherd’s + Calendar” is composed in it. We quote a few lines from this poem, to show + at once the kind we mean:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear + Cheerfully the winter’s wrathful cheer; + For age and winter accord full nigh; + This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry; + And as the lowering weather looks down, + So seemest thou like Good Friday to frown: + But my flowering youth is foe to frost; + My ship unwont in storms to be tost.” + </pre> + <p> + We can trace it slightly in Sir Thomas Wyatt, and we think in others who + preceded Spenser. There is no sign of it in Chaucer. But we judge it to be + the essential rhythm of Anglo-Saxon poetry, which will quite harmonize + with, if it cannot explain, the fact of its being the most popular measure + still. Shakspere makes a little use of it in one, if not in more, of his + plays, though it there partakes of the irregular character of that of the + older plays which he is imitating. But we suspect the clowns of the + authorship of some of the rhymes, “speaking more than was set down for + them,” evidently no uncommon offence. + </p> + <p> + Prose was likewise in use for the drama at an early period. + </p> + <p> + But we must now regard the application of blank verse to the use of the + drama. And in this part of our subject we owe most to the investigations + of Mr. Collier, than whom no one has done more to merit our gratitude for + such aids. It is universally acknowledged that “Ferrex and Porrex” was the + first drama in blank verse. But it was never represented on the public + stage. It was the joint production of Thomas Sackville, afterwards Lord + Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, both gentlemen of the + Inner Temple, by the members of which it was played before the Queen at + Whitehall in 1561, three years before Shakspere was born. As to its + merits, the impression left by it upon our minds is such that, although + the verse is decent, and in some respects irreproachable, we think the + time spent in reading it must be all but lost to any but those who must + verify to themselves their literary profession; a profession which, like + all other professions, involves a good deal of disagreeable duty. We spare + our readers all quotation, there being no occasion to show what blank + verse of the commonest description is. But we beg to be allowed to state + that this drama by no means represents the poetic powers of Thomas + Sackville. For although we cannot agree with Hallam’s general criticism, + either for or against Sackville, and although we admire Spenser, we hope, + as much as that writer could have admired him, we yet venture to say that + not only may some of Sackville’s personifications “fairly be compared with + some of the most poetical passages in Spenser,” but that there is in this + kind in Sackville a strength and simplicity of representation which + surpasses that of Spenser in passages in which the latter probably + imitated the former. We refer to the allegorical personages in Sackville’s + “Induction to the Mirrour of Magistrates,” and in Spenser’s description of + the “House of Pride.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Collier judges that the play in blank verse first represented on the + public stage was the “Tamburlaine” of Christopher Marlowe, and that it was + acted before 1587, at which date Shakspere would be twenty-three. This was + followed by other and better plays by the same author. Although we cannot + say much for the dramatic art of Marlowe, he has far surpassed every one + that went before him in dramatic <i>poetry</i>. The passages that might + worthily be quoted from Marlowe’s writings for the sake of their poetry + are innumerable, notwithstanding that there are many others which occupy a + border land between poetry and bombast, and are such that it is to us + impossible to say to which class they rather belong. Of course it is easy + for a critic to gain the credit of common-sense at the same time that he + saves himself the trouble of doing what he too frequently shows himself + incapable of doing to any good purpose—we mean <i>thinking</i>—by + classing all such passages together as bombastical nonsense; but even in + the matter of poetry and bombast, a wise reader will recognize that + extremes so entirely meet, without being in the least identical, that they + are capable of a sort of chemico-literary admixture, if not of + combination. Goethe himself need not have been ashamed to have written one + or two of the scenes in Marlowe’s “Faust;” not that we mean to imply that + they in the least resemble Goethe’s handiwork. His verse is, for dramatic + purposes, far inferior to Shakspere’s; but it was a great matter for + Shakspere that Marlowe preceded him, and helped to prepare to his hand the + tools and fashions he needed. The provision of blank verse for Shakspere’s + use seems to us worthy of being called providential, even in a system in + which we cannot believe that there is any chance. For as the stage itself + is elevated a few feet above the ordinary level, because it is the scene + of a <i>representation</i>, just so the speech of the drama, dealing not + with unreal but with ideal persons, the fool being a worthy fool, and the + villain a worthy villain, needs to be elevated some tones above that of + ordinary life, which is generally flavoured with so much of the <i>commonplace</i>. + Now the commonplace has no place at all in the drama of Shakspere, which + fact at once elevates it above the tone of ordinary life. And so the mode + of the speech must be elevated as well; therefore from prose into blank + verse. If we go beyond this, we cease to be natural for the stage as well + as life; and the result is that kind of composition well enough known in + Shakspere’s time, which he ridicules in the recitations of the player in + “Hamlet,” about <i>Priam</i> and <i>Hecuba</i>. We could show the very + passages of the play-writer Nash which Shakspere imitates in these. To use + another figure, Shakspere, in the same play, instructs the players “to + hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature.” Now every one must have felt + that somehow there is a difference between the appearance of any object or + group of objects immediately presented to the eye, and the appearance of + the same object or objects in a mirror. Nature herself is not the same in + the mirror held up to her. Everything changes sides in this + representation; and the room which is an ordinary, well-known, homely + room, gains something of the strange and poetic when regarded in the + mirror over the fire. Now for this representation, for this + mirror-reflection on the stage, blank verse is just the suitable glass to + receive the silvering of the genius-mind behind it. + </p> + <p> + But if Shakspere had had to sit down and make his tools first, and then + quarry his stone and fell his timber for the building of his house, + instead of finding everything ready to his hand for dressing his stone + already hewn, for sawing and carving the timber already in logs and planks + beside him, no doubt his house would have been built; but can we with any + reason suppose that it would have proved such “a lordly pleasure-house”? + Not even Shakspere could do without his poor little brothers who preceded + him, and, like the goblins and gnomes of the drama, got everything out of + the bowels of the dark earth, ready for the master, whom it would have + been a shame to see working in the gloom and the dust instead of in the + open eye of the day. Nor is anything so helpful to the true development of + power as the possibility of free action for as much of the power as is + already operative. This room for free action was provided by blank verse. + </p> + <p> + Yet when Shakspere came first upon the scene of dramatic labour, he had to + serve his private apprenticeship, to which the apprenticeship of the age + in the drama, had led up. He had to act first of all. Driven to London and + the drama by an irresistible impulse, when the choice of some profession + was necessary to make him independent of his father, seeing he was + himself, though very young, a married man, the first form in which the + impulse to the drama would naturally show itself in him would be the + desire to act; for the outside relations would first operate. As to the + degree of merit he possessed as an actor we have but scanty means of + judging; for afterwards, in his own plays, he never took the best + characters, having written them for his friend Richard Burbage. Possibly + the dramatic impulse was sufficiently appeased by the writing of the play, + and he desired no further satisfaction from personal representation; + although the amount of study spent upon the higher department of the art + might have been more than sufficient to render him unrivalled as well in + the presentation of his own conceptions. But the dramatic spring, having + once broken the upper surface, would scoop out a deeper and deeper well + for itself to play in, and the actor would soon begin to work upon the + parts he had himself to study for presentation. It being found that he + greatly bettered his own parts, those of others would be submitted to him, + and at length whole plays committed to his revision, of which kind there + may be several in the collection of his works. If the feather-end of his + pen is just traceable in “Titus Andronicus,” the point of it is much more + evident, and to as good purpose as Beaumont or Fletcher could have used + his to, at the best, in “Pericles, Prince of Tyre.” Nor would it be long + before he would submit one of his own plays for approbation; and then the + whole of his dramatic career lies open before him, with every possible + advantage for perfecting the work, for the undertaking of which he was + better qualified by nature than probably any other man whosoever; for he + knew everything about acting, practically—about the play-house and + its capabilities, about stage necessities, about the personal endowments + and individual qualifications of each of the company—so that, when + he was writing a play, he could distribute the parts before they even + appeared upon paper, and write for each actor with the very living form of + the ideal person present “in his mind’s eye,” and often to his bodily + sight; so that the actual came in aid of the ideal, as it always does if + the ideal be genuine, and the loftiest conceptions proved the truest to + visible nature. + </p> + <p> + This close relation of Shakspere to the actual leads us to a general and + remarkable fact, which again will lead us back to Shakspere. All the great + writers of Queen Elizabeth’s time were men of affairs; they were not + literary men merely, in the general acceptation of the word at present. + Hooker was a hard-working, sheep-keeping, cradle-rocking pastor of a + country parish. Bacon’s legal duties were innumerable before he became + Lord Keeper and Lord Chancellor. Raleigh was soldier, sailor, adventurer, + courtier, politician, discoverer: indeed, it is to his imprisonment that + we are indebted for much the most ambitious of his literary undertakings, + “The History of the World,” a work which for simple majesty of subject and + style is hardly to be surpassed in prose. Sidney, at the age of + three-and-twenty, received the highest praise for the management of a + secret embassy to the Emperor of Germany; took the deepest and most active + interest in the political affairs of his country; would have sailed with + Sir Francis Drake for South American discovery; and might probably have + been king of poor Poland, if the queen had not been too selfish or wise to + spare him. The whole of his literary productions was the work of his spare + hours. Spenser himself, who was, except Shakspere, the most purely a + literary man of them all, was at one time Secretary to the Lord Deputy of + Ireland, and, later in life, Sheriff of Cork. Nor is the remark true only + of the writers of Elizabeth’s period, or of the country of England. + </p> + <p> + It seems to us one of the greatest advantages that can befall a poet, to + be drawn out of his study, and still more out of the chamber of imagery in + his own thoughts, to behold and speculate upon the embodiment of Divine + thoughts and purposes in men and their affairs around him. Now Shakspere + had no public appointment, but he reaped all the advantage which such + could have given him, and more, from the perfection of his dramatic + position. It was not with making plays alone that he had to do; but, + himself an actor, himself in a great measure the owner of more than one + theatre, with a little realm far more difficult to rule than many a + kingdom—a company, namely, of actors—although possibly less + difficult from the fact that they were only men and boys; with the + pecuniary affairs of the management likewise under his supervision—he + must have found, in the relations and necessities of his own profession, + not merely enough of the actual to keep him real in his representations, + but almost sufficient opportunity for his one great study, that of + mankind, independently of social and friendly relations, which in his case + were of the widest and deepest. + </p> + <p> + But Shakspere had not business relations merely: he was a man of business. + There is a common blunder manifested, both in theory on the one side, and + in practice on the other, which the life of Shakspere sets full in the + light. The theory is, that genius is a sort of abnormal development of the + imagination, to the detriment and loss of the practical powers, and that a + genius is therefore a kind of incapable, incompetent being, as far as + worldly matters are concerned. The most complete refutation of this notion + lies in the fact that the greatest genius the world has known was a + successful man in common affairs. While his genius grew in strength, + fervour, and executive power, his worldly condition rose as well; he + became a man of importance in the eyes of his townspeople, by whom he + would not have been honoured if he had not made money; and he purchased + landed property in his native place with the results of his management of + his theatres. + </p> + <p> + The practical blunder lies in the notion cherished occasionally by young + people ambitious of literary distinction, that in the pursuit of such + things they must be content with the poverty to which the world dooms its + greatest men; accepting their very poverty as an additional proof of their + own genius. If this means that the poet is not to make money his object, + it means well: no man should. But if it means either that the world is + unkind, or that the poet is not to “gather up the fragments, that nothing + be lost,” it means ill. Shakspere did not make haste to be rich. He + neither blamed, courted, nor neglected the world: he was friendly with it. + He <i>could</i> not have pinched and scraped; but neither did he waste or + neglect his worldly substance, which is God’s gift too. Many immense + fortunes have been made, not by absolute dishonesty, but in ways to which + a man of genius ought to be yet more ashamed than another to condescend; + but it does not therefore follow that if a man of genius will do honest + work he will not make a fair livelihood by it, which for all good results + of intellect and heart is better than a great fortune. But then Shakspere + began with doing what he could. He did not consent to starve until the + world should recognize his genius, or grumble against the blindness of the + nation in not seeing what it was impossible it should see before it was + fairly set forth. He began at once to supply something which the world + wanted; for it wants many an honest thing. He went on the stage and acted, + and so gained power to reveal the genius which he possessed; and the + world, in its possible measure, was not slow to recognize it. Many a young + fellow who has entered life with the one ambition of being a poet, has + failed because he did not perceive that it is better to be a man than to + be a poet, that it is his first duty to get an honest living by doing some + honest work that he can do, and for which there is a demand, although it + may not be the most pleasant employment. Time would have shown whether he + was meant to be a poet or not; and if he had been no poet he would have + been no beggar; and if he had turned out a poet, it would have been partly + in virtue of that experience of life and truth, gained in his case in the + struggle for bread, without which, gained somehow, a man may be a sweet + dreamer, but can be no strong maker, no poet. In a word, here is <i>the</i> + Englishman of genius, beginning life with nothing, and dying, not rich, + but easy and honoured; and this by doing what no one else could do, + writing dramas in which the outward grandeur or beauty is but an exponent + of the inward worth; hiding pearls for the wise even within the jewelled + play of the variegated bubbles of fancy, which he blew while he wrought, + for the innocent delight of his thoughtless brothers and sisters. Wherever + the rainbow of Shakspere’s genius stands, there lies, indeed, at the foot + of its glorious arch, a golden key, which will open the secret doors of + truth, and admit the humble seeker into the presence of Wisdom, who, + having cried in the streets in vain, sits at home and waits for him who + will come to find her. And Shakspere had cakes and ale, although he was + virtuous. + </p> + <p> + But what do we know about the character of Shakspere? How can we tell the + inner life of a man who has uttered himself in dramas, in which of course + it is impossible that he should ever speak in his own person? No doubt he + may speak his own sentiments through the mouths of many of his persons; + but how are we to know in what cases he does so?—At least we may + assert, as a self-evident negative, that a passage treating of a wide + question put into the mouth of a person despised and rebuked by the best + characters in the play, is not likely to contain any cautiously formed and + cherished opinion of the dramatist. At first sight this may seem almost a + truism; but we have only to remind our readers that one of the passages + oftenest quoted with admiration, and indeed separately printed and + illuminated, is “The Seven Ages of Man,” a passage full of inhuman + contempt for humanity and unbelief in its destiny, in which not one of the + seven ages is allowed to pass over its poor sad stage without a sneer; and + that this passage is given by Shakspere to the <i>blasé</i> sensualist <i>Jaques</i> + in “As You Like it,” a man who, the good and wise <i>Duke</i> says, has + been as vile as it is possible for man to be, so vile that it would be an + additional sin in him to rebuke sin; a man who never was capable of seeing + what is good in any man, and hates men’s vices <i>because</i> he hates + themselves, seeing in them only the reflex of his own disgust. Shakspere + knew better than to say that all the world is a stage, and all the men and + women merely players. He had been a player himself, but only on the stage: + <i>Jaques</i> had been a player where he ought to have been a true man. + The whole of his account of human life is contradicted and exposed at once + by the entrance, the very moment when he has finished his wicked + burlesque, of <i>Orlando</i>, the young master, carrying <i>Adam</i>, the + old servant, upon his back. The song that immediately follows, sings true: + “Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.” But between the <i>all</i> + of <i>Jaques</i> and the <i>most</i> of the song, there is just the + difference between earth and hell.—Of course, both from a literary + and dramatic point of view, “The Seven Ages” is perfect. + </p> + <p> + Now let us make one positive statement to balance the other: that wherever + we find, in the mouth of a noble character, not stock sentiments of stage + virtue, but appreciation of a truth which it needs deep thought and + experience united with love of truth, to discover or verify for one’s + self, especially if the truth be of a sort which most men will fail not + merely to recognize as a truth, but to understand at all, because the + understanding of it depends on the foregoing spiritual perception—then + we think we may receive the passage as an expression of the inner soul of + the writer. He must have seen it before he could have said it; and to see + such a truth is to love it; or rather, love of truth in the general must + have preceded and enabled to the discovery of it. Such a passage is the + speech of the <i>Duke</i>, opening the second act of the play just + referred to, “As You Like it.” The lesson it contains is, that the + well-being of a man cannot be secured except he partakes of the ills of + life, “the penalty of Adam.” And it seems to us strange that the excellent + editors of the Cambridge edition, now in the course of publication—a + great boon to all students of Shakspere—should not have perceived + that the original reading, that of the folios, is the right one,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here feel we <i>not</i> the penalty of Adam?” + </pre> + <p> + which, with the point of interrogation supplied, furnishes the true + meaning of the whole passage; namely, that the penalty of Adam is just + what makes the “wood more free from peril than the envious court,” + teaching each “not to think of himself more highly than he ought to + think.” + </p> + <p> + But Shakspere, although everywhere felt, is nowhere seen in his plays. He + is too true an artist to show his own face from behind the play of life + with which he fills his stage. What we can find of him there we must find + by regarding the whole, and allowing the spiritual essence of the whole to + find its way to our brain, and thence to our heart. The student of + Shakspere becomes imbued with the idea of his character. It exhales from + his writings. And when we have found the main drift of any play—the + grand rounding of the whole—then by that we may interpret individual + passages. It is alone in their relation to the whole that we can do them + full justice, and in their relation to the whole that we discover the mind + of the master. + </p> + <p> + But we have another source of more direct enlightenment as to Shakspere + himself. We only say more <i>direct</i>, not more certain or extended + enlightenment. We have one collection of poems in which he speaks in his + own person and of himself. Of course we refer to his sonnets. Though these + occupy, with their presentation of himself, such a small relative space, + they yet admirably round and complete, to our eyes, the circle of his + individuality. In them and the plays the common saying—one of the + truest—that extremes meet, is verified. No man is complete in whom + there are no extremes, or in whom those extremes do not meet. Now the very + individuality of Shakspere, judged by his dramas alone, has been declared + nonexistent; while in the sonnets he manifests some of the deepest phases + of a healthy self-consciousness. We do not intend to enter into the still + unsettled question as to whether these sonnets were addressed to a man or + a woman. We have scarcely a doubt left on the question ourselves, as will + be seen from the argument we found on our conviction. We cannot say we + feel much interest in the other question, <i>If a man, what man?</i> A few + placed at the end, arranged as they have come down to us, are beyond doubt + addressed to a woman. But the difference in tone between these and the + others we think very remarkable. Possibly at the time they were written—most + of them early in his life, as it appears to us, although they were not + published till the year 1609, when he was forty-five years of age, Meres + referring to them in the year 1598, eleven years before, as known “among + his private friends”—he had not known such women as he knew + afterwards, and hence the true devotion of his soul is given to a friend + of his own sex. Gervinus, whose lectures on Shakspere, profound and lofty + to a degree unattempted by any other interpreter, we are glad to find have + been done into a suitable English translation, under the superintendence + of the author himself—Gervinus says somewhere in them that, as + Shakspere lived and wrote, his ideal of womanhood grew nobler and purer. + Certainly the woman to whom the last few of these sonnets are addressed + was neither noble nor pure. We think, in this matter at least, they record + one of his early experiences. + </p> + <p> + We shall briefly indicate what we find in these sonnets about the man + himself, and shall commence with what is least pleasing and of least + value. + </p> + <p> + We must confess, then, that, probably soon after he came first to London, + he, then a married man, had an intrigue with a married woman, of which + there are indications that he was afterwards deeply ashamed. One little + incident seems curiously traceable: that he had given her a set of tablets + which his friend had given him; and the sonnet in which he excuses himself + to his friend for having done so, seems to us the only piece of special + pleading, and therefore ungenuine expression, in the whole. This friend, + to whom the rest of the sonnets are addressed, made the acquaintance of + this woman, and both were false to Shakspere. Even Shakspere could not + keep the love of a worthless woman. So much the better for him; but it is + a sad story at best. Yet even in this environment of evil we see the + nobility of the man, and his real self. The sonnets in which he mourns his + friend’s falsehood, forgives him, and even finds excuses for him, that he + may not lose his own love of him, are, to our minds, amongst the most + beautiful, as they are the most profound. Of these are the 33rd and 34th. + Nor does he stop here, but proceeds in the following, the 35th, to comfort + his friend in his grief for his offence, even accusing himself of offence + in having made more excuse for his fault than the fault needed! But to + leave this part of his history, which, as far as we know, stands alone, + and yet cannot with truth be passed by, any more than the story of the + crime of David, though in this case there is no comparison to be made + between the two further than the primary fact, let us look at the one + reality which, from a spiritual point of view, independently of the + literary beauties of these poems, causes them to stand all but alone in + literature. We mean what has been unavoidably touched upon already, the + devotion of his friendship. We have said this makes the poems stand <i>all + but alone</i>; for we ought to be better able to understand these poems of + Shakspere, from the fact that in our day has appeared the only other poem + which is like these, and which casts back a light upon them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, + Where thy first form was made a man: + I loved thee, spirit, and love; nor can + The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.” + </pre> + <p> + So sings the Poet of our day, in the loftiest of his poems—“In + Memoriam”—addressing the spirit of his vanished friend. In the midst + of his song arises the thought of <i>the Poet</i> of all time, who loved + his friend too, and would have lost him in a way far worse than death, had + not his love been too strong even for that death, alone ghastly, which + threatened to cut the golden chain that bound them, and part them by the + gulf impassable. Tennyson’s friend had never wronged him; and to the + divineness of Shakspere’s love is added that of forgiveness. Such love as + this between man and man is rare, and therefore to the mind which is in + itself no way rare, incredible, because unintelligible. But though all the + commonest things are very divine, yet divine individuality is and will be + a rare thing at any given period on the earth. Faith, in its ideal sense, + will always be hard to find on the earth. But perhaps this kind of + affection between man and man may, as Coleridge indicates in his “Table + Talk,” have been more common in the reigns of Elizabeth and James than it + is now. There is a certain dread of the demonstrative in the present day, + which may, perhaps, be carried into regions where it is out of place, and + hinder the development of a devotion which must be real, and grand, and + divine, if one man such as Shakspere or Tennyson has ever felt it. If one + has felt it, humanity may claim it. And surely He who is <i>the</i> Son of + man has verified the claim. We believe there are indeed few of us who know + what <i>to love our neighbour as ourselves</i> means; but when we find a + man here and there in the course of centuries who does, we may take this + man as the prophet of coming good for his race, his prophecy being + himself. + </p> + <p> + But next to the interest of knowing that a man could love so well, comes + the association of this fact with his art. He who could look abroad upon + men, and understand them all—who stood, as it were, in the wide-open + gates of his palace, and admitted with welcome every one who came in sight—had + in the inner places of that palace one chamber in which he met his friend, + and in which his whole soul went forth to understand the soul of his + friend. The man to whom nothing in humanity was common or unclean; in whom + the most remarkable of his artistic morals is fair-play; who fills our + hearts with a saintly love for <i>Cordelia</i> and an admiration of <i>Sir + John Falstaff</i> the lost gentleman, mournful even in the height of our + laughter; who could make an <i>Autolycus</i> and a <i>Macbeth</i> both + human, and an <i>Ariel</i> and a <i>Puck</i> neither human—this is + the man who loved best. And we believe that this depth of capacity for + loving lay at the root of all his knowledge of men and women, and all his + dramatic pre-eminence. The heart is more intelligent than the intellect. + Well says the poet Matthew Raydon, who has hardly left anything behind him + but the lamentation over Sir Philip Sidney in which the lines occur,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He that hath love and judgment too + Sees more than any other do.” + </pre> + <p> + Simply, we believe that this, not this only, but this more than any other + endowment, made Shakspere the artist he was, in providing him all the + material of humanity to work upon, and keeping him to the true spirit of + its use. Love looking forth upon strife, understood it all. Love is the + true revealer of secrets, because it makes one with the object regarded. + </p> + <p> + “But,” say some impatient readers, “when shall we have done with + Shakspere? There is no end to this writing about him.” It will be a bad + day for England when we have done with Shakspere; for that will imply, + along with the loss of him, that we are no longer capable of understanding + him. Should that time ever come, Heaven grant the generation which does + not understand him at least the grace to keep its pens off him, which will + by no means follow as a necessary consequence of the non-intelligence! But + the writing about Shakspere which has been hitherto so plentiful must do + good just in proportion as it directs attention to him and gives aid to + the understanding of him. And while the utterances of to-day pass away, + the children of to-morrow are born, and require a new utterance for their + fresh need from those who, having gone before, have already tasted life + and Shakspere, and can give some little help to further progress than + their own, by telling the following generation what they have found. + Suppose that this cry had been raised last century, after good Dr. Johnson + had ceased to produce to the eyes of men the facts about his own + incapacity which he presumed to be criticisms of Shakspere, where would + our aids be now to the understanding of the dramatist? Our own conviction + is, when we reflect with how much labour we have deepened our knowledge of + him, and thereby found in him <i>the best</i>—for the best lies not + on the surface for the careless reader—our own conviction is, that + not half has been done that ought to be done to help young people at least + to understand the master mind of their country. Few among them can ever + give the attention or work to it that we have given; but much may be done + with judicious aid. And a profound knowledge of their greatest writer + would do more than almost anything else to bind together as Englishmen, in + a true and unselfish way, the hearts of the coming generations; for his + works are our country in a convex magic mirror. + </p> + <p> + When a man finds that every time he reads a book not only does some + obscurity melt away, but deeper depths, which he had not before seen, dawn + upon him, he is not likely to think that the time for ceasing to write + about the book has come. And certainly in Shakspere, as in all true + artistic work, as in nature herself, the depths are not to be revealed + utterly; while every new generation needs a new aid towards discovering + itself and its own thoughts in these forms of the past. And of all that + read about Shakspere there are few whom more than one or two utterances + have reached. The speech or the writing must go forth to find the soil for + the growth of its kernel of truth. We shall, therefore, with the full + consciousness that perhaps more has been already said and written about + Shakspere than about any other writer, yet venture to add to the mass by a + few general remarks. + </p> + <p> + And first we would remind our readers of the marvel of the combination in + Shakspere of such a high degree of two faculties, one of which is + generally altogether inferior to the other: the faculties of reception and + production. Rarely do we find that great receptive power, brought into + operation either by reading or by observation, is combined with + originality of thought. Some hungers are quite satisfied by taking in what + others have thought and felt and done. By the assimilation of this food + many minds grow and prosper; but other minds feed far more upon what rises + from their own depths; in the answers they are compelled to provide to the + questions that come unsought; in the theories they cannot help + constructing for the inclusion in one whole of the various facts around + them, which seem at first sight to strive with each other like the atoms + of a chaos; in the examination of those impulses of hidden origin which at + one time indicate a height of being far above the thinker’s present + condition, at another a gulf of evil into which he may possibly fall. But + in Shakspere the two powers of beholding and originating meet like the + rejoining halves of a sphere. A man who thinks his own thoughts much, will + often walk through London streets and see nothing. In the man who observes + only, every passing object mirrors itself in its prominent peculiarities, + having a kind of harmony with all the rest, but arouses no magician from + the inner chamber to charm and chain its image to his purpose. In + Shakspere, on the contrary, every outer form of humanity and nature spoke + to that ever-moving, self-vindicating—we had almost said, and in a + sense it would be true, self-generating—humanity within him. The + sound of any action without him, struck in him just the chord which, in + motion in him, would have produced a similar action. When anything was + done, he felt as if he were doing it—perception and origination + conjoining in one consciousness. + </p> + <p> + But to this gift was united the gift of utterance, or representation. Many + a man both receives and generates who, somehow, cannot represent. Nothing + is more disappointing sometimes than our first experience of the artistic + attempts of a man who has roused our expectations by a social display of + familiarity with, and command over, the subjects of conversation. Have we + not sometimes found that when such a one sought to give vital or artistic + form to these thoughts, so that they might not be born and die in the same + moment upon his lips, but might <i>exist</i>, a poor, weak, faded <i>simulacrum</i> + alone was the result? Now Shakspere was a great talker, who enraptured the + listeners, and was himself so rapt in his speech that he could scarcely + come to a close; but when he was alone with his art, then and then only + did he rise to the height of his great argument, and all the talk was but + as the fallen mortar and stony chips lying about the walls of the great + temple of his drama. + </p> + <p> + But, along with all this wealth of artistic speech, an artistic virtue of + an opposite nature becomes remarkable: his reticence. How often might he + not say fine things, particularly poetic things, when he does not, because + it would not suit the character or the time! How many delicate points are + there not in his plays which we only discover after many readings, because + he will not put a single tone of success into the flow of natural + utterance, to draw our attention to the triumph of the author, and jar + with the all-important reality of his production! Wherever an author + obtrudes his own self-importance, an unreality is the consequence, of a + nature similar to that which we feel in the old moral plays, when + historical and allegorical personages, such as <i>Julius Caesar</i> and <i>Charity</i>, + for instance, are introduced at the same time on the same stage, acting in + the same story. Shakspere never points to any stroke of his own wit or + art. We may find it or not: there it is, and no matter if no one see it! + </p> + <p> + Much has been disputed about the degree of consciousness of his own art + possessed by Shakspere: whether he did it by a grand yet blind impulse, or + whether he knew what he wanted to do, and knowingly used the means to + arrive at that end. Now we cannot here enter upon the question; but we + would recommend any of our readers who are interested in it not to attempt + to make up their minds upon it before considering a passage in another of + his poems, which may throw some light on the subject for them. It is the + description of a painting, contained in “The Rape of Lucrece,” towards the + end of the poem. Its very minuteness involves the expression of + principles, and reveals that, in relation to an art not his own, he could + hold principles of execution, and indicate perfection of finish, which, to + say the least, must proceed from a general capacity for art, and therefore + might find an equally conscious operation in his own peculiar province of + it. For our own part, we think that his results are a perfect combination + of the results of consciousness and unconsciousness; consciousness where + the arrangements of the play, outside the region of inspiration, required + the care of the wakeful intellect; unconsciousness where the subject + itself bore him aloft on the wings of its own creative delight. + </p> + <p> + There is another manifestation of his power which will astonish those who + consider it. It is this: that, while he was able to go down to the simple + and grand realities of human nature, which are all tragic; and while, + therefore, he must rejoice most in such contemplations of human nature as + find fit outlet in a “Hamlet,” a “Lear,” a “Timon,” or an “Othello,” the + tragedies of Doubt, Ingratitude, and Love, he can yet, when he chooses, + float on the very surface of human nature, as in “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” + “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” “The Comedy of Errors,” “The Taming of the + Shrew;” or he can descend half way as it were, and there remain suspended + in the characters and feelings of ordinary nice people, who, interesting + enough to meet in society, have neither received that development, nor are + placed in those circumstances, which admit of the highest and simplest + poetic treatment. In these he will bring out the ordinary noble or the + ordinary vicious. Of this nature are most of his comedies, in which he + gives an ideal representation of common social life, and steers perfectly + clear of what in such relations and surroundings would be <i>heroics</i>. + Look how steadily he keeps the noble-minded youth <i>Orlando</i> in this + middle region; and look how the best comes out at last in the wayward and + <i>recalcitrant</i> and <i>bizarre</i>, but honest and true natures of <i>Beatrice</i> + and <i>Benedick</i>; and this without any untruth to the nature of comedy, + although the circumstances border on the tragic. When he wants to give the + deeper affairs of the heart, he throws the whole at once out of the social + circle with its multiform restraints. As in “Hamlet” the stage on which + the whole is acted is really the heart of <i>Hamlet</i>, so he makes his + visible stage as it were, slope off into the misty infinite, with a grey, + starless heaven overhead, and Hades open beneath his feet. Hence young + people brought up in the country understand the tragedies far sooner than + they can comprehend the comedies. It needs acquaintance with society and + social ways to clear up the latter. + </p> + <p> + The remarks we have made on “Hamlet” by way of illustration, lead us to + point out how Shakspere prepares, in some of his plays, a stage suitable + for all the representation. In “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” the place which + gives tone to the whole is a midnight wood in the first flush and youthful + delight of summer. In “As You Like it” it is a daylight wood in spring, + full of morning freshness, with a cold wind now and then blowing through + the half-clothed boughs. In “The Tempest” it is a solitary island, circled + by the mysterious sea-horizon, over which what may come who can tell?—a + place where the magician may work his will, and have all nature at the + beck of his superior knowledge. + </p> + <p> + The only writer who would have had a chance of rivalling Shakspere in his + own walk, if he had been born in the same period of English history, is + Chaucer. He has the same gift of individualizing the general, and + idealizing the portrait. But the best of the dramatic writers of + Shakspere’s time, in their desire of dramatic individualization, forget + the modifying multiformity belonging to individual humanity. In their + anxiety to present a <i>character</i>, they take, as it were, a human + mould, label it with a certain peculiarity, and then fill in speeches and + forms according to the label. Thus the indications of character, of + peculiarity, so predominate, the whole is so much of one colour, that the + result resembles one of those allegorical personifications in which, as + much as possible, everything human is eliminated except what belongs to + the peculiarity, the personification. How different is it with Shakspere’s + representations! He knows that no human being ever was like that. He makes + his most peculiar characters speak very much like other people; and it is + only over the whole that their peculiarities manifest themselves with + indubitable plainness. The one apparent exception is <i>Jaques</i>, in “As + You Like it.” But there we must remember that Shakspere is representing a + man who so chooses to represent himself. He is a man <i>in his humour</i>, + or his own peculiar and chosen affectation. <i>Jaques</i> is the writer of + his own part; for with him “all the world’s a stage, and all the men and + women,” himself first, “merely players.” We have his own presentation of + himself, not, first of all, as he is, but as he chooses to be taken. Of + course his real self does come out in it, for no man can seem altogether + other than he is; and besides, the <i>Duke</i>, who sees quite through + him, rebukes him in the manner already referred to; but it is his + affectation that gives him the unnatural peculiarity of his modes and + speeches. He wishes them to be such. + </p> + <p> + There is, then, for every one of Shakspere’s characters the firm ground of + humanity, upon which the weeds, as well as the flowers, glorious or + fantastic, as the case may be, show themselves. His more heroic persons + are the most profoundly human. Nor are his villains unhuman, although + inhuman enough. Compared with Marlowe’s Jew, <i>Shylock</i> is a terrible + <i>man</i> beside a dreary <i>monster</i>, and, as far as logic and the <i>lex + talionis</i> go, has the best of the argument. It is the strength of human + nature itself that makes crime strong. Wickedness could have no power of + itself: it lives by the perverted powers of good. And so great is + Shakspere’s sympathy with <i>Shylock</i> even, in the hard and unjust doom + that overtakes him, that he dismisses him with some of the spare + sympathies of the more tender-hearted of his spectators. Nowhere is the + justice of genius more plain than in Shakspere’s utter freedom from + party-spirit, even with regard to his own creations. Each character shall + set itself forth from its own point of view, and only in the choice and + scope of the whole shall the judgment of the poet be beheld. He never + allows his opinion to come out to the damaging of the individual’s own + self-presentation. He knows well that for the worst something can be said, + and that a feeling of justice and his own right will be strong in the mind + of a man who is yet swayed by perfect selfishness. Therefore the false man + is not discoverable in his speech, not merely because the villain will + talk as like a true man as he may, but because seldom is the villainy + clear to the villain’s own mind. It is impossible for us to determine + whether, in their fierce bandying of the lie, <i>Bolingbroke</i> or <i>Norfolk</i> + spoke the truth. Doubtless each believed the other to be the villain that + he called him. And Shakspere has no desire or need to act the historian in + the decision of that question. He leaves his reader in full sympathy with + the perplexity of <i>Richard</i>; as puzzled, in fact, as if he had been + present at the interrupted combat. + </p> + <p> + If every writer could write up to his own best, we should have far less to + marvel at in Shakspere. It is in great measure the wealth of Shakspere’s + suggestions, giving him abundance of the best to choose from, that lifts + him so high above those who, having felt the inspiration of a good idea, + are forced to go on writing, constructing, carpentering, with dreary + handicraft, before the exhausted faculty has recovered sufficiently to + generate another. And then comes in the unerring choice of the best of + those suggestions. Yet if any one wishes to see what variety of the same + kind of thoughts he could produce, let him examine the treatment of the + same business in different plays; as, for instance, the way in which + instigation to a crime is managed in “Macbeth,” where <i>Macbeth</i> + tempts the two murderers to kill <i>Banquo</i>; in “King John,” when <i>the + King</i> tempts <i>Hubert</i> to kill <i>Arthur</i>; in “The Tempest,” + when <i>Antonio</i> tempts <i>Sebastian</i> to kill <i>Alonzo</i>; in “As + You Like it,” when <i>Oliver</i> instigates <i>Charles</i> to kill <i>Orlando</i>; + and in “Hamlet,” where <i>Claudius</i> urges <i>Laertes</i> to the murder + of <i>Hamlet</i>. + </p> + <p> + He shows no anxiety about being original. When a man is full of his work + he forgets himself. In his desire to produce a good play he lays hold upon + any material that offers itself. He will even take a bad play and make a + good one of it. One of the most remarkable discoveries to the student of + Shakspere is the hide-bound poverty of some of the stories, which, + informed by his life-power; become forms of strength, richness, and grace. + He does what the <i>Spirit</i> in “Comus” says the music he heard might + do,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “create a soul + Under the ribs of death;” + </pre> + <p> + and then death is straightway “clothed upon.” And nowhere is the refining + operation of his genius more evident than in the purification of these + stories. Characters and incidents which would have been honey and nuts to + Beaumont and Fletcher are, notwithstanding their dramatic recommendations, + entirely remodelled by him. The fair <i>Ophelia</i> is, in the old tale, a + common woman, and <i>Hamlet’s</i> mistress; while the policy of the <i>Lady + of Belmont</i>, who in the old story occupies the place for which he + invented the lovely <i>Portia</i>, upon which policy the whole story + turns, is such that it is as unfit to set forth in our pages as it was + unfit for Shakspere’s purposes of art. His noble art refuses to work upon + base matter. He sees at once the capabilities of a tale, but he will not + use it except he may do with it what he pleases. + </p> + <p> + If we might here offer some assistance to the young student who wants to + help himself, we would suggest that to follow, in a measure, Plutarch’s + fashion of comparison, will be the most helpful guide to the understanding + of the poet. Let the reader take any two characters, and putting them side + by side, look first for differences, and then for resemblances between + them, with the causes of each; or let him make a wider attempt, and + setting two plays one over against the other, compare or contrast them, + and see what will be the result. Let him, for instance, take the two + characters <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Brutus</i>, and compare their beginnings + and endings, the resemblances in their characters, the differences in + their conduct, the likeness and unlikeness of what was required of them, + the circumstances in which action was demanded of each, the helps or + hindrances each had to the working out of the problem of his life, the way + in which each encounters the supernatural, or any other question that may + suggest itself in reading either of the plays, ending off with the main + lesson taught in each; and he will be astonished to find, if he has not + already discovered it, what a rich mine of intellectual and spiritual + wealth is laid open to his delighted eyes. Perhaps not the least valuable + end to be so gained is, that the young Englishman, who wants to be + delivered from any temptation to think himself the centre around which the + universe revolves, will be aided in his endeavours after honourable + humility by looking up to the man who towers, like Saul, head and + shoulders above his brethren, and seeing that he is humble, may learn to + leave it to the pismire to be angry, to the earwig to be conceited, and to + the spider to insist on his own importance. + </p> + <p> + But to return to the main course of our observations. The dramas of + Shakspere are so natural, that this, the greatest praise that can be given + them, is the ground of one of the difficulties felt by the young student + in estimating them. The very simplicity of Shakspere’s art seems to throw + him out of any known groove of judgment. When he hears one say, “<i>Look + at this, and admire</i>,” he feels inclined to rejoin, “Why, he only says + in the simplest way what the thing must have been. It is as plain as + daylight.” Yes, to the reader; and because Shakspere wrote it. But there + were a thousand wrong ways of doing it: Shakspere took the one right way. + It is he who has made it plain in art, whatever it was before in nature; + and most likely the very simplicity of it in nature was scarcely observed + before he saw it and represented it. And is it not the glory of art to + attain this simplicity? for simplicity is the end of all things—all + manners, all morals, all religion. To say that the thing could not have + been done otherwise, is just to say that you forget the art in beholding + its object, that you forget the mirror because you see nature reflected in + the mirror. Any one can see the moon in Lord Rosse’s telescope; but who + made the reflector? And let the student try to express anything in prose + or in verse, in painting or in modelling, just as it is. No man knows till + he has made many attempts, how hard to reach is this simplicity of art. + And the greater the success, the fewer are the signs of the labour + expended. Simplicity is art’s perfection. + </p> + <p> + But so natural are all his plays, and the great tragedies to which we + would now refer in particular, amongst the rest, that it may appear to + some, at first sight, that Shakspere could not have constructed them after + any moral plan, could have had no lesson of his own to teach in them, + seeing they bear no marks of individual intent, in that they depart + nowhere from, nature, the construction of the play itself going straight + on like a history. The directness of his plays springs in part from the + fact that it is humanity and not circumstance that Shakspere respects. + Circumstance he uses only for the setting forth of humanity; and for the + plot of circumstance, so much in favour with Ben Jonson, and others of his + contemporaries, he cares nothing. As to their looking too natural to have + any design in them, we are not of those who believe that it is unlike + nature to have a design and a result. If the proof of a high aim is to be + what the critics used to call <i>poetic justice</i>, a kind of justice + that one would gladly find more of in grocers’ and linen-drapers’ shops, + but can as well spare from a poem, then we must say that he has not always + a high end: the wicked man is not tortured, nor is the good man smothered + in bank-notes and rose-leaves. Even when he shows the outward ruin and + death that comes upon Macbeth at last, it is only as an unavoidable little + consequence, following in the wake of the mighty vengeance of nature, even + of God, that Macbeth cannot say <i>Amen</i>; that Macbeth can sleep no + more; that Macbeth is “cabined cribbed, confined, bound in to saucy doubts + and fears;” that his very brain is a charnel-house, whence arise the + ghosts of his own murders, till he envies the very dead the rest to which + his hand has sent them. That immediate and eternal vengeance upon crime, + and that inner reward of well-doing, never fail in nature or in Shakspere, + appear as such a matter of course that they hardly look like design either + in nature or in the mirror which he holds up to her. The secret is that, + in the ideal, habit and design are one. + </p> + <p> + Most authors seem anxious to round off and finish everything in full + sight. Most of Shakspere’s tragedies compel our thoughts to follow their + <i>persons</i> across the bourn. They need, as Jean Paul says, a piece of + the next world painted in to complete the picture, And this is surely + nature: but it need not therefore be no design. What could be done with + Hamlet, but send him into a region where he has some chance of finding his + difficulties solved; where he will know that his reverence for God, which + was the sole stay left him in the flood of human worthlessness, has not + been in vain; that the skies are not “a foul and pestilent congregation of + vapours;” that there are noble women, though his mother was false and + Ophelia weak; and that there are noble men, although his uncle and Laertes + were villains and his old companions traitors? If Hamlet is not to die, + the whole of the play must perish under the accusation that the hero of it + is left at last with only a superadded misery, a fresh demand for action, + namely, to rule a worthless people, as they seem to him, when action has + for him become impossible; that he has to live on, forsaken even of death, + which will not come though the cup of misery is at the brim. + </p> + <p> + But a high end may be gained in this world, and the vision into the world + beyond so justified, as in King Lear. The passionate, impulsive, + unreasoning old king certainly must have given his wicked daughters + occasion enough of making the charges to which their avarice urged them. + He had learned very little by his life of kingship. He was but a boy with + grey hair. He had had no inner experiences. And so all the development of + manhood and age has to be crowded into the few remaining weeks of his + life. His own folly and blindness supply the occasion. And before the few + weeks are gone, he has passed through all the stages of a fever of + indignation and wrath, ending in a madness from which love redeems him; he + has learned that a king is nothing if the man is nothing; that a king + ought to care for those who cannot help themselves; that love has not its + origin or grounds in favours flowing from royal resource and munificence, + and yet that love is the one thing worth living for, which gained, it is + time to die. And now that he has the experience that life can give, has + become a child in simplicity of heart and judgment, he cannot lose his + daughter again; who, likewise, has learned the one thing she needed, as + far as her father was concerned, a little more excusing tenderness. In the + same play it cannot be by chance that at its commencement Gloucester + speaks with the utmost carelessness and <i>off-hand</i> wit about the + parentage of his natural son Edmund, but finds at last that this son is + his ruin. + </p> + <p> + Edgar, the true son, says to Edmund, after having righteously dealt him + his death-wound,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices + Make instruments to scourge us: + The dark and vicious place where thee he got + Cost him his eyes.” + </pre> + <p> + To which the dying and convicted villain replies,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou hast spoken right; ‘tis true: + The wheel is come full circle; I am here.” + </pre> + <p> + Could anything be put more plainly than the moral lesson in this? + </p> + <p> + It would be easy to produce examples of fine design from his comedies as + well; as for instance, from “Much Ado about Nothing:” the two who are made + to fall in love with each other, by being each severally assured of + possessing the love of the other, Beatrice and Benedick, are shown + beforehand to have a strong inclination towards each other, manifested in + their continual squabbling after a good-humoured fashion; but not all this + is sufficient to make them heartily in love, until they find out the + nobility of each other’s character in their behaviour about the + calumniated Hero; and the author takes care they shall not be married + without a previous acquaintance with the trick that has been played upon + them. Indeed we think the remark, that Shakspere never leaves any of his + characters the same at the end of a play as he took them up at the + beginning, will be found to be true. They are better or worse, wiser or + more irretrievably foolish. The historical plays would illustrate the + remark as well as any. + </p> + <p> + But of all the terrible plays we are inclined to think “Timon” the most + terrible, and to doubt whether justice has been done to the finish and + completeness of it. At the same time we are inclined to think that it was + printed (first in the first folio, 1623, seven years after Shakspere’s + death) from a copy, corrected by the author, but not <i>written fair</i>, + and containing consequent mistakes. The same account might belong to + others of the plays, but more evidently perhaps belongs to the “Timon.” + The idea of making the generous spendthrift, whose old idolaters had + forsaken him because the idol had no more to give, into the high-priest of + the Temple of Mammon, dispensing the gold which he hated and despised, + that it might be a curse to the race which he had learned to hate and + despise as well; and the way in which Shakspere discloses the depths of + Timon’s wound, by bringing him into comparison with one who hates men by + profession and humour—are as powerful as anything to be found even + in Shakspere. + </p> + <p> + We are very willing to believe that “Julius Caesar” was one of his latest + plays; for certainly it is the play in which he has represented a hero in + the high and true sense. <i>Brutus</i> is this hero, of course; a hero + because he will do what he sees to be right, independently of personal + feeling or personal advantage. Nor does his attempt fail from any + overweening or blindness, in himself. Had he known that the various papers + thrown in his way, were the concoctions of <i>Cassius</i>, he would not + have made the mistake of supposing that the Romans longed for freedom, and + therefore would be ready to defend it. As it was, he attempted to liberate + a people which did not feel its slavery. He failed for others, but not for + himself; for his truth was such that everybody was true to him. Unlike + Jaques with his seven acts of the burlesque of human life, Brutus says at + the last,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Countrymen, + My heart doth joy, that yet, in all my life, + I found no man but he was true to me.” + </pre> + <p> + Of course all this is in Plutarch. But it is easy to see with what relish + Shakspere takes it up, setting forth all the aids in himself and in others + which Brutus had to being a hero, and thus making the representation as + credible as possible. + </p> + <p> + We must heartily confess that no amount of genius alone will make a man a + good man; that genius only shows the right way—drives no man to walk + in it. But there is surely some moral scent in us to let us know whether a + man only cares for good from an artistic point of view, or whether he + admires and loves good. This admiration and love cannot be <i>prominently</i> + set forth by any dramatist true to his art; but it must come out over the + whole. His predilections must show themselves in the scope of his artistic + life, in the things and subjects he chooses, and the way in which he + represents them. Notwithstanding Uncle Toby and Maria, who will venture to + say that Sterne was noble or virtuous, when he looks over the whole that + he has written? But in Shakspere there is no suspicion of a cloven foot. + Everywhere he is on the side of virtue and of truth. Many small arguments, + with great cumulative force, might be adduced to this effect. + </p> + <p> + For ourselves we cannot easily believe that the calmness of his art could + be so unvarying except he exercised it with a good conscience; that he + could have kept looking out upon the world around him with the untroubled + regard necessary for seeing all things as they are, except there had been + peace in his house at home; that he could have known all men as he did, + and failed to know himself. We can understand the co-existence of any + degree of partial or excited genius with evil ways, but we cannot + understand the existence of such calm and universal genius, wrought out in + his works, except in association with all that is noblest in human nature. + Nor is it other than on the side of the argument for his rectitude that he + never forces rectitude upon the attention of others. The strong impression + left upon our minds is, that however Shakspere may have strayed in the + early portion of his life in London, he was not only an upright and noble + man for the main part, but a repentant man, and a man whose life was + influenced by the truths of Christianity. + </p> + <p> + Much is now said about a memorial to Shakspere. The best and only true + memorial is no doubt that described in Milton’s poem on this very subject: + the living and ever-changing monument of human admiration, expressed in + the faces and forms of those absorbed in the reading of his works. But if + the external monument might be such as to foster the constant reproduction + of the inward monument of love and admiration, then, indeed, it might be + well to raise one; and with this object in view let us venture to propose + one mode which we think would favour the attainment of it. + </p> + <p> + Let a Gothic hall of the fourteenth century be built; such a hall as would + be more in the imagination of Shakspere than any of the architecture of + his own time. Let all the copies that can be procured of every early + edition of his works, singly or collectively, be stored in this hall. Let + a copy of every other edition ever printed be procured and deposited. Let + every book or treatise that can be found, good, bad, or indifferent, + written about Shakspere or any of his works, be likewise collected for the + Shakspere library. Let a special place be allotted to the shameless + corruptions of his plays that have been produced as improvements upon + them, some of which, to the disgrace of England, still partially occupy + the stage instead of what Shakspere wrote. Let one department contain + every work of whatever sort that tends to direct elucidation of his + meaning, chiefly those of the dramatic writers who preceded him and + closely followed him. Let the windows be filled with stained glass, + representing the popular sports of his own time and the times of his + English histories. Let a small museum be attached, containing all + procurable antiquities that are referred to in his plays, along with first + editions, if possible, of the best books that came out in his time, and + were probably read by him. Let the whole thus as much as possible + represent his time. Let a marble statue in the midst do the best that + English art can accomplish for the representation of the vanished man; and + let copies, if not the originals, of the several portraits be safely + shrined for the occasional beholding of the multitude. Let the perpetuity + of care necessary for this monument be secured by endowment; and let it be + for the use of the public, by means of a reading-room fitted for the + comfort of all who choose to avail themselves of these facilities for a + true acquaintance with our greatest artist. Let there likewise be a simple + and moderately-sized theatre attached, not for regular, but occasional + use; to be employed for the representation of Shakspere’s plays <i>only</i>, + and allowed free of expense for amateur or other representations of them + for charitable purposes. But within a certain cycle of years—if, + indeed, it would be too much to expect that out of the London play-goers a + sufficient number would be found to justify the representation of all the + plays of Shakspere once in the season—let the whole of Shakspere’s + plays be acted in the best manner possible to the managers for the time + being. + </p> + <p> + The very existence of such a theatre would be a noble protest of the + highest kind against the sort of play, chiefly translated and adapted from + the French, which infests our boards, the low tone of which, even where it + is not decidedly immoral, does more harm than any amount of the rough, + honest plain-spokenness of Shakspere, as judged by our more fastidious, if + not always purer manners. The representation of such plays forms the real + ground of objection to theatre-going. We believe that other objections, + which may be equally urged against large assemblies of any sort, are not + really grounded upon such an amount of objectionable fact as good people + often suppose. At all events it is not against the drama itself, but its + concomitants, its avoidable concomitants, that such objections are, or + ought to be, felt and directed. The dramatic impulse, as well as all other + impulses of our nature, are from the Maker. + </p> + <p> + A monument like this would help to change a blind enthusiasm and a <i>dilettante</i>-talk + into knowledge, reverence, and study; and surely this would be the true + way to honour the memory of the man who appeals to posterity by no mighty + deeds of worldly prowess, but has left behind him food for heart, brain, + and conscience, on which the generations will feed till the end of time. + It would be the one true and natural mode of perpetuating his fame in + kind; helping him to do more of that for which he was born, and because of + which we humbly desire to do him honour, as the years flow farther away + from the time when, at the age of fifty-two, he left the world a richer + legacy of the results of intellectual labour than any other labourer in + literature has ever done. It would be to raise a monument to his mind more + than to his person. + </p> + <p> + But to honour Shakspere in the best way we must not gaze upon some grand + memorial of his fame, we must not talk largely of his wonderful doings, we + must not even behold the representation of his works on the stage, + invaluable aid as that is to the right understanding of what he has + written; but we must, by close, silent, patient study, enter into an + understanding with the spirit of the departed poet-sage, and thus let his + own words be the necromantic spell that raises the dead, and brings us + into communion with that man who knew what was in men more than any other + mere man ever did. Well was it for Shakspere that he was humble; else on + what a desolate pinnacle of companionless solitude must he have stood! + Where was he to find his peers? To most thoughtful minds it is a terrible + fancy to suppose that there were no greater human being than themselves. + From the terror of such a <i>truth</i> Shakspere’s love for men preserved + him. He did not think about himself so much as he thought about them. Had + he been a self-student alone, or chiefly, could he ever have written those + dramas? We close with the repetition of this truth: that the love of our + kind is the one key to the knowledge of humanity and of ourselves. And + have we not sacred authority for concluding that he who loves his brother + is the more able and the more likely to love Him who made him and his + brother also, and then told them that love is the fulfilling of the law? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ART OF SHAKSPERE, AS REVEALED BY HIMSELF. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1863.] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who taught you this? + I learn’d it out of women’s faces. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Winter’s Tale</i>, Act ii. scene 1. + </p> + <p> + One occasionally hears the remark, that the commentators upon Shakspere + find far more in Shakspere than Shakspere ever intended to express. Taking + this assertion as it stands, it may be freely granted, not only of + Shakspere, but of every writer of genius. But if it be intended by it, + that nothing can <i>exist</i> in any work of art beyond what the writer + was conscious of while in the act of producing it, so much of its scope is + false. + </p> + <p> + No artist can have such a claim to the high title of <i>creator</i>, as + that he invents for himself the forms, by means of which he produces his + new result; and all the forms of man and nature which he modifies and + combines to make a new region in his world of art, have their own original + life and meaning. The laws likewise of their various combinations are + natural laws, harmonious with each other. While, therefore, the artist + employs many or few of their original aspects for his immediate purpose, + he does not and cannot thereby deprive them of the many more which are + essential to their vitality, and the vitality likewise of his presentation + of them, although they form only the background from which his peculiar + use of them stands out. The objects presented must therefore fall, to the + eye of the observant reader, into many different combinations and + harmonies of operation and result, which are indubitably there, whether + the writer saw them or not. These latent combinations and relations will + be numerous and true, in proportion to the scope and the truth of the + representation; and the greater the number of meanings, harmonious with + each other, which any work of art presents, the greater claim it has to be + considered a work of genius. It must, therefore, be granted, and that + joyfully, that there may be meanings in Shakspere’s writings which + Shakspere himself did not see, and to which therefore his art, as art, + does not point. + </p> + <p> + But the probability, notwithstanding, must surely be allowed as well, + that, in great artists, the amount of conscious art will bear some + proportion to the amount of unconscious truth: the visible volcanic light + will bear a true relation to the hidden fire of the globe; so that it will + not seem likely that, in such a writer as Shakspere, we should find many + indications of present and operative <i>art</i>, of which he was himself + unaware. Some truths may be revealed through him, which he himself knew + only potentially; but it is not likely that marks of work, bearing upon + the results of the play, should be fortuitous, or that the work thus + indicated should be unconscious work. A stroke of the mallet may be more + effective than the sculptor had hoped; but it was intended. In the drama + it is easier to discover individual marks of the chisel, than in the + marble whence all signs of such are removed: in the drama the lines + themselves fall into the general finish, without necessary obliteration as + lines: Still, the reader cannot help being fearful, lest, not as regards + truth only, but as regards art as well, he be sometimes clothing the idol + of his intellect with the weavings of his fancy. My conviction is, that it + is the very consummateness of Shakspere’s art, that exposes his work to + the doubt that springs from loving anxiety for his honour; the dramatist, + like the sculptor, avoiding every avoidable hint of the process, in order + to render the result a vital whole. But, fortunately, we are not left to + argue entirely from probabilities. He has himself given us a peep into his + studio—let me call it <i>workshop</i>, as more comprehensive. + </p> + <p> + It is not, of course, in the shape of <i>literary</i> criticism, that we + should expect to meet such a revelation; for to use art even consciously, + and to regard it as an object of contemplation, or to theorize about it, + are two very different mental operations. The productive and critical + faculties are rarely found in equal combination; and even where they are, + they cannot operate equally in regard to the same object. There is a + perfect satisfaction in producing, which does not demand a re-presentation + to the critical faculty. In other words, the criticism which a great + writer brings to bear upon his own work, is from within, regarding it upon + the hidden side, namely, in relation to his own idea; whereas criticism, + commonly understood, has reference to the side turned to the public gaze. + Neither could we expect one so prolific as Shakspere to find time for the + criticism of the works of other men, except in such moments of relaxation + as those in which the friends at the Mermaid Tavern sat silent beneath the + flow of his wisdom and humour, or made the street ring with the overflow + of their own enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + But if the artist proceed to speculate upon the nature or productions of + another art than his own, we may then expect the principles upon which he + operates in his own, to take outward and visible form—a form + modified by the difference of the art to which he now applies them. In one + of Shakspere’s poems, we have the description of an imagined production of + a sister-art—that of Painting—a description so brilliant that + the light reflected from the poet-picture illumines the art of the Poet + himself, revealing the principles which he held with regard to + representative art generally, and suggesting many thoughts with regard to + detail and harmony, finish, pregnancy, and scope. This description is + found in “The Rape of Lucrece.” Apology will hardly be necessary for + making a long quotation, seeing that, besides the convenience it will + afford of easy reference to the ground of my argument, one of the greatest + helps which even the artist can give to us, is to isolate peculiar + beauties, and so compel us to perceive them. + </p> + <p> + Lucrece has sent a messenger to beg the immediate presence of her husband. + Awaiting his return, and worn out with weeping, she looks about for some + variation of her misery. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1. + + At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece + Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy; + Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, + For Helen’s rape the city to destroy, + Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy; + Which the conceited painter drew so proud, + As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets, bowed. + + 2. + + A thousand lamentable objects there, + In scorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless life: + Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear, + Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife; + The red blood reeked, to show the painter’s strife. + And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights, + Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. + + 3. + + There might you see the labouring pioneer + Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust; + And, from the towers of Troy there would appear + The very eyes of men through loopholes thrust, + Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust: + Such sweet observance in this work was had, + That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. + + 4. + + In great commanders, grace and majesty + You might behold, triumphing in their faces; + In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; + And here and there the painter interlaces + Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces, + Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, + That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. + + 5. + + In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art + Of physiognomy might one behold! + The face of either ciphered either’s heart; + Their face their manners most expressly told: + In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled; + But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent + Showed deep regard, and smiling government. + + 6. + + There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, + As ‘twere encouraging the Greeks to fight; + Making such sober action with his hand, + That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight; + In speech, it seemed his beard, all silver-white, + Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly + Thin winding breath, which purled up to the sky. + + 7. + + About him were a press of gaping faces, + Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice; + All jointly listening, but with several graces, + As if some mermaid did their ears entice; + Some high, some low, the painter was so nice. + The scalps of many, almost hid behind, + To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind. + + 8. + + Here one man’s hand leaned on another’s head, + His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear; + Here one, being thronged, bears back, all bollen and red; + Another, smothered, seems to pelt and swear; + And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, + As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, + It seemed they would debate with angry swords. + + 9. + + For much imaginary work was there; + Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, + That for Achilles’ image stood his spear, + Griped in an armed hand; himself behind + Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind: + A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, + Stood for the whole to be imagined. + + 10. + + And, from the walls of strong-besieged Troy, + When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field, + Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy + To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield, + And to their hope they such odd action yield; + That through their light joy seemed to appear, + Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear. + + 11. + + And from the strond of Dardan, where they fought, + To Simois’ reedy banks, the red blood ran; + Whose waves to imitate the battle sought, + With swelling ridges; and their ranks began + To break upon the galled shore, and then + Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks, + They join, and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks. +</pre> + <p> + The oftener I read these verses, amongst the very earliest compositions of + Shakspere, I am the more impressed with the carefulness with which he + represents the <i>work</i> of the picture—“shows the strife of the + painter.” The most natural thought to follow in sequence is: How like his + own art! + </p> + <p> + The scope and variety of the whole picture, in which mass is effected by + the accumulation of individuality; in which, on the one hand, Troy stands + as the impersonation of the aim and object of the whole; and on the other, + the Simois flows in foaming rivalry of the strife of men,—the + pictorial form of that sympathy of nature with human effort and passion, + which he so often introduces in his plays,—is like nothing else so + much as one of the works of his own art. But to take a portion as a more + condensed representation of his art in combining all varieties into one + harmonious whole: his genius is like the oratory of Nestor as described by + its effects in the seventh and eighth stanzas. Every variety of attitude + and countenance and action is harmonized by the influence which is at once + the occasion of debate, and the charm which restrains by the fear of its + own loss: the eloquence and the listening form the one bond of the unruly + mass. So the dramatic genius that harmonizes his play, is visible only in + its effects; so ethereal in its own essence that it refuses to be + submitted to the analysis of the ruder intellect, it is like the words of + Nestor, for which in the picture there stands but “thin winding breath + which purled up to the sky.” Take, for an instance of this, the + reconciling power by which, in the mysterious midnight of the summer-wood, + he brings together in one harmony the graceful passions of childish elves, + and the fierce passions of men and women, with the ludicrous reflection of + those passions in the little convex mirror of the artisan’s drama; while + the mischievous Puck revels in things that fall out preposterously, and + the Elf-Queen is in love with ass-headed Bottom, from the hollows of whose + long hairy ears—strange bouquet-holders—bloom and breathe the + musk-roses, the characteristic odour-founts of the play; and the + philosophy of the unbelieving Theseus, with the candour of Hippolyta, + lifts the whole into relation with the realities of human life. Or take, + as another instance, the pretended madman Edgar, the court-fool, and the + rugged old king going grandly mad, sheltered in one hut, and lapped in the + roar of a thunderstorm. + </p> + <p> + My object, then, in respect to this poem, is to produce, from many + instances, a few examples of the metamorphosis of such excellences as he + describes in the picture, into the corresponding forms of the drama; in + the hope that it will not then be necessary to urge the probability that + the presence of those artistic virtues in his own practice, upon which he + expatiates in his representation of another man’s art, were accompanied by + the corresponding consciousness—that, namely, of the artist as + differing from that of the critic, its objects being regarded from the + concave side of the hammered relief. If this probability be granted, I + would, from it, advance to a higher and far more important conclusion—how + unlikely it is that if the writer was conscious of such fitnesses, he + should be unconscious of those grand embodiments of truth, which are + indubitably present in his plays, whether he knew it or not. This portion + of my argument will be strengthened by an instance to show that Shakspere + was himself quite at home in the contemplation of such truths. + </p> + <p> + Let me adduce, then, some of those corresponding embodiments in words + instead of in forms; in which colours yield to tones, lines to phrases. I + will begin with the lowest kind, in which the art has to do with matters + so small, that it is difficult to believe that <i>unconscious</i> art + could have any relation to them. They can hardly have proceeded directly + from the great inspiration of the whole. Their very minuteness is an + argument for their presence to the poet’s consciousness; while belonging, + as they do, only to the <i>construction</i> of the play, no such + independent existence can be accorded to them, as to <i>truths</i>, which, + being in themselves realities, <i>are</i> there, whether Shakspere saw + them or not. If he did not intend them, the most that can be said for them + is, that such is the naturalness of Shakspere’s representations, that + there is room in his plays, as in life, for those wonderful coincidences + which are reducible to no law. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps every one of the examples I adduce will be found open to dispute. + This is a kind in which direct proof can have no share; nor should I have + dared thus to combine them in argument, but for the ninth stanza of those + quoted above, to which I beg my readers to revert. Its <i>imaginary work</i> + means—work hinted at, and then left to the imagination of the + reader. Of course, in dramatic representation, such work must exist on a + great scale; but the minute particularization of the “conceit deceitful” + in the rest of the stanza, will surely justify us in thinking it possible + that Shakspere intended many, if not all, of the <i>little</i> fitnesses + which a careful reader discovers in his plays. That such are not oftener + discovered comes from this: that, like life itself, he so blends into + vital beauty, that there are no salient points. To use a homely simile: he + is not like the barn-door fowl, that always runs out cackling when she has + laid an egg; and often when she has not. In the tone of an ordinary drama, + you may know when something is coming; and the tone itself declares—<i>I + have done it</i>. But Shakspere will not spoil his art to show his art. It + is there, and does its part: that is enough. If you can discover it, good + and well; if not, pass on, and take what you can find. He can afford not + to be fathomed for every little pearl that lies at the bottom of his + ocean. If I succeed in showing that such art may exist where it is not + readily discovered, this may give some additional probability to its + existence in places where it is harder to isolate and define. + </p> + <p> + To produce a few instances, then: + </p> + <p> + In “Much Ado about Nothing,” seeing the very nature of the play is + expressed in its name, is it not likely that Shakspere named the two + constables, Dogberry (<i>a poisonous berry</i>) and Verjuice (<i>the juice + of crab-apples</i>); those names having absolutely nothing to do with the + stupid innocuousness of their characters, and so corresponding to their + way of turning things upside down, and saying the very opposite of what + they mean? + </p> + <p> + In the same play we find Margaret objecting to her mistress’s wearing a + certain rebato (<i>a large plaited ruff</i>), on the morning of her + wedding: may not this be intended to relate to the fact that Margaret had + dressed in her mistress’s clothes the night before? She might have rumpled + or soiled it, and so feared discovery. + </p> + <p> + In “King Henry IV.,” Part I., we find, in the last scene, that the Prince + kills Hotspur. This is not recorded in history: the conqueror of Percy is + unknown. Had it been a fact, history would certainly have recorded it; and + the silence of history in regard to a deed of such mark, is equivalent to + its contradiction. But Shakspere requires, for his play’s sake, to + identify the slayer of Hotspur with his rival the Prince. Yet Shakspere + will not contradict history, even in its silence. What is he to do? He + will account for history <i>not knowing</i> the fact.—Falstaff + claiming the honour, the Prince says to him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, + I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have;” + </pre> + <p> + revealing thus the magnificence of his own character, in his readiness, + for the sake of his friend, to part with his chief renown. But the + Historic Muse could not believe that fat Jack Falstaff had killed Hotspur, + and therefore she would not record the claim. + </p> + <p> + In the second part of the same play, act i. scene 2, we find Falstaff + toweringly indignant with Mr. Dombledon, the silk mercer, that he will + stand upon security with a gentleman for a short cloak and slops of satin. + In the first scene of the second act, the hostess mentions that Sir John + is going to dine with Master Smooth, the silkman. Foiled with Mr. + Dombledon, he has already made himself so agreeable to Master Smooth, that + he is “indited to dinner” with him. This is, by the bye, as to the action + of the play; but as to the character of Sir John, is it not + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind”—<i>kinned—natural</i>? +</pre> + <p> + The <i>conceit deceitful</i> in the painting, is the imagination that + means more than its says. So the words of the speakers in the play, stand + for more than the speakers mean. They are <i>Shakspere’s</i> in their + relation to his whole. To Achilles, his spear is but his spear: to the + painter and his company, the spear of Achilles stands for Achilles + himself. + </p> + <p> + Coleridge remarks upon <i>James Gurney</i>, in “King John:” “How + individual and comical he is with the four words allowed to his dramatic + life!” These words are those with which he answers the Bastard’s request + to leave the room. He has been lingering with all the inquisitiveness and + privilege of an old servant; when Faulconbridge says: “James Gurney, wilt + thou give us leave a while?” with strained politeness. With marked + condescension to the request of the second son, whom he has known and + served from infancy, James Gurney replies: “Good leave, good Philip;” + giving occasion to Faulconbridge to show his ambition, and scorn of his + present standing, in the contempt with which he treats even the Christian + name he is so soon to exchange with his surname for <i>Sir Richard</i> and + <i>Plantagenet; Philip</i> being the name for a sparrow in those days, + when ladies made pets of them. Surely in these words of the serving-man, + we have an outcome of the same art by which + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, + Stood for the whole to be imagined.” + </pre> + <p> + In the “Winter’s Tale,” act iv. scene 3, Perdita, dressed with unwonted + gaiety at the festival of the sheep-shearing, is astonished at finding + herself talking in full strains of poetic verse. She says, half-ashamed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Methinks I play as I have seen them do + In Whitsun pastorals: sure, this robe of mine + Does change my disposition!” + </pre> + <p> + She does not mean this seriously. But the robe has more to do with it than + she thinks. Her passion for Florizel is the warmth that sets the springs + of her thoughts free, and they flow with the grace belonging to a + princess-nature; but it is the robe that opens the door of her speech, + and, by elevating her consciousness of herself, betrays her into what is + only natural to her, but seems to her, on reflection, inconsistent with + her low birth and poor education. This instance, however, involves far + higher elements than any of the examples I have given before, and + naturally leads to a much more important class of illustrations. + </p> + <p> + In “Macbeth,” act ii. scene 4, why is the old man, who has nothing to do + with the conduct of the play, introduced?—That, in conversation with + Rosse, he may, as an old man, bear testimony to the exceptionally terrific + nature of that storm, which, we find—from the words of Banquo: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There’s husbandry in heaven: + Their candles are all out,”— +</pre> + <p> + had begun to gather, before supper was over in the castle. This storm is + the sympathetic horror of Nature at the breaking open of the Lord’s + anointed temple—horror in which the animal creation partakes, for + the horses of Duncan, “the minions of their race,” and therefore the most + sensitive of their sensitive race, tear each other to pieces in the + wildness of their horror. Consider along with this a foregoing portion of + the second scene in the same act. Macbeth, having joined his wife after + the murder, says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Who lies i’ the second chamber? + + “<i>Lady M.</i> Donalbain. +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There are two lodged together.” + </pre> + <p> + These two, Macbeth says, woke each other—the one laughing, the other + crying <i>murder</i>. Then they said their prayers and went to sleep + again.—I used to think that the natural companion of Donalbain would + be Malcolm, his brother; and that the two brothers woke in horror from the + proximity of their father’s murderer who was just passing the door. A + friend objected to this, that, had they been together, Malcolm, being the + elder, would have been mentioned rather than Donalbain. Accept this + objection, and we find a yet more delicate significance: the <i>presence</i> + operated differently on the two, one bursting out in a laugh, the other + crying <i>murder</i>; but both were in terror when they awoke, and dared + not sleep till they had said their prayers. His sons, his horses, the + elements themselves, are shaken by one unconscious sympathy with the + murdered king. + </p> + <p> + Associate with this the end of the third scene of the fourth act of + “Julius Caesar;” where we find that the attendants of Brutus all cry out + in their sleep, as the ghost of Caesar leaves their master’s tent. This + outcry is not given in Plutarch. + </p> + <p> + To return to “Macbeth:” Why is the doctor of medicine introduced in the + scene at the English court? He has nothing to do with the progress of the + play itself, any more than the old man already alluded to.—He is + introduced for a precisely similar reason.—As a doctor, he is the + best testimony that could be adduced to the fact, that the English King + Edward the Confessor, is a fountain of health to his people, gifted for + his goodness with the sacred privilege of curing <i>The King’s Evil</i>, + by the touch of his holy hands. The English King himself is thus + introduced, for the sake of contrast with the Scotch King, who is a raging + bear amongst his subjects. + </p> + <p> + In the “Winter’s Tale,” to which he gives the name because of the + altogether extraordinary character of the occurrences (referring to it in + the play itself, in the words: “<i>a sad tale’s best for winter: I have + one of sprites and goblins</i>”) Antigonus has a remarkable dream or + vision, in which Hermione appears to him, and commands the exposure of her + child in a place to all appearance the most unsuitable and dangerous. + Convinced of the reality of the vision, Antigonus obeys; and the whole + marvellous result depends upon this obedience. Therefore the vision must + be intended for a genuine one. But how could it be such, if Hermione was + not dead, as, from her appearance to him, Antigonus firmly believed she + was? I should feel this to be an objection to the art of the play, but for + the following answer:—At the time she appeared to him, she was still + lying in that deathlike swoon, into which she fell when the news of the + loss of her son reached her as she stood before the judgment-seat of her + husband, at a time when she ought not to have been out of her chamber. + </p> + <p> + Note likewise, in the first scene of the second act of the same play, the + changefulness of Hermione’s mood with regard to her boy, as indicative of + her condition at the time. If we do not regard this fact, we shall think + the words introduced only for the sake of filling up the business of the + play. + </p> + <p> + In “Twelfth Night,” both ladies make the first advances in love. Is it not + worthy of notice that one of them has lost her brother, and that the other + believes she has lost hers? In this respect, they may be placed with + Phoebe, in “As You Like It,” who, having suddenly lost her love by the + discovery that its object was a woman, immediately and heartily accepts + the devotion of her rejected lover, Silvius. Along with these may be + classed Romeo, who, rejected and, as he believes, inconsolable, falls in + love with Juliet the moment he sees her. That his love for Rosaline, + however, was but a kind of <i>calf-love</i> compared with his love for + Juliet, may be found indicated in the differing tones of his speech under + the differing conditions. Compare what he says in his conversation with + Benvolio, in the first scene of the first act, with any of his many + speeches afterwards, and, while <i>conceit</i> will be found prominent + enough in both, the one will be found to be ruled by the fancy, the other + by the imagination. + </p> + <p> + In this same play, there is another similar point which I should like to + notice. In Arthur Brook’s story, from which Shakspere took his, there is + no mention of any communication from Lady Capulet to Juliet of their + intention of marrying her to Count Paris. Why does Shakspere insert this?—to + explain her falling in love with Romeo so suddenly. Her mother has set her + mind moving in that direction. She has never seen Paris. She is looking + about her, wondering which may be he, and whether she shall be able to + like him, when she meets the love-filled eyes of Romeo fixed upon her, and + is at once overcome. What a significant speech is that given to Paulina in + the “Winter’s Tale,” act v. scene 1: “How? Not women?” Paulina is a + thorough partisan, siding with women against men, and strengthened in this + by the treatment her mistress has received from her husband. One has just + said to her, that, if Perdita would begin a sect, she might “make + proselytes of who she bid but follow.” “How? Not women?” Paulina rejoins. + Having received assurance that “women will love her,” she has no more to + say. + </p> + <p> + I had the following explanation of a line in “Twelfth Night” from a + stranger I met in an old book-shop:—Malvolio, having built his + castle in the air, proceeds to inhabit it. Describing his own behaviour in + a supposed case, he says (act ii. scene 5): “I frown the while; and + perchance, wind up my watch, or play with my some rich jewel”—A dash + ought to come after <i>my</i>. Malvolio was about to say <i>chain</i>; but + remembering that his chain was the badge of his office of steward, and + therefore of his servitude, he alters the word to “<i>some rich jewel</i>” + uttered with pretended carelessness. + </p> + <p> + In “Hamlet,” act iii. scene 1, did not Shakspere intend the passionate + soliloquy of Ophelia—a soliloquy which no maiden knowing that she + was overheard would have uttered,—coupled with the words of her + father: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How now, Ophelia? + You need not tell us what lord Hamlet said, + We heard it all;”— +</pre> + <p> + to indicate that, weak as Ophelia was, she was not false enough to be + accomplice in any plot for betraying Hamlet to her father and the King? + They had remained behind the arras, and had not gone out as she must have + supposed. + </p> + <p> + Next, let me request my reader to refer once more to the poem; and having + considered the physiognomy of Ajax and Ulysses, as described in the fifth + stanza, to turn then to the play of “Troilus and Cressida,” and there + contemplate that description as metamorphosed into the higher form of + revelation in speech. Then, if he will associate the general principles in + that stanza with the third, especially the last two lines, I will apply + this to the character of Lady Macbeth. + </p> + <p> + Of course, Shakspere does not mean that one regarding that portion of the + picture alone, could see the eyes looking sad; but that the <i>sweet + observance</i> of the whole so roused the imagination that it supplied + what distance had concealed, keeping the far-off likewise in sweet + observance with the whole: the rest pointed that way.—In a manner + something like this are we conducted to a right understanding of the + character of Lady Macbeth. First put together these her utterances: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You do unbend your noble strength, to think + So brainsickly of things.” + + “Get some water, + And wash this filthy witness from your hands.” + + “The sleeping and the dead + Are but as pictures.” + + “A little water clears us of this deed.” + + “When all’s done, + You look but on a stool.” + + “You lack the season of all natures, sleep.”— +</pre> + <p> + Had these passages stood in the play unmodified by others, we might have + judged from them that Shakspere intended to represent Lady Macbeth as an + utter materialist, believing in nothing beyond the immediate + communications of the senses. But when we find them associated with such + passages as these— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Memory, the warder of the brain, + Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason + A limbeck only;” + + “Had he not resembled + My father as he slept, I had done’t; + + “These deeds must not be thought + After these ways; so, it will make us mad;”— +</pre> + <p> + then we find that our former theory will not do, for here are deeper and + broader foundations to build upon. We discover that Lady Macbeth was an + unbeliever <i>morally</i>, and so found it necessary to keep down all + imagination, which is the upheaving of that inward world whose very being + she would have annihilated. Yet out of this world arose at last the + phantom of her slain self, and possessing her sleeping frame, sent it out + to wander in the night, and rub its distressed and blood-stained hands in + vain. For, as in this same “Rape of Lucrece,” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “the soul’s fair temple is defaced; + To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, + To ask the spotted princess how she fares.” + </pre> + <p> + But when so many lines of delineation meet, and run into, and correct one + another, assuming such a natural and vital form, that there is no <i>making + of a point</i> anywhere; and the woman is shown after no theory, but + according to the natural laws of human declension, we feel that the only + way to account for the perfection of the representation is to say that, + given a shadow, Shakspere had the power to place himself so, that that + shadow became his own—was the correct representation as shadow, of + his form coming between it and the sunlight. And this is the highest + dramatic gift that a man can possess. But we feel at the same time, that + this is, in the main, not so much art as inspiration. There would be, in + all probability, a great mingling of conscious art with the inspiration; + but the lines of the former being lost in the general glow of the latter, + we may be left where we were as to any certainty about the artistic + consciousness of Shakspere. I will now therefore attempt to give a few + plainer instances of such <i>sweet observance</i> in his own work as he + would have admired in a painting. + </p> + <p> + First, then, I would request my reader to think how comparatively seldom + Shakspere uses poetry in his plays. The whole play is a poem in the + highest sense; but truth forbids him to make it the rule for his + characters to speak poetically. Their speech is poetic in relation to the + whole and the end, not in relation to the speaker, or in the immediate + utterance. And even although their speech is immediately poetic, in this + sense, that every character is idealized; yet it is idealized <i>after its + kind</i>; and poetry certainly would not be the ideal speech of most of + the characters. This granted, let us look at the exceptions: we shall find + that such passages not only glow with poetic loveliness and fervour, but + are very jewels of <i>sweet observance</i>, whose setting allows them + their force as lawful, and their prominence as natural. I will mention a + few of such. + </p> + <p> + In “Julius Caesar,” act i. scene 3, we are inclined to think the way <i>Casca</i> + speaks, quite inconsistent with the “sour fashion” which <i>Cassius</i> + very justly attributes to him; till we remember that he is speaking in the + midst of an almost supernatural thunder-storm: the hidden electricity of + the man’s nature comes out in poetic forms and words, in response to the + wild outburst of the overcharged heavens and earth. + </p> + <p> + Shakspere invariably makes the dying speak poetically, and generally + prophetically, recognizing the identity of the poetic and prophetic moods, + in their highest development, and the justice that gives them the same + name. Even <i>Sir John</i>, poor ruined gentleman, <i>babbles of green + fields</i>. Every one knows that the passage is disputed: I believe that + if this be not the restoration of the original reading, Shakspere himself + would justify it, and wish that he had so written it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Romeo</i> and <i>Juliet</i> talk poetry as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + In “King John,” act v. scenes 4 and 5, see how differently the dying <i>Melun</i> + and the living and victorious <i>Lewis</i> regard the same sunset: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Melun</i>. + + . . . . . this night, whose black contagious breath + Already smokes about the burning crest + Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun. + + <i>Lewis</i>. + + The sun in heaven, methought, was loath to set; + But stayed, and made the western welkin blush, + When the English measured backward their own ground. +</pre> + <p> + The exquisite duet between <i>Lorenzo</i> and <i>Jessica</i>, in the + opening of the fifth act of “The Merchant of Venice,” finds for its + subject the circumstances that produce the mood—the lovely night and + the crescent moon—which first make them talk poetry, then call for + music, and next speculate upon its nature. + </p> + <p> + Let us turn now to some instances of sweet observance in other kinds. + </p> + <p> + There is observance, more true than sweet, in the character of <i>Jacques</i>, + in “As You Like It:” the fault-finder in age was the fault-doer in youth + and manhood. <i>Jacques</i> patronizing the fool, is one of the rarest + shows of self-ignorance. + </p> + <p> + In the same play, when <i>Rosalind</i> hears that <i>Orlando</i> is in the + wood, she cries out, “Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and + hose?” And when <i>Orlando</i> asks her, “Where dwell you, pretty youth?” + she answers, tripping in her rôle, “Here in the skirts of the forest, like + fringe upon a petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + In the second part of “King Henry IV.,” act iv. scene 3, <i>Falstaff</i> + says of <i>Prince John</i>: “Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy + doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh;—but that’s no + marvel: he drinks no wine.” This is the <i>Prince John</i> who betrays the + insurgents afterwards by the falsest of quibbles, and gains his revenge + through their good faith. + </p> + <p> + In “King Henry IV,” act i. scene 2, <i>Poins</i> does not say <i>Falstaff</i> + is a coward like the other two; but only—“If he fight longer than he + sees reason, I’ll forswear arms.” Associate this with <i>Falstaff’s</i> + soliloquy about <i>honour</i> in the same play, act v. scene 1, and the + true character of his courage or cowardice—for it may bear either + name—comes out. + </p> + <p> + Is there not conscious art in representing the hospitable face of the + castle of <i>Macbeth</i>, bearing on it a homely welcome in the multitude + of the nests of <i>the temple-haunting martlet</i> (Psalm lxxxiv. 3), just + as <i>Lady Macbeth</i>, the fiend-soul of the house, steps from the door, + like the speech of the building, with her falsely smiled welcome? Is there + not <i>observance</i> in it? + </p> + <p> + But the production of such instances might be endless, as the work of + Shakspere is infinite. I confine myself to two more, taken from “The + Merchant of Venice.” + </p> + <p> + Shakspere requires a character capable of the magnificent devotion of + friendship which the old story attributes to <i>Antonio</i>. He therefore + introduces us to a man sober even to sadness, thoughtful even to + melancholy. The first words of the play unveil this characteristic. He + holds “the world but as the world,”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A stage where every man must play a part, + And mine a sad one.” + </pre> + <p> + The cause of this sadness we are left to conjecture. <i>Antonio</i> + himself professes not to know. But such a disposition, even if it be not + occasioned by any definite event or object, will generally associate + itself with one; and when <i>Antonio</i> is accused of being in love, he + repels the accusation with only a sad “Fie! fie!” This, and his whole + character, seem to me to point to an old but ever cherished grief. + </p> + <p> + Into the original story upon which this play is founded, Shakspere has, + among other variations, introduced the story of <i>Jessica</i> and <i>Lorenzo</i>, + apparently altogether of his own invention. What was his object in doing + so? Surely there were characters and interests enough already!—It + seems to me that Shakspere doubted whether the Jew would have actually + proceeded to carry out his fell design against <i>Antonio</i>, upon the + original ground of his hatred, without the further incitement to revenge + afforded by another passion, second only to his love of gold—his + affection for his daughter; for in the Jew having reference to his own + property, it had risen to a passion. Shakspere therefore invents her, that + he may send a dog of a Christian to steal her, and, yet worse, to tempt + her to steal her father’s stones and ducats. I suspect Shakspere sends the + old villain off the stage at the last with more of the pity of the + audience than any of the other dramatists of the time would have ventured + to rouse, had they been capable of doing so. I suspect he is the only + human Jew of the English drama up to that time. + </p> + <p> + I have now arrived at the last and most important stage of my argument. It + is this: If Shakspere was so well aware of the artistic relations of the + parts of his drama, is it likely that the grand meanings involved in the + whole were unperceived by him, and conveyed to us without any intention on + his part—had their origin only in the fact that he dealt with human + nature so truly, that his representations must involve whatever lessons + human life itself involves? + </p> + <p> + Is there no intention, for instance, in placing <i>Prospero</i>, who + forsook the duties of his dukedom for the study of magic, in a desert + island, with just three subjects; one, a monster below humanity; the + second, a creature etherealized beyond it; and the third a complete + embodiment of human perfection? Is it not that he may learn how to rule, + and, having learned, return, by the aid of his magic wisely directed, to + the home and duties from which exclusive devotion to that magic had driven + him? + </p> + <p> + In “Julius Caesar,” the death of <i>Brutus</i>, while following as the + consequence of his murder of <i>Caesar</i>, is yet as much distinguished + in character from that death, as the character of <i>Brutus</i> is + different from that of <i>Caesar</i>. <i>Caesar’s</i> last words were <i>Et + tu Brute? Brutus</i>, when resolved to lay violent hands on himself, takes + leave of his friends with these words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Countrymen, + My heart doth joy, that yet, in all my life, + I found no man, but he was true to me.” + </pre> + <p> + Here Shakspere did not invent. He found both speeches in Plutarch. But how + unerring his choice! + </p> + <p> + Is the final catastrophe in “Hamlet” such, because Shakspere could do no + better?—It is: he could do no better than the best. Where but in the + regions beyond could such questionings as <i>Hamlet’s</i> be put to rest? + It would have been a fine thing indeed for the most nobly perplexed of + thinkers to be left—his love in the grave; the memory of his father + a torment, of his mother a blot; with innocent blood on his innocent + hands, and but half understood by his best friend—to ascend in + desolate dreariness the contemptible height of the degraded throne, and + shine the first in a drunken court! + </p> + <p> + Before bringing forward my last instance, I will direct the attention of + my readers to a passage, in another play, in which the lesson of the play + I am about to speak of, is <i>directly</i> taught: the first speech in the + second act of “As You Like It,” might be made a text for the exposition of + the whole play of “King Lear.” + </p> + <p> + The banished duke is seeking to bring his courtiers to regard their exile + as a part of their moral training. I am aware that I point the passage + differently, while I revert to the old text. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Are not these woods + More free from peril than the envious court? + Here feel we not the penalty of Adam— + The season’s difference, as the icy fang, + And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind? + Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, + Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say— + This is no flattery; these are counsellors + That feelingly persuade me what I am. + Sweet are the uses of adversity.” + </pre> + <p> + The line <i>Here feel we not the penalty of Adam?</i> has given rise to + much perplexity. The expounders of Shakspere do not believe he can mean + that the uses of adversity are really sweet. But the duke sees that <i>the + penalty</i> of Adam is what makes the <i>woods more free from peril than + the envious court;</i> that this penalty is in fact the best blessing, for + it <i>feelingly persuades</i> man <i>what</i> he is; and to know what we + are, to have no false judgments of ourselves, he considers so sweet, that + to be thus taught, the <i>churlish chiding of the winter’s wind</i> is + well endured. + </p> + <p> + Now let us turn to <i>Lear</i>. We find in him an old man with a large + heart, hungry for love, and yet not knowing what love is; an old man as + ignorant as a child in all matters of high import; with a temper so + unsubdued, and therefore so unkingly, that he storms because his dinner is + not ready by the clock of his hunger; a child, in short, in everything but + his grey hairs and wrinkled face, but his failing, instead of growing, + strength. If a life end so, let the success of that life be otherwise what + it may, it is a wretched and unworthy end. But let <i>Lear</i> be blown by + the winds and beaten by the rains of heaven, till he pities “poor naked + wretches;” till he feels that he has “ta’en too little care of” such; till + pomp no longer conceals from him what “a poor, bare, forked animal” he is; + and the old king has risen higher in the real social scale—the scale + of that country to which he is bound—far higher than he stood while + he still held his kingdom undivided to his thankless daughters. Then let + him learn at last that “love is the only good in the world;” let him find + his <i>Cordelia</i>, and plot with her how they will in their dungeon <i>singing + like birds i’ the cage</i>, and, dwelling in the secret place of peace, + look abroad on the world like <i>God’s spies</i>; and then let the + generous great old heart swell till it breaks at last—not with rage + and hate and vengeance, but with love; and all is well: it is time the man + should go to overtake his daughter; henceforth to dwell with her in the + home of the true, the eternal, the unchangeable. All his suffering came + from his own fault; but from the suffering has sprung another crop, not of + evil but of good; the seeds of which had lain unfruitful in the soil, but + were brought within the blessed influences of the air of heaven by the + sharp tortures of the ploughshare of ill. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ELDER HAMLET. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1875] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Tis bitter cold, + And I am sick at heart. +</pre> + <p> + The ghost in “Hamlet” is as faithfully treated as any character in the + play. Next to Hamlet himself, he is to me the most interesting person of + the drama. The rumour of his appearance is wrapped in the larger rumour of + war. Loud preparations for uncertain attack fill the ears of “the subject + of the land.” The state is troubled. The new king has hardly compassed his + election before his marriage with his brother’s widow swathes the court in + the dust-cloud of shame, which the merriment of its forced revelry can do + little to dispel. A feeling is in the moral air to which the words of + Francisco, the only words of significance he utters, give the key: “‘Tis + bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.” Into the frosty air, the pallid + moonlight, the drunken shouts of Claudius and his court, the bellowing of + the cannon from the rampart for the enlargement of the insane clamour that + it may beat the drum of its own disgrace at the portals of heaven, glides + the silent prisoner of hell, no longer a king of the day walking about his + halls, “the observed of all observers,” but a thrall of the night, + wandering between the bell and the cock, like a jailer on each side of + him. A poet tells the tale of the king who lost his garments and ceased to + be a king: here is the king who has lost his body, and in the eyes of his + court has ceased to be a man. Is the cold of the earth’s night pleasant to + him after the purging fire? What crimes had the honest ghost committed in + his days of nature? He calls them foul crimes! Could such be his? Only who + can tell how a ghost, with his doubled experience, may think of this thing + or that? The ghost and the fire may between them distinctly recognize that + as a foul crime which the man and the court regarded as a weakness at + worst, and indeed in a king laudable. + </p> + <p> + Alas, poor ghost! Around the house he flits, shifting and shadowy, over + the ground he once paced in ringing armour—armed still, but his very + armour a shadow! It cannot keep out the arrow of the cock’s cry, and the + heart that pierces is no shadow. Where now is the loaded axe with which, + in angry dispute, he smote the ice at his feet that cracked to the blow? + Where is the arm that heaved the axe? Wasting in the marble maw of the + sepulchre, and the arm he carries now—I know not what it can do, but + it cannot slay his murderer. For that he seeks his son’s. Doubtless his + new ethereal form has its capacities and privileges. It can shift its garb + at will; can appear in mail or night-gown, unaided of armourer or tailor; + can pass through Hades-gates or chamber-door with equal ease; can work in + the ground like mole or pioneer, and let its voice be heard from the + cellarage. But there is one to whom it cannot appear, one whom the ghost + can see, but to whom he cannot show himself. She has built a doorless, + windowless wall between them, and sees the husband of her youth no more. + Outside her heart—that is the night in which he wanders, while the + palace-windows are flaring, and the low wind throbs to the wassail shouts: + within, his murderer sits by the wife of his bosom, and in the orchard the + spilt poison is yet gnawing at the roots of the daisies. + </p> + <p> + Twice has the ghost grown out of the night upon the eyes of the sentinels. + With solemn march, slow and stately, three times each night, has he walked + by them; they, jellied with fear, have uttered no challenge. They seek + Horatio, who the third night speaks to him as a scholar can. To the first + challenge he makes no answer, but stalks away; to the second, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It lifted up its head, and did address + Itself to motion, like as it would speak; +</pre> + <p> + but the gaoler cock calls him, and the kingly shape + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + started like a guilty thing + Upon a fearful summons; +</pre> + <p> + and then + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + shrunk in haste away, + And vanished from our sight. +</pre> + <p> + Ah, that summons! at which majesty welks and shrivels, the king and + soldier starts and cowers, and, armour and all, withers from the air! + </p> + <p> + But why has he not spoken before? why not now ere the cock could claim + him? He cannot trust the men. His court has forsaken his memory—crowds + with as eager discontent about the mildewed ear as ever about his + wholesome brother, and how should he trust mere sentinels? There is but + one who will heed his tale. A word to any other would but defeat his + intent. Out of the multitude of courtiers and subjects, in all the land of + Denmark, there is but one whom he can trust—his student-son. Him he + has not yet found—the condition of a ghost involving strange + difficulties. + </p> + <p> + Or did the horror of the men at the sight of him wound and repel him? Does + the sense of regal dignity, not yet exhausted for all the fasting in + fires, unite with that of grievous humiliation to make him shun their + speech? + </p> + <p> + But Horatio—why does the ghost not answer him ere the time of the + cock is come? Does he fold the cloak of indignation around him because his + son’s friend has addressed him as an intruder on the night, an usurper of + the form that is his own? The companions of the speaker take note that he + is offended and stalks away. + </p> + <p> + Much has the kingly ghost to endure in his attempt to re-open relations + with the world he has left: when he has overcome his wrath and returns, + that moment Horatio again insults him, calling him an illusion. But this + time he will bear it, and opens his mouth to speak. It is too late; the + cock is awake, and he must go. Then alas for the buried majesty of + Denmark! with upheaved halberts they strike at the shadow, and would stop + it if they might—usage so grossly unfitting that they are instantly + ashamed of it themselves, recognizing the offence in the majesty of the + offended. But he is already gone. The proud, angry king has found himself + but a thing of nothing to his body-guard—for he has lost the body + which was their guard. Still, not even yet has he learned how little it + lies in the power of an honest ghost to gain credit for himself or his + tale! His very privileges are against him. + </p> + <p> + All this time his son is consuming his heart in the knowledge of a mother + capable of so soon and so utterly forgetting such a husband, and in pity + and sorrow for the dead father who has had such a wife. He is thirty years + of age, an obedient, honourable son—a man of thought, of faith, of + aspiration. Him now the ghost seeks, his heart burning like a coal with + the sense of unendurable wrong. He is seeking the one drop that can fall + cooling on that heart—the sympathy, the answering rage and grief of + his boy. But when at length he finds him, the generous, loving father has + to see that son tremble like an aspen-leaf in his doubtful presence. He + has exposed himself to the shame of eyes and the indignities of dullness, + that he may pour the pent torrent of his wrongs into his ears, but his + disfranchisement from the flesh tells against him even with his son: the + young Hamlet is doubtful of the identity of the apparition with his + father. After all the burning words of the phantom, the spirit he has seen + may yet be a devil; the devil has power to assume a pleasing shape, and is + perhaps taking advantage of his melancholy to damn him. + </p> + <p> + Armed in the complete steel of a suit well known to the eyes of the + sentinels, visionary none the less, with useless truncheon in hand, + resuming the memory of old martial habits, but with quiet countenance, + more in sorrow than in anger, troubled—not now with the thought of + the hell-day to which he must sleepless return, but with that unceasing + ache at the heart, which ever, as often as he is released into the cooling + air of the upper world, draws him back to the region of his wrongs—where + having fallen asleep in his orchard, in sacred security and old custom, + suddenly, by cruel assault, he was flung into Hades, where horror upon + horror awaited him—worst horror of all, the knowledge of his wife!—armed + he comes, in shadowy armour but how real sorrow! Still it is not pity he + seeks from his son: he needs it not—he can endure. There is no + weakness in the ghost. It is but to the imperfect human sense that he is + shadowy. To himself he knows his doom his deliverance; that the hell in + which he finds himself shall endure but until it has burnt up the hell he + has found within him—until the evil he was and is capable of shall + have dropped from him into the lake of fire; he nerves himself to bear. + And the cry of revenge that comes from the sorrowful lips is the cry of a + king and a Dane rather than of a wronged man. It is for public justice and + not individual vengeance he calls. He cannot endure that the royal bed of + Denmark should be a couch for luxury and damned incest. To stay this he + would bring the murderer to justice. There is a worse wrong, for which he + seeks no revenge: it involves his wife; and there comes in love, and love + knows no amends but amendment, seeks only the repentance tenfold more + needful to the wronger than the wronged. It is not alone the father’s care + for the human nature of his son that warns him to take no measures against + his mother; it is the husband’s tenderness also for her who once lay in + his bosom. The murdered brother, the dethroned king, the dishonoured + husband, the tormented sinner, is yet a gentle ghost. Has suffering + already begun to make him, like Prometheus, wise? + </p> + <p> + But to measure the gentleness, the forgiveness, the tenderness of the + ghost, we must well understand his wrongs. The murder is plain; but there + is that which went before and is worse, yet is not so plain to every eye + that reads the story. There is that without which the murder had never + been, and which, therefore, is a cause of all the wrong. For listen to + what the ghost reveals when at length he has withdrawn his son that he may + speak with him alone, and Hamlet has forestalled the disclosure of the + murderer: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, + With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts, + (O wicked wit and gifts that have the power + So to seduce!) won to his shameful lust + The will of my most seeming virtuous queen: + Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there! + From me, whose love was of that dignity + That it went hand in hand even with the vow + I made to her in marriage, and to decline + Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor + To those of mine! + But virtue—as it never will be moved + Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, + So lust, though to a radiant angel linked, + Will sate itself in a celestial bed, + And prey on garbage.” + </pre> + <p> + Reading this passage, can any one doubt that the ghost charges his late + wife with adultery, as the root of all his woes? It is true that, obedient + to the ghost’s injunctions, as well as his own filial instincts, Hamlet + accuses his mother of no more than was patent to all the world; but unless + we suppose the ghost misinformed or mistaken, we must accept this charge. + And had Gertrude not yielded to the witchcraft of Claudius’ wit, Claudius + would never have murdered Hamlet. Through her his life was dishonoured, + and his death violent and premature: unhuzled, disappointed, unaneled, he + woke to the air—not of his orchard-blossoms, but of a prison-house, + the lightest word of whose terrors would freeze the blood of the listener. + What few men can say, he could—that his love to his wife had kept + even step with the vow he made to her in marriage; and his son says of him— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “so loving to my mother + That he might not beteem the winds of heaven + Visit her face too roughly;” + </pre> + <p> + and this was her return! Yet is it thus he charges his son concerning her: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But howsoever thou pursu’st this act, + Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive + Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, + And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, + To prick and sting her.” + </pre> + <p> + And may we not suppose it to be for her sake in part that the ghost + insists, with fourfold repetition, upon a sword-sworn oath to silence from + Horatio and Marcellus? + </p> + <p> + Only once again does he show himself—not now in armour upon the + walls, but in his gown and in his wife’s closet. + </p> + <p> + Ever since his first appearance, that is, all the time filling the + interval between the first and second acts, we may presume him to have + haunted the palace unseen, waiting what his son would do. But the task has + been more difficult than either had supposed. The ambassadors have gone to + Norway and returned; but Hamlet has done nothing. Probably he has had no + opportunity; certainly he has had no clear vision of duty. But now all + through the second and third acts, together occupying, it must be + remembered, only one day, something seems imminent. The play has been + acted, and Hamlet has gained some assurance, yet the one chance presented + of killing the king—at his prayers—he has refused. He is now + in his mother’s closet, whose eyes he has turned into her very soul. + There, and then, the ghost once more appears—come, he says, to whet + his son’s almost blunted purpose. But, as I have said, he does not know + all the disadvantages of one who, having forsaken the world, has yet + business therein to which he would persuade; he does not know how hard it + is for a man to give credence to a ghost; how thoroughly he is justified + in delay, and the demand for more perfect proof. He does not know what + good reasons his son has had for uncertainty, or how much natural and + righteous doubt has had to do with what he takes for the blunting of his + purpose. Neither does he know how much more tender his son’s conscience is + than his own, or how necessary it is to him to be sure before he acts. As + little perhaps does he understand how hateful to Hamlet is the task laid + upon him—the killing of one wretched villain in the midst of a + corrupt and contemptible court, one of a world of whose women his mother + may be the type! + </p> + <p> + Whatever the main object of the ghost’s appearance, he has spoken but a + few words concerning the matter between him and Hamlet, when he turns + abruptly from it to plead with his son for his wife. The ghost sees and + mistakes the terror of her looks; imagines that, either from some feeling + of his presence, or from the power of Hamlet’s words, her conscience is + thoroughly roused, and that her vision, her conception of the facts, is + now more than she can bear. She and her fighting soul are at odds. She is + a kingdom divided against itself. He fears the consequences. He would not + have her go mad. He would not have her die yet. Even while ready to start + at the summons of that hell to which she has sold him, he forgets his + vengeance on her seducer in his desire to comfort her. He dares not, if he + could, manifest himself to her: what word of consolation could she hear + from his lips? Is not the thought of him her one despair? He turns to his + son for help: he cannot console his wife; his son must take his place. + Alas! even now he thinks better of her than she deserves; for it is only + the fancy of her son’s madness that is terrifying her: he gazes on the + apparition of which she sees nothing, and from his looks she anticipates + an ungovernable outbreak. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But look; amazement on thy mother sits! + Oh; step between her and her fighting soul + Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. + Speak to her, Hamlet.” + </pre> + <p> + The call to his son to soothe his wicked mother is the ghost’s last + utterance. For a few moments, sadly regardful of the two, he stands—while + his son seeks in vain to reveal to his mother the presence of his father—a + few moments of piteous action, all but ruining the remnant of his son’s + sorely-harassed self-possession—his whole concern his wife’s + distress, and neither his own doom nor his son’s duty; then, as if lost in + despair at the impassable gulf betwixt them, revealed by her utter + incapacity for even the imagination of his proximity, he turns away, and + steals out at the portal. Or perhaps he has heard the black cock crow, and + is wanted beneath: his turn has come. + </p> + <p> + Will the fires ever cleanse <i>her</i>? Will his love ever lift him above + the pain of its loss? Will eternity ever be bliss, ever be endurable to + poor <i>King Hamlet?</i> + </p> + <p> + Alas! even the memory of the poor ghost is insulted. Night after night on + the stage his effigy appears—cadaverous, sepulchral—no longer + as Shakspere must have represented him, aerial, shadowy, gracious, the + thin corporeal husk of an eternal—shall I say ineffaceable?—sorrow! + It is no hollow monotone that can rightly upbear such words as his, but a + sound mingled of distance and wind in the pine-tops, of agony and love, of + horror and hope and loss and judgment—a voice of endless and + sweetest inflection, yet with a shuddering echo in it as from the caves of + memory, on whose walls, are written the eternal blazon that must not be to + ears of flesh and blood. The spirit that can assume form at will must + surely be able to bend that form to completest and most delicate + expression, and the part of the ghost in the play offers work worthy of + the highest artist. The would-be actor takes from it vitality and motion, + endowing it instead with the rigidity of death, as if the soul had resumed + its cast-off garment, the stiffened and mouldy corpse—whose frozen + deadness it could ill model to the utterance of its lively will! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON POLISH. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1865] + </p> + <p> + By Polish I mean a certain well-known and immediately recognizable + condition of surface. But I must request my reader to consider well what + this condition really is. For the definition of it appears to us to be, + that condition of surface which allows the inner structure of the material + to manifest itself. Polish is, as it were, a translucent skin, in which + the life of the inorganic comes to the surface, as in the animal skin the + animal life. Once clothed in this, the inner glories of the marble rock, + of the jasper, of the porphyry, leave the darkness behind, and glow into + the day. From the heart of the agate the mossy landscape comes dreaming + out. From the depth of the green chrysolite looks up the eye of its gold. + The “goings on of life” hidden for ages under the rough bark of the + patient forest-trees, are brought to light; the rings of lovely shadow + which the creature went on making in the dark, as the oyster its opaline + laminations, and its tree-pearls of beautiful knots, where a beneficent + disease has broken the geometrical perfection of its structure, gloom out + in their infinite variousness. + </p> + <p> + Nor are the revelations of polish confined to things having variety in + their internal construction; they operate equally in things of homogeneous + structure. It is the polished ebony or jet which gives the true blank, the + material darkness. It is the polished steel that shines keen and + remorseless and cold, like that human justice whose symbol it is. And in + the polished diamond the distinctive purity is most evident; while from + it, I presume, will the light absorbed from the sun gleam forth on the + dark most plentifully. + </p> + <p> + But the mere fact that the end of polish is revelation, can hardly be + worth setting forth except for some ulterior object, some further + revelation in the fact itself.—I wish to show that in the symbolic + use of the word the same truth is involved, or, if not involved, at least + suggested. But let me first make another remark on the preceding + definition of the word. + </p> + <p> + There is no denying that the first notion suggested by the word polish is + that of smoothness, which will indeed be the sole idea associated with it + before we begin to contemplate the matter. But when we consider what + things are chosen to be “clothed upon” with this smoothness, then we find + that the smoothness is scarcely desired for its own sake, and remember + besides that in many materials and situations it is elaborately avoided. + We find that here it is sought because of its faculty of enabling other + things to show themselves—to come to the surface. + </p> + <p> + I proceed then to examine how far my pregnant interpretation of the word + will apply to its figurative use in two cases—<i>Polish of Style</i>, + and <i>Polish of Manners</i>. The two might be treated together, seeing + that <i>Style</i> may be called the manners of intellectual utterance, and + <i>Manners</i> the style of social utterance; but it is more convenient to + treat them separately. + </p> + <p> + I will begin with the Polish of Style. + </p> + <p> + It will be seen at once that if the notion of polish be limited to that of + smoothness, there can be little to say on the matter, and nothing worthy + of being said. For mere smoothness is no more a desirable quality in a + style than it is in a country or a countenance; and its pursuit will + result at length in the gain of the monotonous and the loss of the + melodious and harmonious. But it is only upon worthless material that + polish can be <i>mere</i> smoothness; and where the material is not + valuable, polish can be nothing but smoothness. No amount of polish in a + style can render the production of value, except there be in it embodied + thought thereby revealed; and the labour of the polish is lost. Let us + then take the fuller meaning of polish, and see how it will apply to + style. + </p> + <p> + If it applies, then Polish of Style will imply the approximately complete + revelation of the thought. It will be the removal of everything that can + interfere between the thought of the speaker and the mind of the hearer. + True polish in marble or in speech reveals inlying realities, and, in the + latter at least, mere smoothness, either of sound or of meaning, is not + worthy of the name. The most polished style will be that which most + immediately and most truly flashes the meaning embodied in the utterance + upon the mind of the listener or reader. + </p> + <p> + “Will you then,” I imagine a reader objecting, “admit of no ornament in + style?” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly,” I answer, “I would admit of no ornament whatever.” + </p> + <p> + But let me explain what I mean by ornament. I mean anything stuck in or + on, like a spangle, because it is pretty in itself, although it reveals + nothing. Not one such ornament can belong to a polished style. It is + paint, not polish. And if this is not what my questioner means by <i>ornament</i>, + my answer must then be read according to the differences in his definition + of the word. What I have said has not the least application to the natural + forms of beauty which thought assumes in speech. Between such beauty and + such ornament there lies the same difference as between the overflow of + life in the hair, and the dressing of that loveliest of utterances in + grease and gold. + </p> + <p> + For, when I say that polish is the removal of everything that comes + between thought and thinking, it must not be supposed that in my idea + thought is only of the intellect, and therefore that all forms but bare + intellectual forms are of the nature of ornament. As well might one say + that the only essential portion of the human form is the bones. And every + human thought is in a sense a human being, has as necessarily its muscles + of motion, its skin of beauty, its blood of feeling, as its skeleton of + logic. For complete utterance, music itself in its right proportions, + sometimes clear and strong, as in rhymed harmonies, sometimes veiled and + dim, as in the prose compositions of the masters of speech, is as + necessary as correctness of logic, and common sense in construction. I + should have said <i>conveyance</i> rather than utterance; for there may be + utterance such as to relieve the mind of the speaker with more or less of + fancied communication, while the conveyance of thought may be little or + none; as in the speaking with tongues of the infant Church, to which the + lovely babblement of our children has probably more than a figurative + resemblance, relieving their own minds, but, the interpreter not yet at + his post, neither instructing nor misleading any one. But as the object of + grown-up speech must in the main be the conveyance of thought, and not the + mere utterance, everything in the style of that speech which interposes + between the mental eyes and the thought embodied in the speech, must be + polished away, that the indwelling life may manifest itself. + </p> + <p> + What, then (for now we must come to the practical), is the kind of thing + to be polished away in order that the hidden may be revealed? + </p> + <p> + All words that can be dismissed without loss; for all such more or less + obscure the meaning upon which they gather. The first step towards the + polishing of most styles is to strike out—polish off—the + useless words and phrases. It is wonderful with how many fewer words most + things could be said that are said; while the degree of certainty and + rapidity with which an idea is conveyed would generally be found to be in + an inverse ratio to the number of words employed. + </p> + <p> + All ornaments so called—the nose and lip jewels of style—the + tattooing of the speech; all similes that, although true, give no + additional insight into the meaning; everything that is only pretty and + not beautiful; all mere sparkle as of jewels that lose their own beauty by + being set in the grandeur of statues or the dignity of monumental stone, + must be ruthlessly polished away. + </p> + <p> + All utterances which, however they may add to the amount of thought, + distract the mind, and confuse its observation of the main idea, the + essence or life of the book or paper, must be diligently refused. In the + manuscript of <i>Comus</i> there exists, cancelled but legible, a passage + of which I have the best authority for saying that it would have made the + poetic fame of any writer. But the grand old self-denier struck it out of + the opening speech because that would be more polished without it—because + the <i>Attendant Spirit</i> would say more immediately and exclusively, + and therefore more completely, what he had to say, without it.—All + this applies much more widely and deeply in the region of art; but I am at + present dealing with the surface of style, not with the round of result. + </p> + <p> + I have one instance at hand, however, belonging to this region, than which + I could scarcely produce a more apt illustration of my thesis. One of the + greatest of living painters, walking with a friend through the late + Exhibition of Art-Treasures at Manchester, came upon Albert Dürer’s <i>Melancholia</i>. + After looking at it for a moment, he told his friend that now for the + first time he understood it, and proceeded to set forth what he saw in it. + It was a very early impression, and the delicacy of the lines was so much + the greater. He had never seen such a perfect impression before, and had + never perceived the intent and scope of the engraving. The mere removal of + accidental thickness and furriness in the lines of the drawing enabled him + to see into the meaning of that wonderful production. The polish brought + it to the surface. Or, what amounts to the same thing for my argument, the + dulling of the surface had concealed it even from his experienced eyes. + </p> + <p> + In fine, and more generally, all cause whatever of obscurity must be + polished away. There may lie in the matter itself a darkness of colour and + texture which no amount of polishing can render clear or even vivid; the + thoughts themselves may be hard to think, and difficulty must not be + confounded with obscurity. The former belongs to the thoughts themselves; + the latter to the mode of their embodiment. All cause of obscurity in this + must, I say, be removed. Such may lie even in the region of grammar, or in + the mere arrangement of a sentence. And while, as I have said, no ornament + is to be allowed, so all roughnesses, which irritate the mental ear, and + so far incapacitate it for receiving a true impression of the meaning from + the words, must be carefully reduced. For the true music of a sentence, + belonging as it does to the essence of the thought itself, is the herald + which goes before to prepare the mind for the following thought, calming + the surface of the intellect to a mirror-like reflection of the image + about to fall upon it. But syllables that hang heavy on the tongue and + grate harsh upon the ear are the trumpet of discord rousing to unconscious + opposition and conscious rejection. + </p> + <p> + And now the consideration of the Polish of Manners will lead us to some + yet more important reflections. Here again I must admit that the ordinary + use of the phrase is analogous to that of the preceding; but its relations + lead us deep into realities. For as diamond alone can polish diamond, so + men alone can polish men; and hence it is that it was first by living in a + city ([Greek: polis], <i>polis</i>) that men— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “rubbed each other’s angles down,” + </pre> + <p> + and became <i>polished</i>. And while a certain amount of ease with regard + to ourselves and of consideration with regard to others is everywhere + necessary to a man’s passing as a gentleman—all unevenness of + behaviour resulting either from shyness or self-consciousness (in the + shape of awkwardness), or from overweening or selfishness (in the shape of + rudeness), having to be polished away—true human polish must go + further than this. Its respects are not confined to the manners of the + ball-room or the dinner-table, of the club or the exchange, but wherever a + man may rejoice with them that rejoice or weep with them that weep, he + must remain one and the same, as polished to the tiller of the soil as to + the leader of the fashion. + </p> + <p> + But how will the figure of material polish aid us any further? How can it + be said that Polish of Manners is a revelation of that which is within, a + calling up to the surface of the hidden loveliness of the material? For do + we not know that courtesy may cover contempt; that smiles themselves may + hide hate; that one who will place you at his right hand when in want of + your inferior aid, may scarce acknowledge your presence when his necessity + has gone by? And how then can polished manners be a revelation of what is + within? Are they not the result of putting on rather than of taking off? + Are they not paint and varnish rather than polish? + </p> + <p> + I must yield the answer to each of these questions; protesting, however, + that with such polish I have nothing to do; for these manners are + confessedly false. But even where least able to mislead, they are, with + corresponding courtesy, accepted as outward signs of an inward grace. + Hence even such, by the nature of their falsehood, support my position. + For in what forms are the colours of the paint laid upon the surface of + the material? Is it not in as near imitations of the real right human + feelings about oneself and others as the necessarily imperfect knowledge + of such an artist can produce? He will not encounter the labour of + polishing, for he does not believe in the divine depths of his own nature: + he paints, and calls the varnish polish. + </p> + <p> + “But why talk of polish with reference to such a character, seeing that no + amount of polishing can bring to the surface what is not there? No + polishing of sandstone will reveal the mottling of marble. For it is + sandstone, crumbling and gritty—not noble in any way.” + </p> + <p> + Is it so then? Can such be the real nature of the man? And can polish + reach nothing deeper in him than such? May not this selfishness be + polished away, revealing true colour and harmony beneath? Was not the man + made in the image of God? Or, if you say that man lost that image, did not + a new process of creation begin from the point of that loss, a process of + re-creation in him in whom all shall be made alive, which, although so far + from being completed yet, can never be checked? If we cut away deep enough + at the rough block of our nature, shall we not arrive at some likeness of + that true man who, the apostle says, dwells in us—the hope of glory? + He informs us—that is, forms us from within. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Donne (who knew less than any other writer in the English language + what Polish of Style means) recognizes this divine polishing to the full. + He says in a poem called “The Cross:”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + This is no doubt a higher figure than that of <i>polish</i>, but it is of + the same kind, revealing the same truth. It recognizes the fact that the + divine nature lies at the root of the human nature, and that the polish + which lets that spiritual nature shine out in the simplicity of heavenly + childhood, is the true Polish of Manners of which all merely social + refinements are a poor imitation.—Whence Coleridge says that nothing + but religion can make a man a gentleman.—And when these harmonies of + our nature come to the surface, we shall be indeed “lively stones,” fit + for building into the great temple of the universe, and echoing the music + of creation. Dr. Donne recognizes, besides, the notable fact that <i>crosses</i> + or afflictions are the polishing powers by means of which the beautiful + realities of human nature are brought to the surface. One can tell at once + by the peculiar loveliness of certain persons that they have suffered. + </p> + <p> + But, to look for a moment less profoundly into the matter, have we not + known those whose best never could get to the surface just from the lack + of polish?—persons who, if they could only reveal the kindness of + their nature, would make men believe in human nature, but in whom some + roughness of awkwardness or of shyness prevents the true self from + appearing? Even the dread of seeming to claim a good deed or to patronize + a fellow-man will sometimes spoil the last touch of tenderness which would + have been the final polish of the act of giving, and would have revealed + infinite depths of human devotion. For let the truth out, and it will be + seen to be true. + </p> + <p> + Simplicity is the end of all Polish, as of all Art, Culture, Morals, + Religion, and Life. The Lord our God is one Lord, and we and our brothers + and sisters are one Humanity, one Body of the Head. + </p> + <p> + Now to the practical: what are we to do for the polish of our manners? + </p> + <p> + Just what I have said we must do for the polish of our style. Take off; do + not put on. Polish away this rudeness, that awkwardness. Correct + everything self-assertive, which includes nine tenths of all vulgarity. + Imitate no one’s behaviour; that is to paint. Do not think about yourself; + that is to varnish. Put what is wrong right, and what is in you will show + itself in harmonious behaviour. + </p> + <p> + But no one can go far in this track without discovering that true polish + reaches much deeper; that the outward exists but for the sake of the + inward; and that the manners, as they depend on the morals, must be + forgotten in the morals of which they are but the revelation. Look at the + high-shouldered, ungainly child in the corner: his mother tells him to go + to his book, and he wants to go to his play. Regard the swollen lips, the + skin tightened over the nose, the distortion of his shape, the angularity + of his whole appearance. Yet he is not an awkward child by nature. Look at + him again the moment after he has given in and kissed his mother. His + shoulders have dropped to their place; his limbs are free from the fetters + that bound them; his motions are graceful, and the one blends harmoniously + with the other. He is no longer thinking of himself. He has given up his + own way. The true childhood comes to the surface, and you see what the boy + is meant to be always. Look at the jerkiness of the conceited man. Look at + the quiet <i>fluency</i> of motion in the modest man. Look how anger + itself which forgets self, which is unhating and righteous, will elevate + the carriage and ennoble the movements. + </p> + <p> + But how far can the same rule of <i>omission</i> or <i>rejection</i> be + applied with safety to this deeper character—the manners of the + spirit? + </p> + <p> + It seems to me that in morals too the main thing is to avoid doing wrong; + for then the active spirit of life in us will drive us on to the right. + But on such a momentous question I would not be dogmatic. Only as far as + regards the feelings I would say: it is of no use to try to make ourselves + feel thus or thus. Let us fight with our wrong feelings; let us polish + away the rough ugly distortions of feeling. Then the real and the good + will come of themselves. Or rather, to keep to my figure, they will then + show themselves of themselves as the natural home-produce, the indwelling + facts of our deepest—that is, our divine nature. + </p> + <p> + Here I find that I am sinking through my subject into another and deeper—a + truth, namely, which should, however, be the foundation of all our + building, the background of all our representations: that Life is at work + in us—the sacred Spirit of God travailing in us. That Spirit has + gained one end of his labour—at which he can begin to do yet more + for us—when he has brought us to beg for the help which he has been + giving us all the time. + </p> + <p> + I have been regarding infinite things through the medium of one limited + figure, knowing that figures with all their suggestions and relations + could not reveal them utterly. But so far as they go, these thoughts + raised by the word Polish and its figurative uses appear to me to be most + true. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BROWNING’S “CHRISTMAS EVE” + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: 1853.] + </p> + <p> + Goethe says:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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!” + </pre> + <p> + 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. Such is the world + itself, as beheld by the speculative eye; a thing of disorder, obscurity, + and sadness: only the child-like heart, to which the door into the divine + idea is thrown open, can understand somewhat the secret of the Almighty. + In human things it is particularly true of art, in which the fundamental + idea seems to be the revelation of the true through the beautiful. But of + all the arts it is most applicable to poetry; for the others have more + that is beautiful on the outside; can give pleasure to the senses by the + form of the marble, the hues of the painting, or the sweet sounds of the + music, although the heart may never perceive the meaning that lies within. + But poetry, except its rhythmic melody, and its scattered gleams of + material imagery, for which few care that love it not for its own sake, + has no attraction on the outside to entice the passer to enter and partake + of its truth. It is inwards that its colours shine, within that its forms + move, and the sound of its holy organ cannot be heard from without. + </p> + <p> + Now, if one has been able to reach the heart of a poem, answering to + Goethe’s parabolic description; or even to discover a loop-hole, through + which, from an opposite point, the glories of its stained windows are + visible; it is well that he should seek to make others partakers in his + pleasure and profit. Some who might not find out for themselves, would yet + be evermore grateful to him who led them to the point of vision. Surely if + a man would help his fellow-men, he can do so far more effectually by + exhibiting truth than exposing error, by unveiling beauty than by a + critical dissection of deformity. From the very nature of the things it + must be so. Let the true and good destroy their opposites. It is only by + the good and beautiful that the evil and ugly are known. It is the light + that makes manifest. + </p> + <p> + The poem “Christmas Eve,” by Robert Browning, with the accompanying poem + “Easter Day,” seems not to have attracted much notice from the readers of + poetry, although highly prized by a few. This is, perhaps, to be + attributed, in a great measure, to what many would call a considerable + degree of obscurity. But obscurity is the appearance which to a first + glance may be presented either by profundity or carelessness of thought. + To some, obscurity itself is attractive, from the hope that worthiness is + the cause of it. To apply a test similar to that by which Pascal tries the + Koran and the Scriptures: what is the character of those portions, the + meaning of which is plain? Are they wise or foolish? If the former, the + presumption is that the obscurity of other parts is caused not by opacity, + but profundity. But some will object, notwithstanding, that a writer ought + to make himself plain to his readers; nay, that if he has a clear idea + himself, he must be able to express that idea clearly. But for communion + of thought, two minds, not one, are necessary. The fault may lie in him + that receives or in him that gives, or it may be in neither. For how can + the result of much thought, the idea which for mouths has been shaping + itself in the mind of one man, be at once received by another mind to + which it comes a stranger and unexpected? The reader has no right to + complain of so caused obscurity. Nor is that form of expression, which is + most easily understood at first sight, necessarily the best. It will not, + therefore, continue to move; nor will it gather force and influence with + more intimate acquaintance. Here Goethe’s little parable, as he calls it, + is peculiarly applicable. But, indeed, if after all a writer is obscure, + the man who has spent most labour in seeking to enter into his thoughts, + will be the least likely to complain of his obscurity; and they who have + the least difficulty in understanding a writer, are frequently those who + understand him the least. + </p> + <p> + To those to whom the religion of Christ has been the law of liberty; who + by that door have entered into the universe of God, and have begun to feel + a growing delight in all the manifestations of God, it is cause of much + joy to find that, whatever may be the position taken by men of science, or + by those in whom the intellect predominates, with regard to the Christian + religion, men of genius, at least, in virtue of what is child-like in + their nature, are, in the present time, plainly manifesting deep devotion + to Christ. There are exceptions, certainly; but even in those, there are + symptoms of feelings which, one can hardly help thinking, tend towards + him, and will one day flame forth in conscious worship. A mind that + recognizes any of the multitudinous meanings of the revelation of God, in + the world of sounds, and forms, and colours, cannot be blind to the higher + manifestation of God in common humanity; nor to him in whom is hid the key + to the whole, the First-born of the creation of God, in whose heart lies, + as yet but partially developed, the kingdom of heaven, which is the + redemption of the earth. The mind that delights in that which is lofty and + great, which feels there is something higher than self, will undoubtedly + be drawn towards Christ; and they, who at first looked on him as a great + prophet, came at length to perceive that he was the radiation of the + Father’s glory, the likeness of his unseen being. + </p> + <p> + A description of the poem may, perhaps, both induce to the reading of it, + and contribute to its easier comprehension while being perused. On a + stormy Christmas Eve, the poet, or rather the seer (for the whole must be + regarded as a poetic vision), is compelled to take refuge in the “lath and + plaster entry” of a little chapel, belonging to a congregation of + Calvinistic Methodists, who are at the time assembling for worship. + Wonderful in its reality is the description of various of the flock that + pass him as they enter the chapel, from + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “the many-tattered + Little old-faced, peaking sister-turned-mother + Of the sickly babe she tried to smother + Somehow up, with its spotted face, + From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place:” + </pre> + <p> + to the “shoemaker’s lad;” whom he follows, determined not to endure the + inquisition of their looks any longer, into the chapel. The humour of the + whole scene within is excellent. The stifling closeness, both of the + atmosphere and of the sermon, the wonderful content of the audience, the + “old fat woman,” who + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “purred with pleasure, + And thumb round thumb went twirling faster, + While she, to his periods keeping measure, + Maternally devoured the pastor;” + </pre> + <p> + are represented by a few rapid touches that bring certain points of the + reality almost unpleasantly near. At length, unable to endure it longer, + he rushes out into the air. Objection may, probably, be made to the + mingling of the humorous, even the ridiculous, with the serious; at least, + in a work of art like this, where they must be brought into such close + proximity. But are not these things as closely connected in the world as + they can be in any representation of it? Surely there are few who have + never had occasion to attempt to reconcile the thought of the two in their + own minds. Nor can there be anything human that is not, in some connexion + or other, admissible into art. The widest idea of art must comprehend all + things. A work of this kind must, like God’s world, in which he sends rain + on the just and on the unjust, be taken as a whole and in regard to its + design. The requisition is, that everything introduced have a relation to + the adjacent parts and to the whole suitable to the design. Here the thing + is real, is true, is human; a thing to be thought about. It has its place + amongst other phenomena, with which, however apparently incongruous, it is + yet vitally connected within. + </p> + <p> + A coolness and delight visit us, on turning over the page and commencing + to read the description of sky, and moon, and clouds, which greet him + outside the chapel. It is as a vision of the vision-bearing world itself, + in one of its fine, though not, at first, one of its rarest moods. And + here a short digression to notice like feelings in unlike dresses, one + thought differently expressed will, perhaps, be pardoned. The moon is + prevented from shining out by the “blocks” of cloud “built up in the + west:”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And the empty other half of the sky + Seemed in its silence as if it knew + What, any moment, might look through + A chance-gap in that fortress massy.” + </pre> + <p> + Old Henry Vaughan says of the “Dawning:”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The whole Creation shakes off night, + And for thy shadow looks the Light; + Stars now vanish without number, + Sleepie Planets set and slumber, + The pursie Clouds disband and scatter, + <i>All expect some sudden matter</i>.” + </pre> + <p> + Calmness settles down on his mind. He walks on, thinking of the scene he + had left, and the sermon he had heard. In the latter he sees the good and + the bad intimately mingled; and is convinced that the chief benefit + derived from it is a reproducing of former impressions. The thought + crosses him, in how many places and how many different forms the same + thing takes place, “a convincing” of the “convinced;” and he rejoices in + the contrast which his church presents to these; for in the church of + Nature his love to God, assurance of God’s love to him, and confidence in + the design of God regarding him, commenced. While exulting in God and the + knowledge of Him to be attained hereafter, he is favoured with a sight of + a glorious moon-rainbow, which elevates his worship to ecstasy. During + which— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All at once I looked up with terror— + He was there. + He himself with His human air, + On the narrow pathway, just before: + I saw the back of Him, no more— + He had left the chapel, then, as I. + I forgot all about the sky. + No face: only the sight + Of a sweepy garment, vast and white, + With a hem that I could recognize. + I felt terror, no surprise: + My mind filled with the cataract, + At one bound, of the mighty fact. + I remembered, He did say + Doubtless, that, to this world’s end, + Where two or three should meet and pray, + He would be in the midst, their friend: + Certainly He was there with them. + And my pulses leaped for joy + Of the golden thought without alloy, + That I saw His very vesture’s hem. + Then rushed the blood back, cold and clear, + With a fresh enhancing shiver of fear.” + </pre> + <p> + Praying for forgiveness wherein he has sinned, and prostrate in adoration + before the form of Christ, he is “caught up in the whirl and drift” of his + vesture, and carried along with him over the earth. + </p> + <p> + Stopping at length at the entrance of St. Peter’s in Rome, he remains + outside, while the form disappears within. He is able, however, to see all + that goes on, in the crowded, hushed interior. It is high mass. He has + been carried at once from the little chapel to the opposite aesthetic + pole. From the entry, where— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The flame of the single tallow candle + In the cracked square lanthorn I stood under + Shot its blue lip at me,” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +to— + “This miraculous dome of God— + This colonnade + With arms wide open to embrace + The entry of the human race + To the breast of.... what is it, yon building, + Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding, + With marble for brick, and stones of price + For garniture of the edifice?” + </pre> + <p> + to “those fountains”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Growing up eternally + Each to a musical water-tree, + Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon, + Before my eyes, in the light of the moon, + To the granite lavers underneath;” + </pre> + <p> + from the singing of the chapel to the organ self-restrained, that “holds + his breath and grovels latent,” while expecting the elevation of the Host. + Christ is within; he is left without. Reflecting on the matter, he thinks + his Lord would not require him to go in, though he himself entered, + because there was a way to reach him there. By-and-by, however, his heart + awakes and declares that Love goes beyond error with them, and if the + Intellect be kept down, yet Love is the oppressor; so next time he + resolves to enter and praise along with them. The passage commencing, “Oh, + love of those first Christian days!” describing Love’s victory over + Intellect, is very fine. + </p> + <p> + Again he is caught up and carried along as before. This time halt is made + at the door of a college in a German town, in which the class-room of one + of the professors is open for lecture this Christmas Eve. It is, + intellectually considered, the opposite pole to both the Methodist chapel + and the Roman Basilica. The poet enters, fearful of losing the society of + “any that call themselves his friends.” He describes the assembled + company, and the entrance of “the hawk-nosed, high-cheek-boned professor,” + of part of whose Christmas Eve’s discourse he proceeds to give the + substance. The professor takes it for granted that “plainly no such life + was liveable,” and goes on to inquire what explanation of the phenomena of + the life of Christ it were best to adopt. Not that it mattered much, “so + the idea be left the same.” Taking the popular story, for convenience + sake, and separating all extraneous matter from it, he found that Christ + was simply a good man, with an honest, true heart; whose disciples thought + him divine; and whose doctrine, though quite mistaken by those who + received and published it, “had yet a meaning quite as respectable.” Here + the poet takes advantage of a pause to leave him; reflecting that though + the air may be poisoned by the sects, yet here “the critic leaves no air + to poison.” His meditations and arguments following, are among the most + valuable passages in the book. The professor, notwithstanding the idea of + Christ has by him been exhausted of all that is peculiar to it, yet + recommends him to the veneration and worship of his hearers, “rather than + all who went before him, and all who ever followed after.” But why? says + the poet. For his intellect, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Which tells me simply what was told + (If mere morality, bereft + Of the God in Christ, be all that’s left) + Elsewhere by voices manifold?” + </pre> + <p> + with which must be combined the fact that this intellect of his did not + save him from making the “important stumble,” of saying that he and God + were one. “But his followers misunderstood him,” says the objector. + Perhaps so; but “the stumbling-block, his speech, who laid it?” Well then, + is it on the score of his goodness that he should rule his race? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You pledge + Your fealty to such rule? What, all— + From Heavenly John and Attic Paul, + And that brave weather-battered Peter, + Whose stout faith only stood completer + For buffets, sinning to be pardoned, + As the more his hands hauled nets, they hardened— + All, down to you, the man of men, + Professing here at Göttingen, + Compose Christ’s flock! So, you and I + Are sheep of a good man! And why?” + </pre> + <p> + Did Christ <i>invent</i> goodness? or did he only demonstrate that of + which the common conscience was judge? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I would decree + Worship for such mere demonstration + And simple work of nomenclature, + Only the day I praised, not Nature, + But Harvey, for the circulation.” + </pre> + <p> + The worst man, says the poet, <i>knows</i> more than the best man <i>does</i>. + God in Christ appeared to men to help them to <i>do</i>, to awaken the + life within them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Morality to the uttermost, + Supreme in Christ as we all confess, + Why need <i>we</i> prove would avail no jot + To make Him God, if God he were not? + What is the point where Himself lays stress? + Does the precept run, ‘Believe in good, + In justice, truth, now understood + For the first time?’—or, ‘Believe in ME, + Who lived and died, yet essentially + Am Lord of life’? Whoever can take + The same to his heart, and for mere love’s sake + Conceive of the love,—that man obtains + A new truth; no conviction gains + Of an old one only, made intense + By a fresh appeal to his faded sense.” + </pre> + <p> + In this lies the most direct practical argument with regard to what is + commonly called the Divinity of Christ. Here is a man whom those that + magnify him the least confess to be a good man, the best of men. He <i>says</i>, + “I and the Father are one.” Will an earnest heart, knowing this, be likely + to draw back, or will it draw nearer to behold the great sight? Will not + such a heart feel: “A good man like this would not have said so, were it + not so. In all probability the great truth of God lies behind this veil.” + The reality of Christ’s nature is not to be proved by argument. He must be + beheld. The manifestation of Him must “gravitate inwards” on the soul. It + is by looking that one can know. As a mathematical theorem is to be proved + only by the demonstration of that theorem itself, not by talking <i>about</i> + it; so Christ must prove himself to the human soul through being beheld. + The only proof of Christ’s divinity is his humanity. Because his humanity + is not comprehended, his divinity is doubted; and while the former is + uncomprehended, an assent to the latter is of little avail. For a man to + theorize theologically in any form, while he has not so apprehended + Christ, or to neglect the gazing on him for the attempt to substantiate to + himself any form of belief respecting him, is to bring on himself, in a + matter of divine import, such errors as the expounders of nature in old + time brought on themselves, when they speculated on what a thing must be, + instead of observing what it was; this <i>must be</i> having for its + foundation not self-evident truth, but notions whose chief strength lay in + their preconception. There are thoughts and feelings that cannot be called + up in the mind by any power of will or force of imagination; which, being + spiritual, must arise in the soul when in its highest spiritual condition; + when the mind, indeed, like a smooth lake, reflects only heavenly images. + A steadfast regarding of Him will produce this calm, and His will be the + heavenly form reflected from the mental depth. + </p> + <p> + But to return to the poem. The fact that Christ remains inside, leads the + poet to reflect, in the spirit of Him who found all the good in men he + could, neglecting no point of contact which presented itself, whether + there was anything at this lecture with which he could sympathize; and he + finds that the heart of the professor does something to rescue him from + the error of his brain. In his brain, even, “if Love’s dead there, it has + left a ghost.” For when the natural deduction from his argument would be + that our faith + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Be swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,— + He bids us, when we least expect it, + Take back our faith—if it be not just whole, + Yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it, + Which fact pays the damage done rewardingly, + So, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly!” + </pre> + <p> + Love as well as learning being necessary to the understanding of the New + Testament, it is to the poet matter of regret that “loveless learning” + should leave its proper work, and make such havoc in that which belongs + not to it. But while he sits “talking with his mind,” his mood begins to + degenerate from sympathy with that which is good to indifference towards + all forms, and he feels inclined to rest quietly in the enjoyment of his + own religious confidence, and trouble himself in no wise about the faith + of his neighbours; for doubtless all are partakers of the central light, + though variously refracted by the varied translucency of the mental + prism.... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Twas the horrible storm began afresh! + The black night caught me in his mesh, + Whirled me up, and flung me prone! + I was left on the college-step alone. + I looked, and far there, ever fleeting + Far, far away, the receding gesture, + And looming of the lessening vesture, + Swept forward from my stupid hand, + While I watched my foolish heart expand + In the lazy glow of benevolence + O’er the various modes of man’s belief. + I sprang up with fear’s vehemence. + —Needs must there be one way, our chief + Best way of worship: let me strive + To find it, and when found, contrive + My fellows also take their share. + This constitutes my earthly care: + God’s is above it and distinct!” + </pre> + <p> + The symbolism in the former part of this extract is grand. As soon as he + ceases to look practically on the phenomena with which he is surrounded, + he is enveloped in storm and darkness, and sees only in the far distance + the disappearing skirt of his Lord’s garment. God’s care is over all, he + goes on to say; I must do <i>my part</i>. If I look speculatively on the + world, there is nothing but dimness and mystery. If I look practically on + it, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No mere mote’s-breadth, but teems immense + With witnessings of Providence.” + </pre> + <p> + And whether the world which I seek to help censures or praises me—that + is nothing to me. My life—how is it with me? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Soul of mine, hadst thou caught and held + By the hem of the vesture.... + And I caught + At the flying robe, and, unrepelled, + Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught + With warmth and wonder and delight, + God’s mercy being infinite. + And scarce had the words escaped my tongue, + When, at a passionate bound, I sprung + Out of the wandering world of rain, + Into the little chapel again.” + </pre> + <p> + Had he dreamed? how then could he report of the sermon and the preacher? + of which and of whom he proceeds to give a very external account. But + correcting himself— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ha! Is God mocked, as He asks? + Shall I take on me to change his tasks, + And dare, despatched to a river-head + For a simple draught of the element, + Neglect the thing for which He sent, + And return with another thing instead! + Saying .... ‘Because the water found + Welling up from underground, + Is mingled with the taints of earth, + While Thou, I know, dost laugh at dearth, + And couldest, at a word, convulse + The world with the leap of its river-pulse,— + Therefore I turned from the oozings muddy, + And bring thee a chalice I found, instead. + See the brave veins in the breccia ruddy! + One would suppose that the marble bled. + What matters the water? A hope I have nursed, + That the waterless cup will quench my thirst.’ + —Better have knelt at the poorest stream + That trickles in pain from the straitest rift! + For the less or the more is all God’s gift, + Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite seam. + And here, is there water or not, to drink?” + </pre> + <p> + He comes to the conclusion, that the best for him is that mode of worship + which partakes the least of human forms, and brings him nearest to the + spiritual; and, while expressing good wishes for the Pope and the + professor— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Meantime, in the still recurring fear + Lest myself, at unawares, be found, + While attacking the choice of my neighbours round, + Without my own made—I choose here!” + </pre> + <p> + He therefore joins heartily in the hymn which is sung by the congregation + of the little chapel at the close of their worship. And this concludes the + poem. + </p> + <p> + What is the central point from which this poem can be regarded? It does + not seem to be very hard to find. Novalis has said: “Die Philosophie ist + eigentlich Heimweh, ein Trieb überall zu Hause zu sein.” (Philosophy is + really home-sickness, an impulse to be at home everywhere.) The life of a + man here, if life it be, and not the vain image of what might be a life, + is a continual attempt to find his place, his centre of recipiency, and + active agency. He wants to know where he is, and where he ought to be and + can be; for, rightly considered, the position a man ought to occupy is the + only one he truly <i>can</i> occupy. It is a climbing and striving to + reach that point of vision where the multiplex crossings and apparent + intertwistings of the lines of fact and feeling and duty shall manifest + themselves as a regular and symmetrical design. A contradiction, or a + thing unrelated, is foreign and painful to him, even as the rocky particle + in the gelatinous substance of the oyster; and, like the latter, he can + only rid himself of it by encasing it in the pearl-like enclosure of + faith; believing that hidden there lies the necessity for a higher theory + of the universe than has yet been generated in his soul. The quest for + this home-centre, in the man who has faith, is calm and ceaseless; in the + man whose faith is weak, it is stormy and intermittent. Unhappy is that + man, of necessity, whose perceptions are keener than his faith is strong. + Everywhere Nature herself is putting strange questions to him; the human + world is full of dismay and confusion; his own conscience is bewildered by + contradictory appearances; all which may well happen to the man whose eye + is not yet single, whose heart is not yet pure. He is not at home; his + soul is astray amid people of a strange speech and a stammering tongue. + But the faithful man is led onward; in the stillness that his confidence + produces arise the bright images of truth; and visions of God, which are + only beheld in solitary places, are granted to his soul. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O struggling with the darkness all the night, + And visited all night by troops of stars!” + </pre> + <p> + What is true of the whole, is true of its parts. In all the relations of + life, in all the parts of the great whole of existence, the true man is + ever seeking his home. This poem seems to show us such a quest. “Here I am + in the midst of many who belong to the same family. They differ in + education, in habits, in forms of thought; but they are called by the same + name. What position with regard to them am I to assume? I am a Christian; + how am I to live in relation to Christians?” Such seems to be something + like the poet’s thought. What central position can he gain, which, while + it answers best the necessities of his own soul with regard to God, will + enable him to feel himself connected with the whole Christian world, and + to sympathize with all; so that he may not be alone, but one of the whole. + Certainly the position necessary for both requirements is one and the + same. He that is isolated from his brethren, loses one of the greatest + helps to draw near to God. Now, in this time, which is so peculiarly + transitional, this is a question of no little import for all who, while + they gladly forsake old, or rather <i>modern</i>, theories, for what is to + them a more full development of Christianity as well as a return to the + fountain-head, yet seek to be saved from the danger of losing sympathy + with those who are content with what they are compelled to abandon. Seeing + much in the common modes of thought and belief that is inconsistent with + Christianity, and even opposed to it, they yet cannot but see likewise in + many of them a power of spiritual good; which, though not dependent on the + peculiar mode, is yet enveloped, if not embodied, in that mode. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ask, else, these ruins of humanity, + This flesh worn out to rags and tatters, + This soul at struggle with insanity, + Who thence take comfort, can I doubt, + Which an empire gained, were a loss without.” + </pre> + <p> + The love of God is the soul of Christianity. Christ is the body of that + truth. The love of God is the creating and redeeming, the forming and + satisfying power of the universe. The love of God is that which kills evil + and glorifies goodness. It is the safety of the great whole. It is the + home-atmosphere of all life. Well does the poet of the “Christmas Eve” + say:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The loving worm within its clod, + Were diviner than a loveless God + Amid his worlds, I will dare to say.” + </pre> + <p> + Surely then, inasmuch as man is made in the image of God nothing less than + a love in the image of God’s love, all-embracing, quietly excusing, + heartily commending, can constitute the blessedness of man; a love not + insensible to that which is foreign to it, but overcoming it with good. + Where man loves in his kind, even as God loves in His kind, then man is + saved, then he has reached the unseen and eternal. But if, besides the + necessity to love that lies in a man, there be likewise in the man whom he + ought to love something in common with him, then the law of love has + increased force. If that point of sympathy lies at the centre of the being + of each, and if these centres are brought into contact, then the circles + of their being will be, if not coincident, yet concentric. We must wait + patiently for the completion of God’s great harmony, and meantime love + everywhere and as we can. + </p> + <p> + But the great lesson which this poem teaches, and which is taught more + directly in the “Easter Day” (forming part of the same volume), is that + the business of a man’s life is to be a Christian. A man has to do with + God first; in Him only can he find the unity and harmony he seeks. To be + one with Him is to be at the centre of things. If one acknowledges that + God has revealed himself in Christ; that God has recognized man as his + family, by appearing among them in their form; surely that very + acknowledgment carries with it the admission that man’s chief concern is + with this revelation. What does God say and mean, teach and manifest, + herein? If this world is God’s making, and he is present in all nature; if + he rules all things and is present in all history; if the soul of man is + in his image, with all its circles of thought and multiplicity of forms; + and if for man it be not enough to be rooted in God, but he must likewise + lay hold on God; then surely no question, in whatever direction, can be + truly answered, save by him who stands at the side of Christ. The doings + of God cannot be understood, save by him who has the mind of Christ, which + is the mind of God. All things must be strange to one who sympathizes not + with the thought of the Maker, who understands not the design of the + Artist. Where is he to begin? What light has he by which to classify? How + will he bring order out of this apparent confusion, when the order is + higher than his thought; when the confusion to him is <i>caused</i> by the + order’s being greater than he can comprehend? Because he stands outside + and not within, he sees an entangled maze of forces, where there is in + truth an intertwining dance of harmony. There is for no one any solution + of the world’s mystery, or of any part of its mystery, except he be able + to say with our poet:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have looked to Thee from the beginning, + Straight up to Thee through all the world, + Which, like an idle scroll, lay furled + To nothingness on either side: + And since the time Thou wast descried, + Spite of the weak heart, so have I + Lived ever, and so fain would die, + Living and dying, Thee before!” + </pre> + <p> + Christianity is not the ornament, or even complement, of life; it is its + necessity; it is life itself glorified into God’s ideal. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Chalmers, from considering the minuteness of the directions given to + Moses for the making of the tabernacle, was led to think that he himself + was wrong in attending too little to the “<i>petite morale</i>” of dress. + Will this be excuse enough for occupying a few sentences with the rhyming + of this poem? Certainly the rhymes of a poem form no small part of its + artistic existence. Probably there is a deeper meaning in this part of the + poetic art than has yet been made clear to poet’s mind. In this poem the + rhymes have their share in its humorous charm. The writer’s power of using + double and triple rhymes is remarkable, and the effect is often pleasing, + even where they are used in the more solemn parts of the poem. Take the + lines:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No! love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it, + Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it, + The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it, + Shall arise, made perfect, from death’s repose of it.” + </pre> + <p> + A poem is a thing not for the understanding or heart only, but likewise + for the ear; or, rather, for the understanding and heart through the ear. + The best poem is best set forth when best read. If, then, there be rhymes + which, when read aloud, do, by their composition of words, prevent the + understanding from laying hold on the separate words, while the ear lays + hold on the rhymes, the perfection of the art must here be lost sight of, + notwithstanding the completeness which the rhyming manifests on close + examination. For instance, in “<i>equipt yours,” “Scriptures;” + “Manchester,” “haunches stir</i>;” or “<i>affirm any,” “Germany</i>;” + where two words rhyme with one word. But there are very few of them that + are objectionable on account of this difficulty and necessity of rapid + analysis. + </p> + <p> + One of the most wonderful things in the poem is, that so much of argument + is expressed in a species of verse, which one might be inclined, at first + sight, to think the least fitted for embodying it. But, in fact, the same + amount of argument in any other kind of verse would, in all likelihood, + have been intolerably dull as a work of art. Here the verse is full of + life and vigour, flagging never. Where, in several parts, the exact + meaning is difficult to reach, this results chiefly from the dramatic + rapidity and condensation of the thoughts. The argumentative power is + indeed wonderful; the arguments themselves powerful in their simplicity, + and embodied in words of admirable force. The poem is full of pathos and + humour; full of beauty and grandeur, earnestness and truth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ESSAYS ON SOME OF THE FORMS OF LITERATURE + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: “Essays on some of the Forms of Literature.” By T.T. Lynch, + Author of “Theophilus Trinal.” Longmans.] + </p> + <p> + Schoppe, the satiric chorus of Jean Paul’s romance of Titan, makes his + appearance at a certain masked ball, carrying in front of him a glass + case, in which the ball is remasked, repeated, and again reflected in a + mirror behind, by a set of puppets, ludicrously aping the apery of the + courtiers, whose whole life and outward manifestation was but a body-mask + mechanically moved with the semblance of real life and action. The court + simulates reality. The masks are a multiform mockery at their own + unreality, and as such are regarded by Schoppe, who takes them off with + the utmost ridicule in his masked puppet-show, which, with its reflection + in the mirror, is again indefinitely multiplied in the many-sided + reflector of Schoppe’s, or of Richter’s, or of the reader’s own + imagination. The successive retreating and beholding in this scene is + suggested to the reviewer by the fact that the last of these essays by Mr. + Lynch is devoted in part to reviews. So that the reviews review books,—Mr. + Lynch reviews the reviews, and the present Reviewer finds himself + (somewhat presumptuously, it may be) attempting to review Mr. Lynch. In + this, however, his office must be very different from that of Schoppe (for + there is a deeper and more real correspondence between the position of the + showman and the reviewer than that outward resemblance which first caused + the one to suggest the other). The latter’s office, in the present + instance, was, by mockery, to destroy the false, the very involution of + the satire adding to the strength of the ridicule. His glass case was + simply a review uttered by shapes and wires instead of words and + handwriting. And the work of the true critic must sometimes be to condemn, + and, as far as his strength can reach, utterly to destroy the false,—scorching + and withering its seeming beauty, till it is reduced to its essence and + original groundwork of dust and ashes. It is only, however, when it wears + the form of beauty which is the garment of truth, and so, like the + Erl-maidens, has power to bewitch, that it is worth the notice and attack + of the critic. Many forms of error, perhaps most, are better left alone to + die of their own weakness, for the galvanic battery of criticism only + helps to perpetuate their ghastly life. The highest work of the critic, + however, must surely be to direct attention to the true, in whatever form + it may have found utterance. But on this let us hear Mr. Lynch himself in + the last of these four lectures which were delivered by him at the Royal + Institution, Manchester, and are now before us in the form of a book:— + </p> + <p> + “The kritikos, the discerner, if he is ever saying to us, This is not + gold; and never, This is; is either very humbly useful, or very perverse, + or very unfortunate. This is not gold, he says. Thank you, we reply, we + perceived as much. And this is not, he adds. True, we answer, but we see + gold grains glittering out of its rude, dark mass. Well, at least, this is + not, he proceeds. Perverse man! we retort, are you seeking what is not + gold? We are inquiring for what is, and unfortunate indeed are we if, born + into a world of Nature, and of Spirit once so rich, we are born but to + find that it has spent or has lost all its wealth. Unhappy man would he + be, who, walking his garden, should scent only the earthy savour of leaves + dead or dying, never perceiving, and that afar off, the heavenly odour of + roses fresh to-day from the Maker’s hands. The discerning by spiritual + aroma may lead to discernment by the eye, and to that careful scrutiny, + and thence greater knowledge, of which the eye is instrument and + minister.” + </p> + <p> + And again:— + </p> + <p> + “The critic criticized, if dealt with in the worst fashion of his own + class, must be pronounced a mere monster, ‘seeking whom he may devour;’ + and, therefore, to be hunted and slain as speedily as possible, and + stuffed for the museum, where he may be regarded with due horror, but in + safety. But if dealt with after the best fashion of his class, a very + honourable and beneficent office is assigned him, and he is warned only—though + zealously—against its perversions. A judicial chair in the kingdom + of human thought, filled by a man of true integrity, comprehensiveness, + and delicacy of spirit, is a seat of terror and praise, whose powers are + at once most fostering to whatever is good, most repressive of whatever is + evil.... The critic, in his office of censurer, has need so much to + controvert, expose, and punish, because of the abundance of literary + faults; and as there is a right and a wrong side in warfare, so there will + be in criticism. And as when soldiers are numerous, there will be not a + few who are only tolerable, if even that, so of critics. But then the + critic is more than the censurer; and in his higher and happier aspect + appears before us and serves us, as the discoverer, the vindicator, and + the eulogist of excellence.” + </p> + <p> + But resisting the temptation to quote further from Mr. Lynch’s book on + this matter of Criticism, which seemed the natural point of contact by + which the Reviewer could lay hold on the book, he would pass on with the + remark that his duty in the present instance is of the nobler and better + sort—nobler and better, that is, with regard to the object, for duty + in the man remains ever the same—namely, the exposition of + excellence, and not of its opposite. Mr. Lynch is a man of true insight + and large heart, who has already done good in the world, and will do more; + although, possibly, he belongs rather to the last class of writers + described by himself, in the extract I am about to give from this same + essay, than to any of the preceding:— + </p> + <p> + “Some of the best books are written avowedly, or with evident + consciousness of the fact, for the select public that is constituted by + minds of the deeper class, or minds the more advanced of their time. Such + books may have but a restricted circulation and limited esteem in their + own day, and may afterwards extend both their fame and the circle of their + readers. Others of the best books, written with a pathos and a power that + may be universally felt, appeal at once to the common humanity of the + world, and get a response marvellously strong and immediate. An ordinary + human eye and heart, whose glances are true, whose pulses healthy, will + fit us to say of much that we read—This is good, that is poor. But + only the educated eye and the experienced heart will fit us to judge of + what relates to matters veiled from ordinary observation, and belonging to + the profounder region of human thought and emotion. Powers, however, that + the few only possess, may be required to paint what everybody can see, so + that everybody shall say, How beautiful! how like! And powers adequate to + do this in the finest manner will be often adequate to do much more—may + produce, indeed, books or pictures, whose singular merit only the few + shall perceive, and the many for awhile deny, and books or pictures which, + while they give an immediate and pure pleasure to the common eye, shall + give a far fuller and finer pleasure to that eye that is the organ of a + deeper and more cultivated soul. There are, too, men of <i>peculiar</i> + powers, rare and fine, who can never hope to please the large public, at + least of their own age, but whose writings are a heart’s ease and heart’s + joy to the select few, and serve such as a cup of heavenly comfort for the + earth’s journey, and a lamp of heavenly light for the shadows of the way.” + </p> + <p> + One other extract from the general remarks on Books in this essay, and we + will turn to another:— + </p> + <p> + “In all our estimation of the various qualities of books, if it be true + that our reading assists our life, it is true also that our life assists + our reading. If we let our spirit talk to us in undistracted moments—if + we commune with friendly, serious Nature, face to face, often—if we + pursue honourable aims in a steady progress—if we learn how a man’s + best work falls below his thought, yet how still his failure prompts a + tenderer love of his thought—if we live in sincere, frank relations + with some few friends, joying in their joy, hearing the tale and sharing + the pain of their grief, and in frequent interchange of honest, household + sensibility—if we look about us on character, marking distinctly + what we can see, and feeling the prompting of a hundred questions + concerning what is out of our ken:—if we live thus, we shall be good + readers and critics of books, and improving ones.” + </p> + <p> + The second and third of these essays are on Biography and Fiction + respectively and principally; treating, however, of collateral subjects as + well. Deep is the relation between the life shadowed forth in a biography, + and the life in a man’s brain which he shadows forth in a fiction—when + that fiction is of the highest order, and written in love, is beheld even + by the writer himself with reverence. Delightful, surely, it must be; yes, + awful too, to read to-day the embodiment of a man’s noblest thought, to + follow the hero of his creation through his temptations, contests, and + victories, in a world which likewise is— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All made out of the carver’s brain;” + </pre> + <p> + and to-morrow to read the biography of this same writer. What of his own + ideal has he realized? Where can the life-fountain be detected within him + which found issue to the world’s light and air, in this ideal self? Shall + God’s fiction, which is man’s reality, fall short of man’s fiction? Shall + a man be less than what he can conceive and utter? Surely it will not, + cannot end thus. If a man live at all in harmony with the great laws of + being—if he will permit the working out of God’s idea in him, he + must one day arrive at something greater than what now he can project and + behold. Yet, in biography, we do not so often find traces of those + struggles depicted in the loftier fiction. One reason may be that the + contest is often entirely within, and so a man may have won his spiritual + freedom without any outward token directly significant of the victory; + except, if he be an artist, such expression as it finds in fiction, + whether the fiction be in marble, or in sweet harmonies, or in ink. Nor + can we determine the true significance of any living act; for being + ourselves within the compass of the life-mystery, we cannot hold it at + arm’s length from us and look at its lines of configuration. Nor of a life + can we in any measure determine the success by what we behold of it. It is + to us at best but a truncated spire, whose want of completion may be the + greater because of the breadth of its base, and its slow taper, indicating + the lofty height to which it is intended to aspire. The idea of our own + life is more than we can embrace. It is not ours, but God’s, and fades + away into the infinite. Our comprehension is finite; we ourselves + infinite. We can only trust in God and do the truth; then, and then only, + is our life safe, and sure both of continuance and development. + </p> + <p> + But the reviewer perhaps too often merely steals his author’s text and + writes upon it; or, like a man who lies in bed thinking about a dream till + its folds enwrap him and he sinks into the midst of its visions, he + forgets his position of beholding, and passes from observation into + spontaneous utterance. What says our author about “biography, + autobiography, and history?” This lecture has pleased the reviewer most of + the four. Reading it in a lonely place, under a tree, with wide fields and + slopes around, it produced on his mind the two effects which perhaps Mr. + Lynch would most wish it should produce—namely, first, a longing to + lead a more true and noble life; and, secondly, a desire to read more + biography. Nor can he but hope that it must produce the same effect on + every earnest reader, on every one whose own biography would not be + altogether a blank in what regards the individual will and spiritual aim. + </p> + <p> + “In meditative hours, when we blend despair of ourself with complaint of + the world, the biography of a man successful in this great business of + living is as the visit of an angel sent to strengthen us. Give the soldier + his sword, the farmer his plough, the carpenter his hammer and nails, the + manufacturer his machines, the merchant his stores, and the scholar his + books; these are but implements; the man is more than his work or tools. + How far has he fulfilled the law of his being, and attained its desire? Is + his life a whole; the days as threads and as touches; the life, the + well-woven garment, the well-painted picture? Which of two sacrifices has + he offered—the one so acceptable to the powers of dark worlds, the + other so acceptable to powers of bright ones—that of soul to body, + or that of body to soul? Has he slain what was holiest in him to obtain + gifts from Fashion or Mammon? Or has he, in days so arduous, so assiduous, + that they are like a noble army of martyrs, made burnt-offering of what + was secondary, throwing into the flames the salt of true moral energy and + the incense of cordial affections? We want the work to show us by its + parts, its mass, its form, the qualities of the man, and to see that the + man is perfected through his work as well as the work finished by his + effort.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the highest moral height which a man can reach, and at the same + time the most difficult of attainment, is the willingness to be <i>nothing</i> + relatively, so that he attain that positive excellence which the original + conditions of his being render not merely possible, but imperative. It is + nothing to a man to be greater or less than another—to be esteemed + or otherwise by the public or private world in which he moves. Does he, or + does he not, behold, and love, and live, the unchangeable, the essential, + the divine? This he can only do according as God hath made him. He can + behold and understand God in the least degree, as well as in the greatest, + only by the godlike within him; and he that loves thus the good and great, + has no room, no thought, no necessity for comparison and difference. The + truth satisfies him. He lives in its absoluteness. God makes the glow-worm + as well as the star; the light in both is divine. If mine be an earth-star + to gladden the wayside, I must cultivate humbly and rejoicingly its green + earth-glow, and not seek to blanch it to the whiteness of the stars that + lie in the fields of blue. For to deny God in my own being is to cease to + behold him in any. God and man can meet only by the man’s becoming that + which God meant him to be. Then he enters into the house of life, which is + greater than the house of fame. It is better to be a child in a green + field than a knight of many orders in a state ceremonial. + </p> + <p> + “One biography may help conjecture or satisfy reason concerning the story + of a thousand unrecorded lives. And how few even of the deserving among + the multitude can deserve, as ‘dear sons of memory,’ to be shrined in the + public heart. Few of us die unwept, but most of us unwritten. We shall + find a grave—less certainly a tombstone—and with much less + likelihood a biographer. Those ‘bright particular’ stars that at evening + look towards us from afar, yet still are individual in the distance, are + at clearest times but about a thousand; but the milky lustre that runs + through mid heaven is composed of a million million lights, which are not + the less separate because seen undistinguishably. Absorbed, not lost, in + the multitude of the unrecorded, our private dear ones make part in this + mild, blissful shining of the ‘general assembly,’ the great congregation + of the skies. Thus the past is aglow with the unwritten, the nameless. The + leaders, sons of fame, conspicuous in lustre, eminent in place; these are + the few, whose great individuality burns with distinct, starry light + through the dark of ages. Such stars, without the starry way, would not + teach us the vastness of heaven; and the ‘way,’ without these, were not + sufficient to gladden and glorify the night with pomp of Hierarchical + Ascents of Domination.” + </p> + <p> + There are many passages in this essay with which the reviewer would be + glad to enrich his notice of the book, but limitation of space, and + perhaps justice to the essay itself, which ought to be read in its own + completeness, forbid. Mr. Lynch looks to the heart of the matter, and + makes one put the question—“Would not a biography written by Mr. + Lynch himself be a valuable addition to this kind of literature?” His + would not be an interesting account of outward events and relationships + and progress, nor even a succession of revelations of inward conditions, + but we should expect to find ourselves elevated by him to a point of view + from which the life of the man would assume an artistic individuality, as + it were an isolation of existence; for the supposed author could not + choose for his regard any biography for which this would be impossible; or + in which the reticulated nerves of purpose did not combine the whole, with + more or less of success, into a true and remarkable unity. One passage + more from this essay,— + </p> + <p> + “Biography, then, makes life known to us as more wealthy in character, and + much more remarkable in its every-day stories, than we had deemed it. + Another good it does us is this. It introduces us to some of our most + agreeable and stimulative friendships. People may be more beneficially + intimate with one they never saw than even with a neighbour or brother. + Many a solitary, puzzled, incommunicative person, has found society + provided, his riddle read, and his heart’s secret, that longed and strove + for utterance, outspoken for him in a biography. And both a love purer + than any yet entertained may be originated, and a pure but ungratified + love already existing, find an object, by the visit of a biography. In + actual life you see your friend to-day, and will see him again to-morrow + or next year; but in the dear book, you have your friend and all his + experiences at once and ever. He is with you wholly, and may be with you + at any time. He lives for you, and has already died for you, to give + finish to the meaning, fulness, and sanctity, to the comfort of his days. + He is mysteriously above as well as before you, by this fact, that he has + died. Thus your intimate is your superior, your solace, but your support, + too, and an example of the victory to which he calls you. His end, or her + end, is our own in view, and the flagging spirit revives. We see the goal, + and gird our loins anew for the race. Or, speaking of things minor, there + is fresh prospect of the game, there is companionship in the hunt, and + spirit for the winning. Such biography, too, is a mirror in which we see + ourselves; and we see that we may trim or adorn, or that the plain signs + of our deficient health or ill-ruled temper may set us to look for, and to + use the means of improvement. But such a mirror is as a water one; in + which first you may see your face, and which then becomes for you a bath + to wash away the stains you see, and to offer its pure, cool stream as a + restorative and cosmetic for your wrinkles and pallors. And what a + pleasure there will be sometimes as we peruse a biography, in finding + another who is so like ourself—saying the same things, feeling the + same dreads, and shames, and flutterings; hampered and harassed much as + poor self is. Then, the escapes of such a friend give us hope of + deliverance for ourself; and his better, or if not better, yet rewarded, + patience, freshens our eye and sinews, and puts a staff into our hand. And + certain seals of impossibility that we had put on this stone, and on that, + beneath which our hopes lay buried, are by this biography, as by a + visiting angel, effectually broken, and our hopes arise again. Our view of + life becomes more complete because we see the whole of his, or of hers. We + view life, too, in a more composed, tender way. Wavering faith, in its + chosen determining principles, is confirmed. In quiet comparison of + ourselves with one of our own class, or one who has made the mark for + which we are striving, we are shamed to have done no better, and stirred + to attempt former things again, or fresh ones in a stronger and more + patient spirit.” + </p> + <p> + It is, indeed, well with him who has found a friend whose spirit touches + his own and illuminates it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I missed him when the sun began to bend; + I found him not when I had lost his rim; + With many tears I went in search of him, + Climbing high mountains which did still ascend, + And gave me echoes when I called my friend; + Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim, + And high cathedrals where the light was dim; + Through books, and arts, and works without an end— + But found him not, the friend whom I had lost. + And yet I found him, as I found the lark, + A sound in fields I heard but could not mark; + I found him nearest when I missed him most, + I found him in my heart, a life in frost, + A light I knew not till my soul was dark.” + </pre> + <p> + Next to possessing a true, wise, and victorious friend seated by your + fireside, it is blessed to have the spirit of such a friend embodied—for + spirit can assume any embodiment—on your bookshelves. But in the + latter case the friendship is all on one side. For full friendship your + friend must love you, and know that you love him. Surely these biographies + are not merely spiritual links connecting us in the truest manner with + past times and vanished minds, and thus producing strong half friendships. + Are they not likewise links connecting us with a future, wherein these + souls shall dawn upon ours, rising again from the death of the past into + the life of our knowledge and love? Are not these biographies letters of + introduction, forwarded, but not yet followed by him whom they introduce, + for whose step we listen, and whose voice we long to hear; and whom we + shall yet meet somewhere in the Infinite? Shall I not one day, “somewhere, + somehow,” clasp the large hand of Novalis, and, gazing on his face, + compare his features with those of Saint John? + </p> + <p> + The essay on light literature must be left to the spontaneous appreciation + of those who are already acquainted with this book, or who may be induced, + by the representations here made, to become acquainted with it. Before + proceeding to notice the first essay in the little volume, namely, that on + Poetry, its subject suggests the fact of the publication of a second + edition of the Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, by the same author, a + portion of which consists of interspersed poems. These are of true poetic + worth; and although in some cases wanting in rhythmic melody, yet in most + of these cases they possess a wild and peculiar rhythm of their own. The + reviewer knows of some whose hearts this book has made glad, and doubtless + there are many such. + </p> + <p> + The essay on Poetry is itself poetic throughout in its expression. And how + else shall Poetry be described than by Poetry? What form shall embrace and + define the highest? Must it not be self-descriptive as self-existent? For + what man is to this planet, what the eye is to man himself, Poetry is to + Literature. Yet one can hardly help wishing that the poetic forms in this + Essay were fewer and less minute, and the whole a little more scientific; + though it is a question how far we have a right to ask for this. As you + open it, however, the pages seem absolutely to sparkle, as if strewn with + diamond sparks. It is no dull, metallic, surface lustre, but a shining + from within, as well as from the superficies. Still one cannot deny that + fancy is too prominent in Mr. Lynch’s writings. It is true that his Fancy + is the fairy attendant on his Imagination, which latter uses the former + for her own higher ends; and that there is little or no <i>mere</i> fancy + to be found in his books; for if you look below the surface-form you find + a truth. But it were to be desired that the Truth clothed herself always + in the living forms of Imagination, and thus walked forth amongst her + worshippers, looking on them from living eyes, rather than that she should + show herself through the windows of fancy. Sometimes there may be an + offence against taste, as in page 20; sometimes an image may be expanded + too much, and sometimes the very exuberance of imaginative fancy (if the + combination be correct) may lead to an association of images that suggests + incongruity. Still the essay is abundantly beautiful and true. The + poetical quotations are not isolated, or exposed to view as specimens, but + are worked into the web of the prose like the flowers in the damask, and + do their part in the evolution of the continuous thought. + </p> + <p> + “If poetry, as light from the heart of God, is for our heart, that we may + brighten and distinguish individual things; if it is to transfigure for us + the round, dusk world as by an inner radiance; if it is to present human + life and history as Rembrandt pictures, in which darkness serves and + glorifies light; if, like light, formless in its essence, all things + shapen towards the perfection of their forms under its influence; if, + entering as through crevices in single beams, it makes dimmest places + cheerful and sacred with its golden touch: then must the heart of the Poet + in which this true light shineth be as a hospice on the mountain pathways + of the world, and his verse must be the lamp seen from far that burns to + tell us where bread and shelter, drink, fire, and companionship, may be + found; and he himself should have the mountaineer’s hardiness and + resolution. From the heart as source, to the heart in influence, Poetry + comes. The inward, the upward, and the onward, whether we speak of an + individual or a nation, may not be separated in our consideration. Deep + and sacred imaginative meditations are needed for the true earthward as + well as for the heavenward progress of men and peoples. And Poetry, + whether old or new, streaming from the heart moved by the powerful spirit + of love, has influence on the heart public and individual, and thence on + the manners, laws, and institutions of nations. If Poesy visit the length + and breadth of a country after years unfruitfully dull, coming like a + showery fertilizing wind after drought, the corners and the valley-hidings + are visited too, and these perhaps she now visits first, as these + sometimes she has visited only. For miles and for miles, the public corn, + the bread of the nation’s life, is bettered; and in our own endeared spot, + the roses, delight of our individual eye and sense, yield us more + prosperingly their colour and their fragrance. For the universal sunshine + which brightens a thousand cities, beautifies ten thousand homesteads, and + rejoices ten times ten thousand hearts. And as rains in the mid season + renew for awhile the faded greenness of spring; and trees in fervent + summers, when their foliage has deepened or fully fixed its hue, bedeck + themselves through the fervency with bright midsummer shoots; so, by + Poetry are the youthful hues of the soul renewed, and truths that have + long stood full-foliaged in our minds, are by its fine influences + empowered to put forth fresh shoots. Thus age, which is a necessity for + the body, may be warded off as a disease from the soul, and we may be like + the old man in Chaucer, who had nothing hoary about him but his hairs— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Though I be hoor I fare as doth a tree + That blosmeth er the fruit ywoxen be, + The blosmy tree n’ is neither drie ne ded: + I feel me nowhere hoor, but on my head. + Min herte and all my limmes ben as grene + As laurel through the yere is for to sene.’” + </pre> + <p> + Hear our author again as to the calling of the poet:— + </p> + <p> + “To unite earthly love and celestial—‘true to the kindred points of + heaven and home;’ to reconcile time and eternity; to draw presage of joy’s + victory from the delight of the secret honey dropping from the clefts of + rocky sorrow; <i>to harmonize our instinctive longings for the definite + and the infinite, in the ideal Perfect</i>; to read creation as a human + book of the heart, both plain and mystical, and divinely written: such is + the office fulfilled by best-loved poets. Their ladder of celestial ascent + must be fixed on its base, earth, if its top is to securely rest on + heaven.” + </p> + <p> + Beautifully, too, does he describe the birth of Poetry; though one may + doubt its correctness, at least if attributed to the highest kind of + poetry. + </p> + <p> + “When words of felt truth were first spoken by the first pair, in love of + their garden, their God, and one another, and these words were with joyful + surprise felt to be in their form and glow answerable to the happy thought + uttered; then Poetry sprang. And when the first Father and first Mother, + settling their soul upon its thought, found that thought brighten; and + when from it, as thus they mused, like branchlets from a branch, or + flowerets from their bud, other thoughts came, ranging themselves by the + exerted, yet painlessly exerted, power of the soul, in an order felt to be + beautiful, and of a sound pleasant in utterance to ear and soul; being + withal, through the sweetness of their impression on the heart, fixed for + memory’s frequentest recurrence; then was the world’s first poem composed, + and in the joyful flutter of a heart that had thus become a maker, the + maker of a ‘thing of beauty,’ like in beauty even unto God’s heaven, and + trees, and flowers, the secret of Poesy shone tremulously forth.” + </p> + <p> + Whether this be so or not, the highest poetic feeling of which we are now + conscious springs not from the beholding of perfected beauty, but from the + mute sympathy which the creation with all its children manifests with us + in the groaning and travailing which looketh for the sonship. Because of + our need and aspiration, the snowdrop gives birth in our hearts to a + loftier spiritual and poetic feeling, than the rose most complete in form, + colour, and odour. The rose is of Paradise—the snowdrop is of the + striving, hoping, longing Earth. Perhaps our highest poetry is the + expression of our aspirations in the sympathetic forms of visible nature. + Nor is this merely a longing for a restored Paradise; for even in the + ordinary history of men, no man or woman that has fallen can be restored + to the position formerly occupied. Such must rise to a yet higher place, + whence they can behold their former standing far beneath their feet. They + must be restored by attaining something better than they ever possessed + before, or not at all. If the law be a weariness, we must escape it by + being filled with the spirit, for not otherwise can we fulfil the law than + by being above the law. There is for us no escape, save as the Poet + counsels us:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Is thy strait horizon dreary? + Is thy foolish fancy chill? + Change the feet that have grown weary, + For the wings that never will. + Burst the flesh and live the spirit; + Haunt the beautiful and far; + Thou hast all things to inherit, + And a soul for every star.” + </pre> + <p> + But the Reviewer must hasten to take leave, though unwillingly, of this + pleasing, earnest, and profitable book. Perhaps it could be wished that + the writer helped his readers a little more into the channel of his + thought; made it easier for them to see the direction in which he is + leading them; called out to them, “Come up hither,” before he said, “I + will show you a thing.” But the Reviewer says this with deference; and + takes his leave with the hope that Mr. Lynch will be listened to for two + good reasons: first, that he speaks the truth; last, that he has already + suffered for the Truth’s sake. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HISTORY AND HEROES OF MEDICINE. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: By J. Rutherfurd Russell, M.D.] + </p> + <p> + In this volume, Dr. Russell has not merely aimed at the production of a + book that might be serviceable to the Faculty, by which the history of its + own art is not at all sufficiently studied, but has aspired to the far + more difficult success of writing a history of medicine which shall be + readable to all who care for true history—that history, namely, in + which not merely growth and change are represented, but the secret + supplies and influences as well, which minister to the one and occasion + the other. If the difficulty has been greater (although with his evidently + wide sympathies and keen insight into humanity we doubt if it has), the + success is the more honourable; for a success it certainly is. The + partially biographical plan on which he has constructed his work has no + doubt aided in the accomplishment of this purpose; for it is much easier + to present the subject in its human relations, when its history is given + in connexion with the lives of those who were most immediately associated + with it. But it would be a great mistake to conclude from this, that it is + the less a history of the art itself; for no art or science has life in + itself, apart from the minds which foresee, discover, and verify it. + Whatever point in its progress it may have reached, it will there remain + until a new man appears, whose new questions shall illicit new replies + from nature—replies which are the essential food of the science, by + which it lives, grows, and makes itself a history. + </p> + <p> + Nor must our readers suppose that because the book is readable, it is + therefore slight, either in material or construction. Much reading and + research have provided the material, while real thought and argument have + superintended the construction. Nor is it by any means without the + adornment that a poetic temperament and a keen sense of humour can supply. + </p> + <p> + Naturally, the central life in the book is that of Lord Bacon, the man who + brought out of his treasures things both new and old. Up to him the story + gradually leads from the prehistoric times of Aesculapius, the pathway + first becoming plainly visible in the life and labours of Hippocrates. His + fine intellect and powers of acute observation afforded the material + necessary for the making of a true physician. The Greek mind, partly, + perhaps, from its artistic tendencies, seems to have been peculiarly + impatient of incomplete forms, and therefore, to have much preferred the + construction of a theory from the most shadowy material, to the patient + experiment and investigation necessary for the procuring of the real + substance; and Hippocrates, not knowing how to advance to a theory by + rational experiment, and too honest to invent one, assumes the traditional + theories, founded on the vaguest and most obtrusive generalizations. Those + which his experience taught him to reject, were adopted and maintained by + Galen and all who followed him for centuries, the chief instance of + progress being only the substitution by the Arabians of some of the milder + medicines now in use, for the terrible and often fatal drugs employed by + the Greek and Roman physicians. The fanciful classification of diseases + into four kinds—hot, cold, moist and dry, with the corresponding + arbitrary classification of remedies to be administered by contraries, + continued to be the only recognized theory of medicine for many centuries + after the Christian era. + </p> + <p> + But Lord Bacon, amongst other branches of knowledge which he considers + ill-followed, makes especial mention of medicine, which he would submit to + the same rules of observation and experiment laid down by him for the + advancement of learning in general. With regard to it, as with regard to + the discovery of all the higher laws of nature, he considers “that men + have made too untimely a departure, and too remote a recess from + particulars.” Men have hurried to conclusions, and then argued from them + as from facts. Therefore let us have no traditional theories, and make + none for ourselves but such as are revealed in the form of laws to the + patient investigator, who has “straightened and held fast Proteus, that he + might be compelled to change his shapes,” and so reveal his nature. Hence + one of the aspects in which Lord Bacon was compelled to appear was that of + a destroyer of what preceded. In this he resembled Cardan and Paracelsus + who went before him, and who like him pulled down, but could not, like + him, build up. He resembled them, however, in the possession of another + element of character, namely, that poetic imagination which looks abroad + into the regions of possibilities, and foresees or invents. But in the + case of the charlatan, the vaguest suggestions of his mind in its + favourite mood, is adopted as a theory all but proved, if not as a direct + revelation to the favoured individual; while the true thinker seeks but an + hypothesis corresponding in some measure to facts already discovered, in + order that he may have the suggestion of new experiments and + investigations in the course of his attempts to verify or disprove the + hypothesis. Lord Bacon considered hypothesis invaluable in the discovery + of truth, but he only used it as a board upon which to write his questions + to nature; or, to use another figure, hypothesis with him is as the next + stepping-stone in the swollen river, which he supposes to be here or + there, and so feels for with his staff. But it must be proved before it be + regarded as a law, and greatly corroborated before it be even adopted as a + theory. Cardan and Paracelsus were destroyers and mystics only; they + destroyed on the earth that they might build in the air: Lord Bacon united + both characters in the philosopher. He looked abroad into the regions of + the unknown, whence all knowledge comes; he called wonder the seed of + knowledge; but he would build nowhere but on the earth—on the firm + land of ascertained truth. That which kept him right was his practical + humanity. It was for the sake of delivering men from the ills of life, by + discovering the laws of the elements amidst which that life must be led, + that he laboured and thought. This object kept him true, made him able to + discover the very laws of discovery; brought him so far into <i>rapport</i> + with the heart of nature herself, that, like a physical prophet, his + seeing could outspeed his knowing, and behold a law—dimly, it is + true, but yet behold it—long before his intellect, which had to + build bridges and find straw to make the bricks, could dare to affirm its + approach to the same conclusion. Truth to humanity made him true to fact; + and truth to fact made him true in theory. + </p> + <p> + It was in this spirit of devotion to his kind that he said, “Therefore + here is the deficience which I find, that physicians have not ... set down + and delivered over certain experimental medicines for the cure of + particular diseases.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Russell’s true insight into the relation of Lord Bacon to the medical + as well as to all science, has suggested the above remarks. What our + author chiefly desires is, that the same principles which made medicine + what it is, should be allowed to carry it yet further, and make it what it + ought to be, and must become. As he goes on to show, through succeeding + lives and theories, that just in proportion as these principles have been + followed—the principles of careful observation, hypothesis, and + experiment—have men made discoveries that have been helpful to their + fellow-men; while, on the other hand, the most elaborate theories of the + most popular physicians, which have owed their birth to premature + generalization and invention, have passed away, like the crackling of + thorns under a pot. Belonging to the latter class of men, we have Stahl, + Hoffman, Boerhaave, Cullen, and Brown; while to the former belong Harvey, + Sydenham, Jenner, and Hahnemann. + </p> + <p> + After the last name, there is no need to say that our author is a + homoeopath. Whatever may be our private opinion of the system, justice + requires that we should say at least that books such as these are quite as + open to refutation as to ridicule; for it is only a good argument that is + worth refuting by a better. But we fear there are few books on this + subject that treat of it with the calmness and fairness which would + incline an honest homoeopath to put them into the hands of one of the + opposite party as an exposition of his opinions. There is no excitement in + these pages. They are the work of a man of liberal education, of + refinement, and of truthfulness, with power to understand, and facility to + express; one of whose main objects is to vindicate for homoeopathy, on the + most rightful of all grounds—those on which alone science can stand—on + the ground, that is, of laws discovered by observation and experiment—the + place not only of a fact in the history of medicine, but the right to be + considered as one of the greatest advances towards the establishment of a + science of curing. Certainly if he and the rest of its advocates should + fail utterly in this, the heresy will yet have established for itself a + memorial in history, as one of the most powerful illusions that have ever + deceived both priests and people. But the chief advantage which the system + will derive from Dr. Russell’s book will spring, it seems to us, from his + attempt—a successful one it must be confessed—to prove <i>that + homoeopathy is a development, and not a mere reaction</i>; that it has its + roots far down in the history of science. The first mention of it in the + book, however, is made for the purpose of disavowing the claim, advanced + by many homoeopathists, to Hippocrates as one of their order. Not to + mention the curious story about Galen and the patient ill from an overdose + of theriacum, who was cured by another dose of the same substance, nor the + ridicule of the doctrine of contraries by Paracelsus and Van Helmont, nor + the fact that the <i>contraries</i> of Boerhaave, by his own explanation, + merely signify whatever substances prove their contrariety to the disease + by curing it—to pass by these, we find one of the main objects of + homoeopathy, the discovery of specifics, insisted upon by Lord Bacon in + his words already quoted. Not that homoeopaths, while they depend upon + specifics, believe that there is any such thing as a specific for a + disease—a disease being as various as the individuality of the human + beings whom it may attack; but that an approximate specific may be found + for every well-defined stage in every individual disease; a disease having + its process of change, development, and decline, like a vegetable or + animal life. Besides an equally strong desire for specifics, and a + determined opposition to compound medicines, Boyle, who was born the year + of Bacon’s death, and inherited the mantle of the great philosopher, + manifests a strong belief in the power of the infinitesimal dose. Neither + Bacon nor Boyle, however, were medical men by profession. But Sydenham + followed them, according to Dr. Russell, in their tendency towards + specifics. It is almost needless to mention Jenner’s victory over the + small-pox as, in the eyes of the homoeopaths, a grand step in the + development of their system. It gives Dr. Russell an opportunity of + showing in a strong instance that the best discoveries for delivering + mankind from those ills even of which they are most sensible have been + received with derision, with more than bare unbelief. This is one of his + objects in the book, and while it is no proof whatever of the truth of + homoepathy, it shows at least that the opposition manifested to it is no + proof of its falsehood. This is enough; for it seeks to be tried on its + own merits; and its foes are bound to accord it this when it is advocated + in such an honest and dignified manner as in the book before us. + </p> + <p> + The need of man, in physics as well as in higher things, is the guide to + truth. With evils of any sort we need no further acquaintance than may be + gained in the endeavour to combat them. The discovery of what will cure + diseases seems the only natural mode of rising by generalization to the + discovery of the laws of cure and the nature of disease. + </p> + <p> + Those portions of the volume which discuss the influence of Christianity + on the healing art, likewise those relating to the different feelings with + which at different times in different countries physicians have been + regarded, are especially interesting. + </p> + <p> + The only portion of the book we should be inclined to find fault with, as + to the quality of the thought expended upon it, is the dissertation in the + second chapter on the [Greek: psuchae] and [Greek: pneuma]. We doubt + likewise whether the author gives the Archaeus of Van Helmont quite fair + play; but these are questions so purely theoretical that they scarcely + admit of discussion here. We rise from the perusal of the book, whatever + may be our feelings with regard to the truth or falsehood of the system it + advocates, with increased respect for the profession of medicine, with + enlarged hope for its future, and with a strong feeling of the nobility + conferred by the art upon every one of its practitioners who is aware of + the dignity of his calling. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WORDSWORTH’S POETRY + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Delivered extempore at Manchester.] + </p> + <p> + The history of the poetry of Wordsworth is a true reflex of the man + himself. The life of Wordsworth was not outwardly eventful, but his inner + life was full of conflict, discovery, and progress. His outward life seems + to have been so ordered by Providence as to favour the development of the + poetic life within. Educated in the country, and spending most of his life + in the society of nature, he was not subjected to those violent external + changes which have been the lot of some poets. Perfectly fitted as he was + to cope with the world, and to fight his way to any desired position, he + chose to retire from it, and in solitude to work out what appeared to him + to be the true destiny of his life. + </p> + <p> + The very element in which the mind of Wordsworth lived and moved was a + Christian pantheism. Allow me to explain the word. The poets of the Old + Testament speak of everything as being the work of God’s hand:—We + are the “work of his hand;” “The world was made by him.” But in the New + Testament there is a higher form used to express the relation in which we + stand to him—“We are his offspring;” not the work of his hand, but + the children that came forth from his heart. Our own poet Goldsmith, with + the high instinct of genius, speaks of God as having “loved us into + being.” Now I think this is not only true with regard to man, but true + likewise with regard to the world in which we live. This world is not + merely a thing which God hath made, subjecting it to laws; but it is an + expression of the thought, the feeling, the heart of God himself. And so + it must be; because, if man be the child of God, would he not feel to be + out of his element if he lived in a world which came, not from the heart + of God, but only from his hand? This Christian pantheism, this belief that + God is in everything, and showing himself in everything, has been much + brought to the light by the poets of the past generation, and has its + influence still, I hope, upon the poets of the present. We are not + satisfied that the world should be a proof and varying indication of the + intellect of God. That was how Paley viewed it. He taught us to believe + there is a God from the mechanism of the world. But, allowing all the + argument to be quite correct, what does it prove? A mechanical God, and + nothing more. + </p> + <p> + Let us go further; and, looking at beauty, believe that God is the first + of artists; that he has put beauty into nature, knowing how it will affect + us, and intending that it should so affect us; that he has embodied his + own grand thoughts thus that we might see them and be glad. Then, let us + go further still, and believe that whatever we feel in the highest moments + of truth shining through beauty, whatever comes to our souls as a power of + life, is meant to be seen and felt by us, and to be regarded not as the + work of his hand, but as the flowing forth of his heart, the flowing forth + of his love of us, making us blessed in the union of his heart and ours. + </p> + <p> + Now, Wordsworth is the high priest of nature thus regarded. He saw God + present everywhere; not always immediately, in his own form, it is true; + but whether he looked upon the awful mountain-peak, sky-encompassed with + loveliness, or upon the face of a little child, which is as it were eyes + in the face of nature—in all things he felt the solemn presence of + the Divine Spirit. By Keats this presence was recognized only as the + spirit of beauty; to Wordsworth, God, as the Spirit of Truth, was + manifested through the forms of the external world. + </p> + <p> + I have said that the life of Wordsworth was so ordered as to bring this + out of him, in the forms of <i>his</i> art, to the ears of men. In + childhood even his conscience was partly developed through the influences + of nature upon him. He thus retrospectively describes this special + influence of nature:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One summer evening (led by her) I found + A little boat, tied to a willow tree, + Within a rocky cave, its usual home. + Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in, + Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth, + And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice + Of mountain echoes did my boat move on, + Leaving behind her still, on either side, + Small circles glittering idly in the moon, + Until they melted all into one track + Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows + Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point + With an unswerving line, I fixed my view + Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, + The horizon’s utmost boundary; far above + Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. + She was an elfin pinnace; lustily + I dipped my oars into the silent lake, + And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat + Went heaving through the water like a swan; + When, from behind that craggy steep, till then + The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge, + As if with voluntary power instinct, + Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, + And, growing still in stature, the grim shape + Towered up between me and the stars, and still + For so it seemed, with purpose of its own, + And measured motion like a living thing, + Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, + And through the silent water stole my way + Back to the covert of the willow tree; + There in her mooring place I left my bark, + And through the meadows homeward went, in grave + And serious mood; but after I had seen + That spectacle, for many days, my brain + Worked with a dim and undetermined sense + Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts + There hung a darkness, call it solitude, + Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes + Remained, no pleasant images of trees, + Of sea, or sky, no colours of green fields; + But huge and mighty forms, that do not live + Like living men, moved slowly through the mind + By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. +</pre> + <p> + Here we see that a fresh impulse was given to his life even in boyhood, by + the influence of nature. If we have had any similar experience, we shall + be able to enter into this feeling of Wordsworth’s; if not, the tale will + be almost incredible. + </p> + <p> + One passage more I would refer to, as showing what Wordsworth felt with + regard to nature, in his youth; and the growth that took place in him in + consequence. Nature laid up in the storehouse of his mind and heart her + most beautiful and grand forms, whence they might be brought, afterwards, + to be put to the highest human service. I quote only a few lines from that + poem, deservedly a favourite with all the lovers of Wordsworth, “Lines + written above Tintern Abbey:”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I cannot paint + What then I was. The sounding cataract + Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, + The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, + Their colours and their forms, were then to me + An appetite; a feeling and a love, + That had no need of a remoter charm + By thought supplied, nor any interest + Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, + And all its aching joys are now no more, + And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this + Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts + Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, + Abundant recompense. For I have learned + To look on nature, not as in the hour + Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes + The still, sad music of humanity, + Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power + To chasten and subdue. And I have felt + A presence that disturbs me with the joy + Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime + Of something far more deeply interfused, + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean, and the living air + And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; + A motion and a spirit, that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought, + And rolls through all things. +</pre> + <p> + In this little passage you see the growth of the influence of nature on + the mind of the poet. You observe, too, that nature passes into poetry; + that form is sublimed into speech. You see the result of the conjunction + of the mind of man, and the mind of God manifested in His works; spirit + coming to know the speech of spirit. The outflowing of spirit in nature is + received by the poet, and he utters again, in his form, what God has + already uttered in His. Wordsworth wished to give to man what he found in + nature. It was to him a power of good, a world of teaching, a strength of + life. He knew that nature was not his, and that his enjoyment of nature + was given to him that he might give it to man. It was the birthright of + man. + </p> + <p> + But what did Wordsworth find in nature? To begin with the lowest; he found + amusement in nature. Right amusement is a part of teaching; it is the + childish form of teaching, and if we can get this in nature, we get + something that lies near the root of good. In proof that Wordsworth found + this, I refer to a poem which you probably know well, “The Daisy.” The + poet sits playing with the flower, and listening to the suggestions that + come to him of odd resemblances that this flower bears to other things. He + likens the daisy to— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A little cyclops, with one eye + Staring to threaten and defy, + That thought comes next—and instantly + The freak is over, + The shape will vanish—and behold + A silver shield with boss of gold, + That spreads itself, some faëry bold + In fight to cover! +</pre> + <p> + Look at the last stanza, too, and you will see how close amusement may lie + to deep and earnest thought:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Bright <i>Flower</i>! for by that name at last + When all my reveries are past, + I call thee, and to that cleave fast, + Sweet silent creature! + That breath’st with me in sun and air, + Do thou, as thou art wont, repair + My heart with gladness, and a share + Of thy meek nature! +</pre> + <p> + But Wordsworth found also joy in nature, which is a better thing than + amusement, and consequently easier to be found. We can often have joy + where we can have no amusement,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o’er vales and hills + When all at once I saw a crowd, + A host, of golden daffodils; + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The waves beside them danced; but they + Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: + A poet could not but be gay, + In such a jocund company: + I gazed—and gazed—but little thought + What Health the show to me had brought. + + “For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils.” + </pre> + <p> + This is the joy of the eye, as far as that can be separated from the joy + of the whole nature; for his whole nature rejoiced in the joy of the eye; + but it was simply joy; there was no further teaching, no attempt to go + through this beauty and find the truth below it. We are not always to be + in that hungry, restless condition, even after truth itself. If we keep + our minds quiet and ready to receive truth, and <i>sometimes</i> are + hungry for it, that is enough. + </p> + <p> + Going a step higher, you will find that he sometimes <i>draws</i> a lesson + from nature, seeming almost to force a meaning from her. I do not object + to this, if he does not make too much of it as <i>existing</i> in nature. + It is rather finding a meaning in nature that he brought to it. The + meaning exists, if not <i>there</i>. For illustration I refer to another + poem. Observe that Wordsworth found the lesson because he looked for it, + and <i>would</i> find it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This Lawn, a carpet all alive + With shadows flung from leaves—to strive + In dance, amid a press + Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields + Of Worldlings revelling in the fields + Of strenuous idleness. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yet, spite of all this eager strife, + This ceaseless play, the genuine life + That serves the steadfast hours, + Is in the grass beneath, that grows + Unheeded, and the mute repose + Of sweetly-breathing flowers. +</pre> + <p> + Whether he forced this lesson from nature, or not, it is a good lesson, + teaching a great many things with regard to life and work. + </p> + <p> + Again, nature sometimes flashes a lesson on his mind; <i>gives</i> it to + him—and when nature gives, we cannot but receive. As in this sonnet + composed during a storm,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One who was suffering tumult in his soul + Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, + Went forth; his course surrendering to the care + Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl + Insiduously, untimely thunders growl; + While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tear + The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, + And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl + As if the sun were not. He raised his eye + Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear + Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, + An azure disc—shield of Tranquillity; + Invisible, unlooked-for, minister + Of providential goodness ever nigh! +</pre> + <p> + Observe that he was not looking for this; he had not thought of praying; + he was in such distress that it had benumbed the out-goings of his spirit + towards the source whence alone sure comfort comes. He went out into the + storm; and the uproar in the outer world was in harmony with the tumult + within his soul. Suddenly a clear space in the sky makes him feel—he + has no time to think about it—that there is a shield of tranquillity + spread over him. For was it not as it were an opening up into that region + where there are no storms; the regions of peace, because the regions of + love, and truth, and purity,—the home of God himself? + </p> + <p> + There is yet a higher and more sustained influence exercised by nature, + and that takes effect when she puts a man into that mood or condition in + which thoughts come of themselves. That is perhaps the best thing that can + be done for us, the best at least that nature can do. It is certainly + higher than mere intellectual teaching. That nature did this for + Wordsworth is very clear; and it is easily intelligible. If the world + proceeded from the imagination of God, and man proceeded from the love of + God, it is easy to believe that that which proceeded from the imagination + of God should rouse the best thoughts in the mind of a being who proceeded + from the love of God. This I think is the relation between man and the + world. As an instance of what I mean, I refer to one of Wordsworth’s + finest poems, which he classes under the head of “Evening Voluntaries.” It + was composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Had this effulgence disappeared + With flying haste, I might have sent, + Among the speechless clouds, a look + Of blank astonishment; + But ‘tis endued with power to stay, + And sanctify one closing day, + That frail Mortality may see— + What is?—ah no, but what <i>can</i>, be! + Time was when field and watery cove + With modulated echoes rang, + While choirs of fervent Angels sang + Their vespers in the grove; + Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, + Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, + Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite, + Methinks, if audibly repeated now + From hill or valley, could not move + Sublimer transport, purer love, + Than doth this silent spectacle—the gleam— + The shadow—and the peace supreme! + + “No sound is uttered,—but a deep + And solemn harmony pervades + The hollow vale from steep to steep, + And penetrates the glades. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Wings at my shoulders seem to play; + But, rooted here, I stand and gaze + On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise + Their practicable way. + Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, + And see to what fair countries ye are bound! + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve + No less than Nature’s threatening voice, + From THEE, if I would swerve, + Oh, let Thy grace remind me of the light + Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; + Which, at this moment, on my waking sight + Appears to shine, by miracle restored; + My soul, though yet confined to earth, + Rejoices in a second birth!” + </pre> + <p> + Picture the scene for yourselves; and observe how it moves in him the + sense of responsibility, and the prayer, that if he has in any matter + wandered from the right road, if he has forgotten the simplicity of + childhood in the toil of life, he may, from this time, remember the vow + that he now records—from this time to press on towards the things + that are unseen, but which are manifested through the things that are + seen. I refer you likewise to the poem “Resolution and Independence,” + commonly called “The Leech Gatherer;” also to that grandest ode that has + ever been written, the “Ode on Immortality.” You will find there, whatever + you may think of his theory, in the latter, sufficient proof that nature + was to him a divine teaching power. Do not suppose that I mean that man + can do without more teaching than nature’s, or that a man with only + nature’s teaching would have seen these things in nature. No, the soul + must be tuned to such things. Wordsworth could not have found such things, + had he not known something that was more definite and helpful to him; but + this known, then nature was full of teaching. When we understand the Word + of God, then we understand the works of God; when we know the nature of an + artist, we know his pictures; when we have known and talked with the poet, + we understand his poetry far better. To the man of God, all nature will be + but changeful reflections of the face of God. + </p> + <p> + Loving man as Wordsworth did, he was most anxious to give him this + teaching. How was he to do it? By poetry. Nature put into the crucible of + a loving heart becomes poetry. We cannot explain poetry scientifically; + because poetry is something beyond science. The poet may be man of + science, and the man of science may be a poet; but poetry includes + science, and the man who will advance science most, is the man who, other + qualifications being equal, has most of the poetic faculty in him. + Wordsworth defines poetry to be “the impassioned expression which is on + the face of science.” Science has to do with the construction of things. + The casting of the granite ribs of the mighty earth, and all the thousand + operations that result in the manifestations on its surface, this is the + domain of science. But when there come the grass-bearing meadows, the + heaven-reared hills, the great streams that go ever downward, the bubbling + fountains that ever arise, the wind that wanders amongst the leaves, and + the odours that are wafted upon its wings; when we have colour, and shape, + and sound, then we have the material with which poetry has to do. Science + has to do with the underwork. For what does this great central world + exist, with its hidden winds and waters, its upheavings and its + downsinkings, its strong frame of rock, and its heart of fire? What do + they all exist for? Not for themselves surely, but for the sake of this + out-spreading world of beauty, that floats up, as it were, to the surface + of the shapeless region of force. Science has to do with the one, and + poetry with the other: poetry is “the impassioned expression that is on + the face of science.” To illustrate it still further. You are walking in + the woods, and you find the first primrose of the year. You feel almost as + if you had found a child. You know in yourself that you have found a new + beauty and a new joy, though you have seen it a thousand times before. It + is a primrose. A little flower that looks at me, thinks itself into my + heart, and gives me a pleasure distinct in itself, and which I feel as if + I could not do without. The impassioned expression on the face of this + little outspread flower is its childhood; it means trust, consciousness of + protection, faith, and hope. Science, in the person of the botanist, comes + after you, and pulls it to pieces to see its construction, and delights + the intellect; but the science itself is dead, and kills what it touches. + The flower exists not for it, but for the expression on its face, which is + its poetry,—that expression which you feel to mean a living thing; + that expression which makes you feel that this flower is, as it were, just + growing out of the heart of God. The intellect itself is but the + scaffolding for the uprearing of the spiritual nature. + </p> + <p> + It will make all this yet plainer, if you can suppose a human form to be + created without a soul in it. Divine science <i>has</i> put it together, + but only for the sake of the outshining soul that shall cause it to live, + and move, and have a being of its own in God. When you see the face + lighted up with soul, when you recognize in it thought and feeling, joy + and love, then you know that here is the end for which it was made. Thus + you see the relation that poetry has to science; and you find that, to + speak in an apparent paradox, the surface is the deepest after all; for, + through the surface, for the sake of which all this building went on, we + have, as it were, a window into the depths of truth. There is not a form + that lives in the world, but is a window cloven through the blank darkness + of nothingness, to let us look into the heart, and feeling, and nature of + God. So the surface of things is the best and the deepest, provided it is + not mere surface, but the impassioned expression, for the sake of which + the science of God has thought and laboured. + </p> + <p> + Satisfied that this was the nature of poetry, and wanting to convey this + to the minds of his fellow-men, “What vehicle,” Wordsworth may be supposed + to have asked himself, “shall I use? How shall I decide what form of words + to employ? Where am I to find the right language for speaking such great + things to men?” He saw that the poetry of the eighteenth century (he was + born in 1770) was not like nature at all, but was an artificial thing, + with no more originality in it than there would be in a picture a hundred + times copied, the copyists never reverting to the original. You cannot + look into this eighteenth century poetry, excepting, of course, a great + proportion of the poetry of Cowper and Thompson, without being struck with + the sort of agreement that nothing should be said naturally. A certain set + form and mode was employed for saying things that ought never to have been + said twice in the same way. Wordsworth resolved to go back to the root of + the thing, to the natural simplicity of speech; he would have none of + these stereotyped forms of expression. “Where shall I find,” said he, “the + language that will be simple and powerful?” And he came to the conclusion + that the language of the common people was the only language suitable for + his purpose. Your experience of the everyday language of the common people + may be that it is not poetical. True, but not even a poet can speak + poetically in his stupid moments. Wordsworth’s idea was to take the + language of the common people in their uncommon moods, in their high and, + consequently, simple moods, when their minds are influenced by grief, + hope, reverence, worship, love; for then he believed he could get just the + language suitable for the poet. As far as that language will go, I think + he was right, if I may venture to give an opinion in support of + Wordsworth. Of course, there will occur necessities to the poet which + would not be comprehended in the language of a man whose thoughts had + never moved in the same directions, but the kind of language will be the + right thing, and I have heard such amongst the common people myself—language + which they did not know to be poetic, but which fell upon my ear and heart + as profoundly poetic both in its feeling and its form. + </p> + <p> + In attempting to carry out this theory, I am not prepared to say that + Wordsworth never transgressed his own self-imposed laws. But he adhered to + his theory to the last. A friend of the poet’s told me that Wordsworth had + to him expressed his belief that he would be remembered longest, not by + his sonnets, as his friend thought, but by his lyrical ballads, those for + which he had been reviled and laughed at; the most by critics who could + not understand him, and who were unworthy to read what he had written. As + a proof of this let me read to you three verses, composing a poem that was + especially marked for derision:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She dwelt among the untrodden ways, + Beside the springs of Dove; + A maid whom there were none to praise, + And very few to love. + + A violet by a mossy stone. + Half hidden from the eye; + Fair as a star, when only one + Is shining in the sky. + + She lived unknown, and few could know + When Lucy ceased to be; + But she is in her grave, and Oh! + The difference to me. +</pre> + <p> + The last line was especially chosen as the object of ridicule; but I think + with most of us the feeling will be, that its very simplicity of + expression is overflowing in suggestion, it throws us back upon our own + experience; for, instead of trying to utter what he felt, he says in those + simple and common words, “You who have known anything of the kind, will + know what the difference to me is, and only you can know.” “My intention + and desire,” he says in one of his essays, “are that the interest of the + poem shall owe nothing to the circumstances; but that the circumstances + shall be made interesting by the thing itself.” In most novels, for + instance, the attempt is made to interest us in worthless, commonplace + people, whom, if we had our choice, we would far rather not meet at all, + by surrounding them with peculiar and extraordinary circumstances; but + this is a low source of interest. Wordsworth was determined to owe nothing + to such an adventitious cause. For illustration allow me to read that + well-known little ballad, “The Reverie of Poor Susan,” and you will see + how entirely it bears out what he lays down as his theory. The scene is in + London:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At the corner of Wood-street, when daylight appears, + Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years; + Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard, + In the silence of morning, the song of the Bird. + + ‘Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her? She sees + A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; + Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, + And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. + + Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, + Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; + And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, + The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. + + She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, + The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: + The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, + And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! +</pre> + <p> + Is any of the interest here owing to the circumstances? Is it not a very + common incident? But has he not treated it so that it is not <i>commonplace</i> + in the least? We recognize in this girl just the feelings we discover in + ourselves, and acknowledge almost with tears her sisterhood to us all. + </p> + <p> + I have tried to make you feel something of what Wordsworth attempts to do, + but I have not given you the best of his poems. Allow me to finish by + reading the closing portion of the <i>Prelude</i>, the poem that was + published after his death. It is addressed to Coleridge:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, + And all will be complete, thy race be run, + Thy monument of glory will be raised; + Then, though (too weak to head the ways of truth) + This age fall back to old idolatry, + Though men return to servitude as fast + As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame + By nations sink together, we shall still + Find solace—knowing what we have learnt to know— + Rich in true happiness, if allowed to be + Faithful alike in forwarding a day + Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work + (Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe) + Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. + Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak + A lasting inspiration, sanctified + By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved, + Others will love, and we will teach them how; + Instruct them how the mind of man becomes + A thousand times more beautiful than the earth + On which he dwells, above this frame of things + (Which, ‘mid all revolution in the hopes + And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged) + In beauty exalted, as it is itself + Of quality and fabric more divine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHELLEY. + </h2> + <p> + Whatever opinion may be held with regard to the relative position occupied + by Shelley as a poet, it will be granted by most of those who have studied + his writings, that they are of such an individual and original kind, that + he can neither be hidden in the shade, nor lost in the brightness, of any + other poet. No idea of his works could be conveyed by instituting a + comparison, for he does not sufficiently resemble any other among English + writers to make such a comparison possible. + </p> + <p> + Percy Bysshe Shelley was born at Field Place, near Horsham, in the county + of Sussex, on the 4th of August, 1792. He was the son of Timothy Shelley, + Esq., and grandson of Sir Bysshe Shelley, the first baronet. His ancestors + had long been large landed proprietors in Sussex. + </p> + <p> + As a child his habits were noticeable. He was especially fond of rambling + by moonlight, of inventing wonderful tales, of occupying himself with + strange, and sometimes dangerous, amusements. At the age of thirteen he + went to Eton. In this little world, that determined opposition to whatever + appeared to him an invasion of human rights and liberty, which was + afterwards the animating principle of most of his writings, was first + roused in the mind of Shelley. Were we not aware of far keener distress + which he afterwards endured from yet greater injustice, we might suppose + that the sufferings he had to bear from placing himself in opposition to + the custom of the school, by refusing to fag, had made him morbidly + sensitive on the point of liberty. At a time, however, when freedom of + speech, as indicating freedom of thought, was especially obnoxious to + established authorities; when no allowance could be made on the score of + youth, still less on that of individual peculiarity, Shelley became a + student at Oxford. He was then eighteen. Devoted to metaphysical + speculation, and especially fond of logical discussion, he, in his first + year, printed and distributed among the authorities and members of his + college a pamphlet, if that can be called a pamphlet which consisted only + of two pages, in which he opposed the usual arguments for the existence of + a Deity; arguments which, perhaps, the most ardent believers have equally + considered inconclusive. Whether Shelley wrote this pamphlet as an + embodiment of his own opinions, or merely as a logical confutation of + certain arguments, the mode of procedure adopted with him was certainly + not one which necessarily resulted from the position of those to whose + care the education of his opinions was entrusted. Without waiting to be + assured that he was the author, and satisfying themselves with his refusal + to answer when questioned as to the authorship, they handed him his + sentence of expulsion, which had been already drawn up in due form. + </p> + <p> + About this time Shelley wrote, or commenced writing, <i>Queen Mab</i>, a + poem which he never published, although he distributed copies among his + friends. In after years he had such a low opinion of it in every respect, + that he regretted having printed it at all; and when an edition of it was + published without his consent, he applied to the Court of Chancery for an + injunction to suppress it. + </p> + <p> + Shelley’s opinions in politics and theology, which he appears to have been + far more anxious to maintain than was consistent with the peace of the + household, were peculiarly obnoxious to his father, a man as different + from his son as it is possible to conceive; and his expulsion from Oxford + was soon followed by exile from his home. He went to London, where, + through his sisters, who were at school in the neighbourhood, he made the + acquaintence of Harriet West brook, whom he eloped with and married, when + he was nineteen and she sixteen years of age. It seems doubtful whether + the attachment between them was more than the result of the reception + accorded by the enthusiasm of the girl to the enthusiasm of the youth, + manifesting itself in wild talk about human rights, and equally wild plans + for their recovery and security. However this may be, the result was + unfortunate. They wandered about England, Scotland, and Ireland, with + frequent and sudden change of residence, for rather more than two years. + During this time Shelley gained the friendship of some of the most eminent + men of the age, of whom the one who exercised the most influence upon his + character and future history was William Godwin, whose instructions and + expostulations tended to reduce to solidity and form the vague and + extravagant opinions and projects of the youthful reformer. Shortly after + the commencement of the third year of their married life, an estrangement + of feeling, which had been gradually widening between them, resulted in + the final separation of the poet and his wife. We are not informed as to + the causes of this estrangement, further than that it seems to have been + owing, in a considerable degree, to the influence of an elder sister of + Mrs. Shelley, who domineered over her, and whose presence became at last + absolutely hateful to Shelley. His wife returned to her father’s house; + where, apparently about three years after, she committed suicide. There + seems to have been no immediate connection between this act and any + conduct of Shelley. One of his biographers informs us, that while they + were living happily together, suicide was with Mrs. Shelley a favourite + subject of speculation and conversation. + </p> + <p> + Shortly after his first wife’s death, Shelley married the daughter of + William Godwin. He had lived with her almost from the date of the + separation, during which time they had twice visited Switzerland. In the + following year (1817), it was decreed in Chancery that Shelley was not a + proper person to take charge of his two children by his first wife, who + had lived with her till her death. The bill was filed in Chancery by their + grandfather, Mr. Westbrook. The effects of this proceeding upon Shelley + may be easily imagined. Perhaps he never recovered from them, for they + were not of a nature to pass away. During this year he resided at Marlow, + and wrote <i>The Revolt of Islam</i>, besides portions of other poems; and + the next year he left England, not to return. The state of his health, for + he had appeared to be in a consumption for some time, and the fear lest + his son, by his second wife, should be taken from him, combined to induce + him to take refuge in Italy from both impending evils. At Lucca he began + his <i>Prometheus</i>, and wrote <i>Julian and Maddalo</i>. He moved from + place to place in Italy, as he had done in his own country. Their two + children dying, they were for a time left childless; but the loss of these + grieved Shelley less than that of his eldest two, who were taken from him + by the hand of man. In 1819, Shelley finished his <i>Prometheus Unbound</i>, + writing the greater part at Rome, and completing it at Florence. In this + year also he wrote his tragedy, <i>The Cenci</i>, which attracted more + attention during his lifetime than any other of his works. The <i>Ode to a + Skylark</i> was written at Leghorn in the spring of 1820; and in August of + the same year, the <i>Witch of Atlas</i> was written, near Pisa. In the + following year Shelley and Byron met at Pisa. They were a good deal + together; but their friendship, although real, does not appear to have + been of a very profound nature; for though unlikeness be one of the + necessary elements of friendship, there are kinds of unlikeness which will + not harmonize. During all this time, he was not only maligned by unknown + enemies, and abused by anonymous writers, but attempts of other kinds are + said to have been made to render his life as uncomfortable as possible. + There are grounds, however, for doubting whether Shelley was not subject + to a kind of monomania upon this and similar points. In 1821, he wrote his + <i>Adonais</i>, a monody on the death of Keats. Part of this poem had its + origin in the mistaken notion, that the illness and death of Keats were + caused by a brutal criticism of his <i>Endymion</i>, which appeared in the + <i>Quarterly Review</i>. The last verse of the <i>Adonais</i> seems almost + prophetic of his own end. Passionately fond of boating, he and a friend of + his, Mr. Williams, united in constructing a boat of a peculiar build, a + very fast sailer, but difficult to manage. On the 8th of July, 1822, + Shelley and his friend Williams sailed from Leghorn for Lerici, on the Bay + of Spezia, near which lay his home for the time. A sudden squall came on, + and their boat disappeared. The bodies of the two friends were cast on + shore; and, according to quarantine regulations, were burned to ashes. + Lord Byron, Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Trelawney were present when the body of + Shelley was burned; so that his ashes were saved, and buried in the + Protestant burial-ground at Rome, near the grave of Keats, whose body had + been laid there in the spring of the preceding year. <i>Cor Cordium</i> + were the words inscribed by his widow on the tomb of the poet. + </p> + <p> + The character of Shelley has been sadly maligned. Whatever faults he may + have committed against society, they were not the result of sensuality. + One of his biographers, who was his companion at Oxford, and who does not + seem inclined to do him <i>more</i> than justice, asserts that while there + his conduct was immaculate. The whole picture he gives of the youth, makes + it easy to believe this. To discuss the moral question involved in one + part of his history would be out of place here; but even on the + supposition that a man’s conduct is altogether inexcusable in individual + instances, there is the more need that nothing but the truth should be + said concerning that, and other portions thereof. And whatever society may + have thought itself justified in making subject of reprobation, it must be + remembered that Shelley was under less obligation to society than most + men. Yet his heart seemed full of love to his kind; and the distress which + the oppression of others caused him, was the source of much of that wild + denunciation which exposed him to the contempt and hatred of those who + were rendered uncomfortable by his unsparing and indiscriminate anathemas. + In private, he was beloved by all who knew him; a steady, generous, + self-denying friend, not only to those who moved in his own circle, but to + all who were brought within the reach of any aid he could bestow. To the + poor he was a true and laborious benefactor. That man must have been good + to whom the heart of his widow returns with such earnest devotion and + thankfulness in the recollection of the past, and such fond hope for the + future, as are manifested by Mrs. Shelley in those extracts from her + private journal given us by Lady Shelley. + </p> + <p> + As regards his religious opinions, one of the thoughts which most strongly + suggest themselves is,—how ill he must have been instructed in the + principles of Christianity! He says himself in a letter to Godwin, “I have + known no tutor or adviser (<i>not excepting my father</i>) from whose + lessons and suggestions I have not recoiled with disgust.” So far is he + from being an opponent of Christianity properly so called, that one can + hardly help feeling what a Christian he would have been, could he but have + seen Christianity in any other way than through the traditional and + practical misrepresentations of it which surrounded him. All his attacks + on Christianity are, in reality, directed against evils to which the true + doctrines of Christianity are more opposed than those of Shelley could + possibly be. How far he was excusable in giving the name of Christianity + to what he might have seen to be only a miserable perversion of it, is + another question, and one which hardly admits of discussion here. It was + in the <i>name</i> of Christianity, however, that the worst injuries of + which he had to complain were inflicted upon him. Coming out of the + cathedral at Pisa one day, [Footnote: From <i>Shelley Memorials</i>, + edited by Lady Shelley, which the writer of this paper has principally + followed in regard to the external facts of Shelley’s history.] Shelley + warmly assented to a remark of Leigh Hunt, “that a divine religion might + be found out, if charity were really made the principle of it instead of + faith.” Surely the founders of Christianity, even when they magnified + faith, intended thereby a spiritual condition, of which the central + principle is coincident with charity. Shelley’s own feelings towards + others, as judged from his poetry, seem to be tinctured with the very + essence of Christianity. [Footnote: His <i>Essay on Christianity</i> is + full of noble views, some of which are held at the present day by some of + the most earnest believers. At what time of his life it was written we are + not informed; but it seems such as would insure his acceptance with any + company of intelligent and devout Unitarians.] He did not, at one time at + least, believe that we could know the source of our being; and seemed to + take it as a self-evident truth, that the Creator could not be like the + creature. But it is unjust to fix upon any utterance of opinion, and + regard it as the religion of a man who died in his thirtieth year, and + whose habits of thinking were such, that his opinions must have been in a + state of constant change. Coleridge says in a letter: “His (Shelley’s) + discussions, tending towards atheism of a certain sort, would not have + scared <i>me;</i> for <i>me</i> it would have been a semitransparent + larva, soon to be sloughed, and through which I should have seen the true + <i>image</i>—the final metamorphosis. Besides, I have ever thought + that sort of atheism the next best religion to Christianity; nor does the + better faith I have learned from Paul and John interfere with the cordial + reverence I feel for Benedict Spinoza.” + </p> + <p> + Shelley’s favourite study was metaphysics. The more impulse there is in + any direction, the more education and experience are necessary to balance + that impulse: one cannot help thinking that Shelley’s <i>taste</i> for + exercises of this kind was developed more rapidly than the corresponding + <i>power</i>. His favourite physical studies were chemistry and + electricity. With these he occupied himself from his childhood; + apparently, however, with more delight in the experiments themselves, than + interest in the general conclusions to be arrived at by means of them. In + the embodiment of his metaphysical ideas in poetry, the influence of these + studies seems to show itself; for he uses forms which appeal more to the + outer senses than to the inward eye; and his similes belong to the realm + of the fancy, rather than the imagination: they lack <i>vital</i> + resemblance. Logic had considerable attractions for him. To geometry and + mathematics he was quite indifferent. One of his biographers states that + “he was neglectful of flowers,” because he had no interest in botany; but + one who derived such full delight from the contemplation of their external + forms, could hardly be expected to feel very strongly the impulse to + dissect them. He derived exceeding pleasure from Greek literature, + especially from the works of Plato. + </p> + <p> + Several little peculiarities in Shelley’s tastes are worth mentioning, + because, although in themselves insignificant, they seem to correspond + with the nature of his poetry. Perhaps the most prominent of these was his + passion for boat-sailing. He could not pass any piece of water without + launching upon it a number of boats, constructed from what paper he could + find in his pockets. The fly-leaves of the books he was in the way of + carrying with him, for he was constantly reading, often went to this end. + He would watch the fate of these boats with the utmost interest, till they + sank or reached the opposite side. He was just as fond of real boating, + and that frequently of a dangerous kind; but it is characteristic of him, + that all the boats he describes in his poems are of a fairy, fantastic + sort, barely related to the boats which battle with earthly winds and + waves. Pistol-shooting was also a favourite amusement. Fireworks, too, + gave him great delight. Some of his habits were likewise peculiar. He was + remarkably abstemious, preferring bread and raisins to anything else in + the way of eating, and very seldom drinking anything stronger than water. + Honey was a favourite luxury with him. While at college, his biographer + Hogg says he was in the habit, during the evening, of going to sleep on + the rug, close to a blazing fire, heat seeming never to have other than a + beneficial effect upon him. After sleeping some hours, he would awake + perfectly restored, and continue actively occupied till far into the + morning. His whole movements are represented as rapid, hurried, and + uncertain. He would appear and disappear suddenly and unexpectedly; forget + appointments; burst into wild laughter, heedless of his situation, + whenever anything struck him as peculiarly ludicrous. His changes of + residence were most numerous, and frequently made with so much haste that + whole little libraries were left behind, and often lost. He was very fond + of children, and used to make humorous efforts to induce them to disclose + to him the still-remembered secrets of their pre-existence. He seemed to + have a peculiar attraction towards mystery, and was ready to believe in a + hidden secret, where no one else would have thought of one. His room, + while he was at college, was in a state of indescribable confusion. Not + only were all sorts of personal necessaries mingled with books and + philosophical instruments, but things belonging to one department of + service were not unfrequently pressed into the slavery of another. He + dressed well but carelessly. In person he was tall, slender, and stooping; + awkward in gait, but in manners a thorough gentleman. His complexion was + delicate; his head, face, and features, remarkably small; the last not + very regular, but in expression, both intellectual and moral, wonderfully + beautiful. His eyes were deep blue, “of a wild, strange beauty;” his + forehead high and white; his hair dark brown, curling, long, and bushy. + His appearance in later life is described as singularly combining the + appearances of premature age and prolonged youth. + </p> + <p> + The only art in which his taste appears to have been developed was poetry. + Even in his poetry, taken as a whole, the artistic element is not + generally very manifest. His earliest verses (none of which are included + in his collected works) can hardly be said to be good in any sense. He + seems in these to have chosen poetry as a fitting material for the + embodiment of his ardent, hopeful, indignant thoughts and feelings, but, + provided he can say what he wants to say, does not seem to care much about + <i>how</i> he says it. Indeed, there is too much of this throughout his + works; for if the <i>utterance</i>, instead of the <i>conveyance</i> of + thought, were the object pursued in art, of course not merely imperfection + of language, but absolute external unintelligibility, would be admissible. + But his art constantly increases with his sense of its necessity; so that + the <i>Cenci</i>, which is the last work of any pretension that he wrote, + is decidedly the most artistic of all. There are beautiful passages in <i>Queen + Mab</i>, but it is the work of a boy-poet; and as it was all but + repudiated by himself, it is not necessary to remark further upon it. <i>The + Revolt of Islam</i> is a poem of twelve cantos, in the Spenserian stanza; + but in all respects except the arrangement of lines and rimes, his stanza, + in common with all other imitations of the Spenserian, has little or + nothing of the spirit or individuality of the original. The poem is + dedicated to the cause of freedom, and records the efforts, successes, + defeats, and final triumphant death of two inspired champions of liberty—a + youth and maiden. The adventures are marvellous, not intended to be within + the bounds of probability, scarcely of possibility. There are very noble + sentiments and fine passages throughout the poem. Now and then there is + grandeur. But the absence of art is too evident in the fact that the + meaning is often obscure; an obscurity not unfrequently occasioned by the + difficulty of the stanza, which is the most difficult mode of composition + in English, except the rigid sonnet. The words and forms he employs to + express thought seem sometimes mechanical devices for that purpose, rather + than an utterance which suggested itself naturally to a mind where the + thought was vitally present. The words are more a <i>clothing</i> for the + thought than an <i>embodiment</i> of it. They do not lie near enough to + the thing which is intended to be represented by them. It is, however, but + just to remark, that some of the obscurity is owing to the fact, that, + even with Mrs. Shelley’s superintendence, the works have not yet been + satisfactorily edited, or at least not conducted through the press with + sufficient care. [Footnote: This statement is no longer true.] + </p> + <p> + <i>The Cenci</i> is a very powerful tragedy, but unfitted for public + representation by the horrible nature of the historical facts upon which + it is founded. In the execution of it, however, Shelley has kept very much + nearer to nature than in any other of his works. He has rigidly adhered to + his perception of artistic propriety in respect to the dramatic utterance. + It may be doubted whether there is sufficient difference between the modes + of speech of the different actors in the tragedy, but it is quite possible + to individualize speech far too minutely for probable nature; and in this + respect, at least, Shelley has not erred. Perhaps the action of the whole + is a little hurried, and a central moment of awful repose and fearful + anticipation might add to the force of the tragedy. The scenes also might, + perhaps, have been constructed so as to suggest more of evolution; but the + central point of horror is most powerfully and delicately handled. You see + a possible spiritual horror yet behind, more frightful than all that has + gone before. The whole drama, indeed, is constructed around, not a + prominent point, but a dim, infinitely-withdrawn, underground perspective + of dismay and agony. Perhaps it detracts a little from our interest in the + Lady Beatrice, that after all she should wish to live, and should seek to + preserve her life by a denial of her crime. She, however, evidently + justifies the denial to herself on the ground that, the deed being + absolutely right, although regarded as most criminal by her judges, the + only way to get true justice is to deny the fact, which, there being no + guilt, she might consider as only a verbal lie. Her very purity of + conscience enables her to utter this with the most absolute innocence of + look, and word, and tone. This is probably a historical fact, and Shelley + had to make the best of it. In the drama there is great tenderness, as + well as terror; but for a full effect, one feels it desirable to be + brought better acquainted with the individuals than the drama, from its + want of graduation, permits. Shelley, however, was only six-and-twenty + when he wrote it. He must have been attracted to the subject by its + embodying the concentration of tyranny, lawlessness, and brutality in old + Cenci, as opposed to, and exercised upon, an ideal loveliness and + nobleness in the person of Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + But of all Shelley’s works, the <i>Prometheus Unbound</i> is that which + combines the greatest amount of individual power and peculiarity. There is + an airy grandeur about it, reminding one of the vast masses of cloud + scattered about in broken, yet magnificently suggestive forms, all over + the summer sky, after a thunderstorm. The fundamental ideas are grand; the + superstructure, in many parts, so ethereal, that one hardly knows whether + he is gazing on towers of solid masonry rendered dim and unsubstantial by + intervening vapour, or upon the golden turrets of cloudland, themselves + born of the mist which surrounds them with a halo of glory. The beings of + Greek, mythology are idealized and etherealized by the new souls which he + puts into them, making them think his thoughts and say his words. In + reading this, as in reading most of his poetry, we feel that, unable to + cope with the evils and wrongs of the world as it and they are, he + constructs a new universe, wherein he may rule according to his will; and + a good will in the main it is—good always in intent, good generally + in form and utterance. Of the wrongs which Shelley endured from the + collision and resulting conflict between his lawless goodness and the + lawful wickedness of those in authority, this is one of the greatest,—that + during the right period of pupillage, he was driven from the place of + learning, cast on his own mental resources long before those resources + were sufficient for his support, and irritated against the purest + embodiment of good by the harsh treatment he received under its name. If + that reverence which was far from wanting to his nature, had been but + presented, in the person of some guide to his spiritual being, with an + object worthy of its homage and trust, it is probable that the yet free + and noble result of Shelley’s individuality would have been presented to + the world in a form which, while it attracted still only the few, would + not have repelled the many; at least, not by such things as were merely + accidental in their association with his earnest desires and efforts for + the well-being of humanity. + </p> + <p> + That which chiefly distinguishes Shelley from other writers is the + unequalled exuberance of his fancy. The reader, say for instance of that + fantastically brilliant poem, <i>The Witch of Atlas</i>, the work of three + days, is overwhelmed in a storm, as it were, of rainbow snow-flakes and + many-coloured lightnings, accompanied ever by “a low melodious thunder.” + The evidences of pure imagination in his writings are unfrequent as + compared with those of fancy: there are not half the instances of the + direct embodiment of idea in form, that there are of the presentation of + strange resemblances between external things. + </p> + <p> + One of the finest short specimens of Shelley’s peculiar mode is his <i>Ode + to the West Wind</i>, full of mysterious melody of thought and sound. But + of all his poems, the most popular, and deservedly so, is the <i>Skylark</i>. + Perhaps the <i>Cloud</i> may contest it with the <i>Skylark</i> in regard + to popular favour; but the <i>Cloud</i>, although full of beautiful words + and fantastic cloud-like images, is, after all, principally a work of the + fancy; while the <i>Skylark</i>, though even in it fancy predominates over + imagination in the visual images, forms, as a whole, a lovely, true, + individual work of art; a <i>lyric</i> not unworthy of the <i>lark</i>, + which Mason apostrophizes as “sweet feathered lyric.” The strain of + sadness which pervades it is only enough to make the song of the lark + human. + </p> + <p> + In <i>The Sensitive Plant</i>, a poem full of the peculiarities of his + genius, tending through a wilderness of fanciful beauties to a thicket of + mystical speculation, one curious idiosyncrasy is more prominent than in + any other—curious, as belonging to the poet of beauty and + loveliness: it is the tendency to be fascinated by what is ugly and + revolting, so that he cannot withdraw his thoughts from it till he has + described it in language, powerful, it is true, and poetic, when + considered as to its fitness for the desired end, but, in force of these + very excellences in the means, nearly as revolting as the objects + themselves. Associated with this is the tendency to discover strangely + unpleasant likenesses between things; which likenesses he is not content + with seeing, but seems compelled, perhaps in order to get rid of them + himself, to force upon the observation of his reader. But the admirer of + Shelley is not pleased to find that one or two passages of this nature + have been omitted in some editions of his works. + </p> + <p> + Few men have been more misunderstood or misrepresented than Shelley. + Doubtless this has in part been his own fault, as Coleridge implies when + he writes to this effect of him: that his horror of hypocrisy made him + speak in such a wild way, that Southey (who was so much a man of forms and + proprieties) was quite misled, not merely in his estimate of his worth, + but in his judgment of his character. But setting aside this consideration + altogether, and regarding him merely as a poet, Shelley has written verse + which will last as long as English literature lasts; valuable not only + from its excellence, but from the peculiarity of its excellence. To say + nothing of his noble aims and hopes, Shelley will always be admired for + his sweet melodies, lovely pictures, and wild prophetic imaginings. His + indignant remonstrances, intermingled with grand imprecations, burst in + thunder from a heart overcharged with the love of his kind, and roused to + a keener sense of all oppression by the wrongs which sought to overwhelm + himself. But as he recedes further in time, and men are able to see more + truly the proportions of the man, they will judge, that without having + gained the rank of a great reformer, Shelley had in him that element of + wide sympathy and lofty hope for his kind which is essential both to the + <i>birth</i> and the subsequent <i>making</i> of the greatest of poets. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SERMON. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Read in the Unitarian chapel, Essex-street, London, 1879.] + </p> + <p> + PHILIPPIANS iii. 15, 16.—Let us therefore, as many as be perfect, be + thus minded; and if in anything ye be otherwise minded, God shall reveal + even this unto you. Nevertheless, whereto we have already attained, let us + walk by that same. + </p> + <p> + This is the reading of the oldest manuscripts. The rest of the verse is + pretty clearly a not overwise marginal gloss that has crept into the text. + </p> + <p> + In its origin, opinion is the intellectual body, taken for utterance and + presentation by something necessarily larger than any intellect can afford + stuff sufficient for the embodiment of. To the man himself, therefore, in + whose mind it arose, an opinion will always represent and recall the + spirit whose form it is,—so long, at least, as the man remains true + to his better self. Hence, a man’s opinion may be for him invaluable, the + needle of his moral compass, always pointing to the truth whence it + issued, and whose form it is. Nor is the man’s opinion of the less value + to him that it may change. Nay, to be of true value, it must have in it + not only the possibility, but the necessity of change: it must change in + every man who is alive with that life which, in the New Testament, is + alone treated as life at all. For, if a man’s opinion be in no process of + change whatever, it must be dead, valueless, hurtful Opinion is the + offspring of that which is itself born to grow; which, being imperfect, + must grow or die. Where opinion is growing, its imperfections, however + many and serious, will do but little hurt; where it is not growing, these + imperfections will further the decay and corruption which must already + have laid hold of the very heart of the man. But it is plain in the + world’s history that what, at some given stage of the same, was the + embodiment in intellectual form of the highest and deepest of which it was + then spiritually capable, has often and speedily become the source of the + most frightful outrages upon humanity. How is this? Because it has passed + from the mind in which it grew into another in which it did not grow, and + has of necessity altered its nature. Itself sprung from that which was + deepest in the man, it casts seeds which take root only in the + intellectual understanding of his neighbour; and these, springing up, + produce flowers indeed which look much the same to the eye, but fruit + which is poison and bitterness,—worst of it all, the false and + arrogant notion that it is duty to force the opinion upon the acceptance + of others. But it is because such men themselves hold with so poor a grasp + the truth underlying their forms that they are, in their self-sufficiency, + so ambitious of propagating the forms, making of themselves the worst + enemies of the truth of which they fancy themselves the champions. How + truly, in the case of all genuine teachers of men, shall a man’s foes be + they of his own household! For of all the destroyers of the truth which + any man has preached, none have done it so effectually or so grievously as + his own followers. So many of them have received but the forms, and know + nothing of the truth which gave him those forms! They lay hold but of the + non-essential, the specially perishing in those forms; and these aspects, + doubly false and misleading in their crumbling disjunction, they proceed + to force upon the attention and reception of men, calling that the truth + which is at best but the draggled and useless fringe of its earth-made + garment. Opinions so held belong to the theology of hell,—not + necessarily altogether false in form, but false utterly in heart and + spirit. The opinion then that is hurtful is not that which is formed in + the depths, and from the honest necessities of a man’s own nature, but + that which he has taken up at second hand, the study of which has pleased + his intellect; has perhaps subdued fears and mollified distresses which + ought rather to have grown and increased until they had driven the man to + the true physician; has puffed him up with a sense of superiority as false + as foolish, and placed in his hand a club with which to subjugate his + neighbour to his spiritual dictation. The true man even, who aims at the + perpetuation of his opinion, is rather obstructing than aiding the course + of that truth for the love of which he holds his opinion; for truth is a + living thing, opinion is a dead thing, and transmitted opinion a deadening + thing. + </p> + <p> + Let us look at St. Paul’s feeling in this regard. And, in order that we + may deprive it of none of its force, let us note first the nature of the + truth which he had just been presenting to his disciples, when he follows + it with the words of my text:— + </p> + <p> + But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ. + </p> + <p> + Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the + knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of + all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, + </p> + <p> + And be found in him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the + law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness + which is of God by faith: + </p> + <p> + That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship + of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death; + </p> + <p> + If by any means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. + </p> + <p> + Not as though I had already attained, either were already perfect: but I + follow after, if that I may apprehend that for which also I am apprehended + of Christ Jesus. + </p> + <p> + Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, + forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those + things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high + calling of God in Christ Jesus. + </p> + <p> + St. Paul, then, had been declaring to the Philippians the idea upon which, + so far as it lay with him, his life was constructed, the thing for which + he lived, to which the whole conscious effort of his being was directed,—namely, + to be in his very nature one with Christ, to become righteous as he is + righteous; to die into his death, so that he should no more hold the + slightest personal relation to evil, but be alive in every fibre to all + that is pure, lovely, loving, beautiful, perfect. He had been telling them + that he spent himself in continuous effort to lay hold upon that for the + sake of which Christ had laid hold on him. This he declares the sole thing + worth living for: the hope of this, the hope of becoming one with the + living God, is that which keeps a glorious consciousness awake in him, + amidst all the unrest of a being not yet at harmony with itself, and a + laborious and persecuted life. It cannot therefore be any shadow of + indifference to the truth to which he has borne this witness, that causes + him to add, “If in anything ye be otherwise minded.” It is to him even the + test of perfection, whether they be thus minded or not; for, although a + moment before, he has declared himself short of the desired perfection, he + now says, “Let as many of us as are perfect be thus minded.” There is here + no room for that unprofitable thing, bare logic: we must look through the + shifting rainbow of his words,—rather, we must gather all their + tints together, then turn our backs upon the rainbow, that we may see the + glorious light which is the soul of it. St. Paul is not that which he + would be, which he must be; but he, and all they who with him believe that + the perfection of Christ is the sole worthy effort of a man’s life, are in + the region, though not yet at the centre, of perfection. They are, even + now, not indeed grasping, but in the grasp of, that perfection. He tells + them this is the one thing to mind, the one thing to go on desiring and + labouring for, with all the earnestness of a God-born existence; but, if + any one be at all otherwise minded,—that is, of a different opinion,—what + then? That it is of little or no consequence? No, verily; but of such + endless consequence that God will himself unveil to them the truth of the + matter. This is Paul’s faith, not his opinion. Faith is that by which a + man lives inwardly, and orders his way outwardly. Faith is the root, + belief the tree, and opinion the foliage that falls and is renewed with + the seasons. Opinion is, at best, even the opinion of a true man, but the + cloak of his belief, which he may indeed cast to his neighbour, but not + with the truth inside it: that remains in his own bosom, the oneness + between him and his God. St. Paul knows well—who better?—that + by no argument, the best that logic itself can afford, can a man be set + right with the truth; that the spiritual perception which comes of + hungering contact with the living truth—a perception which is in + itself a being born again—can alone be the mediator between a man + and the truth. He knows that, even if he could pass his opinion over + bodily into the understanding of his neighbour, there would be little or + nothing gained thereby, for the man’s spiritual condition would be just + what it was before. God must reveal, or nothing is known. And this, + through thousands of difficulties occasioned by the man himself, God is + ever and always doing his mighty best to effect. + </p> + <p> + See the grandeur of redeeming liberality in the Apostle. In his heart of + hearts he knows that salvation consists in nothing else than being one + with Christ; that the only life of every man is hid with Christ in God, + and to be found by no search anywhere else. He believes that for this + cause was he born into the world,—that he should give himself, heart + and soul, body and spirit, to him who came into the world that he might + bear witness to the truth. He believes that for the sake of this, and + nothing less,—anything more there cannot be,—was the world, + with its endless glories, created. Nay, more than all, he believes that + for this did the Lord, in whose cross, type and triumph of his + self-abnegation, he glories, come into the world, and live and die there. + And yet, and yet, he says, and says plainly, that a man thinking + differently from all this or at least, quite unprepared to make this + whole-hearted profession of faith, is yet his brother in Christ, in whom + the knowledge of Christ that he has will work and work, the new leaven + casting out the old leaven until he, too, in the revelation of the Father, + shall come to the perfect stature of the fulness of Christ. Meantime, + Paul, the Apostle, must show due reverence to the halting and dull + disciple. He must and will make no demand upon him on the grounds of what + he, Paul, believes. He is where he is, and God is his teacher. To his own + Master,—that is, Paul’s Master, and not Paul,—he stands. He + leaves him to the company of his Master. “Leaves him?” No: that he does + not; that he will never do, any more than God will leave him. Still and + ever will he hold him and help him. But how help him, if he is not to + press upon him his own larger and deeper and wiser insights? The answer is + ready: he will press, not his opinion, not even the man’s opinion, but the + man’s own faith upon him. “O brother, beloved of the Father, walk in the + light,—in the light, that is, which is thine, not which is mine; in + the light which is given to thee, not to me: thou canst not walk by my + light, I cannot walk by thine: how should either walk except by the light + which is in him? O brother, what thou seest, that do; and what thou seest + not, that thou shalt see: God himself, the Father of Lights, will show it + to you.” This, this is the condition of all growth,—that whereto we + have attained, we mind that same; for such, following the manuscripts, at + least the oldest, seems to me the Apostle’s meaning. Obedience is the one + condition of progress, and he entreats them to obey. If a man will but + work that which is in him, will but make the power of God his own, then is + it well with him for evermore. Like his Master, Paul urges to action, to + the highest operation, therefore to the highest condition of humanity. As + Christ was the Son of his Father because he did the will of the Father, so + the Apostle would have them the sons of the Father by doing the will of + the Father. Whereto ye have attained, walk by <i>that</i>. + </p> + <p> + But there is more involved in this utterance than the words themselves + will expressly carry. Next to his love to the Father and the Elder + Brother, the passion of Paul’s life—I cannot call it less—is + love to all his brothers and sisters. Everything human is dear to him: he + can part with none of it. Division, separation, the breaking of the body + of Christ, is that which he cannot endure. The body of his flesh had once + been broken, that a grander body might be prepared for him: was it for + that body itself to tear itself asunder? With the whole energy of his + great heart, Paul clung to unity. He could clasp together with might and + main the body of his Master—the body that Master loved because it + was a spiritual body, with the life of his Father in it. And he knew well + that only by walking in the truth to which they had attained, could they + ever draw near to each other. Whereto we have attained, let us walk by + that. + </p> + <p> + My honoured friends, if we are not practical, we are nothing. Now, the one + main fault in the Christian Church is separation, repulsion, recoil + between the component particles of the Lord’s body. I will not, I do not + care to inquire who is more to blame than another in the evil fact. I only + care to insist that it is the duty of every individual man to be innocent + of the same. One main cause, perhaps I should say <i>the one</i> cause of + this deathly condition, is that whereto we had, we did not, whereto we + have attained, we do not walk by that. Ah, friend! do not now think of thy + neighbour. Do not applaud my opinion as just from what thou hast seen + around thee, but answer it from thy own being, thy own behaviour. Dost + thou ever feel thus toward thy neighbour,—“Yes, of course, every man + is my brother; but how can I be a brother to him so long as he thinks me + wrong in what I believe, and so long as I think he wrongs in his opinions + the dignity of the truth?” What, I return, has the man no hand to grasp, + no eyes into which yours may gaze far deeper than your vaunted intellect + can follow? Is there not, I ask, anything in him to love? Who asks you to + be of one opinion? It is the Lord who asks you to be of one heart. Does + the Lord love the man? Can the Lord love, where there is nothing to love? + Are you wiser than he, inasmuch as you perceive impossibility where he has + failed to discover it? Or will you say, “Let the Lord love where he + pleases: I will love where I please”? or say, and imagine you yield, + “Well, I suppose I must, and therefore I will,—but with certain + reservations, politely quiet in my own heart”? Or wilt thou say none of + all these things, but do them all, one after the other, in the secret + chambers of thy proud spirit? If you delight to condemn, you are a + wounder, a divider of the oneness of Christ. If you pride yourself on your + loftier vision, and are haughty to your neighbour, you are yourself a + division and have reason to ask: “Am I a particle of the body at all?” The + Master will deal with thee upon the score. Let it humble thee to know that + thy dearest opinion, the one thou dost worship as if it, and not God, were + thy Saviour, this very opinion thou art doomed to change, for it cannot + possibly be right, if it work in thee for death and not for life. + </p> + <p> + Friends, you have done me the honour and the kindness to ask me to speak + to you. I will speak plainly. I come before you neither hiding anything of + my belief, nor foolishly imagining I can transfer my opinions into your + bosoms. If there is one rôle I hate, it is that of the proselytizer. But + shall I not come to you as a brother to brethren? Shall I not use the + privilege of your invitation and of the place in which I stand, nay, must + I not myself be obedient to the heavenly vision, in urging you with all + the power of my persuasion to set yourselves afresh to <i>walk</i> + according to that to which you have attained. So doing, whatever yet there + is to learn, you shall learn it. Thus doing, and thus only, can you draw + nigh to the centre truth; thus doing, and thus only, shall we draw nigh to + each other, and become brothers and sisters in Christ, caring for each + other’s honour and righteousness and true well-being. It is to them that + keep his commandments that he and his Father will come to take up their + abode with them. Whether you or I have the larger share of the truth in + that which we hold, of this I am sure, that it is to them that keep his + commandments that it shall be given to eat of the Tree of Life. I believe + that Jesus is the eternal son of the eternal Father; that in him the ideal + humanity sat enthroned from all eternity; that as he is the divine man, so + is he the human God; that there was no taking of our nature upon himself, + but the showing of himself as he really was, and that from evermore: these + things, friends, I believe, though never would I be guilty of what in me + would be the irreverence of opening my mouth in dispute upon them. Not for + a moment would I endeavour by argument to convince another of this, my + opinion. If it be true, it is God’s work to show it, for logic cannot. But + the more, and not the less, do I believe that he, who is no respecter of + persons, will, least of all, respect the person of him who thinks to + please him by respecting his person, calling him, “Lord, Lord,” and not + doing the things that he tells him. Even if I be right, friend, and thou + wrong, to thee who doest his commandments more faithfully than I, will the + more abundant entrance be administered. God grant that, when thou art + admitted first, I may not be cast out, but admitted to learn of thee that + it is truth in the inward parts that he requireth, and they that have that + truth, and they alone, shall ever know wisdom. Bear with me, friends, for + I love and honour you. I seek but to stir up your hearts, as I would daily + stir up my own, to be true to that which is deepest in us,—the voice + and the will of the Father of our spirits. + </p> + <p> + Friends, I have not said we are not to utter our opinions. I have only + said we are not to make those opinions the point of a fresh start, the + foundation of a new building, the groundwork of anything. They are not to + occupy us in our dealings with our brethren. Opinion is often the very + death of love. Love aright, and you will come to think aright; and those + who think aright must think the same. In the meantime, it matters nothing. + The thing that does matter is, that whereto we have attained, by that we + should walk. But, while we are not to insist upon our opinions, which is + only one way of insisting upon ourselves, however we may cloak the fact + from ourselves in the vain imagination of thereby spreading the truth, we + are bound by loftiest duty to spread the truth; for that is the saving of + men. Do you ask, How spread it, if we are not to talk about it? Friends, I + never said, Do not talk about the truth, although I insist upon a better + and the only indispensable way: let your light shine. What I said before, + and say again, is, Do not talk about the lantern that holds the lamp, but + make haste, uncover the light, and let it shine. Let your light so shine + before men that they may see your good works,—I incline to the + Vatican reading of <i>good things</i>,—and glorify your Father who + is in heaven. It is not, Let your good works shine, but, Let your light + shine. Let it be the genuine love of your hearts, taking form in true + deeds; not the doing of good deeds to prove that your opinions are right. + If ye are thus true, your very talk about the truth will be a good work, a + shining of the light that is in you. A true smile is a good work, and may + do much to reveal the Father who is in heaven; but the smile that is put + on for the sake of looking right, or even for the sake of being right, + will hardly reveal him, not being like him. Men say that you are cold: if + you fear it may be so, do not think to make yourselves warm by putting on + the cloak of this or that fresh opinion; draw nearer to the central heat, + the living humanity of the Son of Man, that ye may have life in + yourselves, so heat in yourselves, so light in yourselves; understand him, + obey him, then your light will shine, and your warmth will warm. There is + an infection, as in evil, so in good. The better we are, the more will men + glorify God. If we trim our lamps so that we have light in our house, that + light will shine through our windows, and give light to those that are not + in the house. But remember, love of the light alone can trim the lamp. Had + Love trimmed Psyche’s lamp, it had never dropped the scalding oil that + scared him from her. + </p> + <p> + The man who holds his opinion the most honestly ought to see the most + plainly that his opinion must change. It is impossible a man should hold + anything aright. How shall the created embrace the self-existent Creator? + That Creator, and he alone, is <i>the truth</i>: how, then, shall a man + embrace the truth? But to him who will live it,—to him, that is, who + walks by that to which he has attained,—the truth will reach down a + thousand true hands for his to grasp. We would not wish to enclose that + which we can do more than enclose,—live in, namely, as our home, + inherit, exult in,—the presence of the infinitely higher and better, + the heart of the living one. And, if we know that God himself is our + inheritance, why should we tremble even with hatred at the suggestion that + we may, that we must, change our opinions? If we held them aright, we + should know that nothing in them that is good can ever be lost; for that + is the true, whatever in them may be the false. It is only as they help us + toward God, that our opinions are worth a straw; and every necessary + change in them must be to more truth, to greater uplifting power. Lord, + change me as thou wilt, only do not send me away. That in my opinions for + which I really hold them, if I be a true man, will never pass away; that + which my evils and imperfections have, in the process of embodying it, + associated with the truth, must, thank God, perish and fall. My opinions, + as my life, as my love, I leave in the hands of him who is my being. I + commend my spirit to him of whom it came. Why, then, that dislike to the + very idea of such change, that dread of having to accept the thing offered + by those whom we count our opponents, which is such a stumbling-block in + the way in which we have to walk, such an obstruction to our yet + inevitable growth? It may be objected that no man will hold his opinions + with the needful earnestness, who can entertain the idea of having to + change them. But the very objection speaks powerfully against such an + overvaluing of opinion. For what is it but to say that, in order to be + wise, a man must consent to be a fool. Whatever must be, a man must be + able to look in the face. It is because we cleave to our opinions rather + than to the living God, because self and pride interest themselves for + their own vile sakes with that which belongs only to the truth, that we + become such fools of logic and temper that we lie in the prison-houses of + our own fancies, ideas, and experiences, shut the doors and windows + against the entrance of the free spirit, and will not inherit the love of + the Father. + </p> + <p> + Yet, for the help and comfort of even such a refuser as this, I would say: + Nothing which you reject can be such as it seems to you. For a thing is + either true or untrue: if it be untrue, it looks, so far like itself that + you reject it, and with it we have nothing more to do; but, if it be true, + the very fact that you reject it shows that to you it has not appeared + true,—has not appeared itself. The truth can never be even beheld + but by the man who accepts it: the thing, therefore, which you reject, is + not that which it seems to you, but a thing good, and altogether + beautiful, altogether fit for your gladsome embrace,—a thing from + which you would not turn away, did you see it as it is, but rush to it, as + Dante says, like the wild beast to his den,—so eager for the refuge + of home. No honest man holds a truth for the sake of that because of which + another honest man rejects it: how it may be with the dishonest, I have no + confidence in my judgment, and hope I am not bound to understand. + </p> + <p> + Let us then, my friends, beware lest our opinions come between us and our + God, between us and our neighbour, between us and our better selves. Let + us be jealous that the human shall not obscure the divine. For we are not + <i>mere</i> human: we, too, are divine; and there is no such obliterator + of the divine as the human that acts undivinely. The one security against + our opinions is to walk according to the truth which they contain. + </p> + <p> + And if men seem to us unreasonable, opposers of that which to us is + plainly true, let us remember that we are not here to convince men, but to + let our light shine. Knowledge is not necessarily light; and it is light, + not knowledge, that we have to diffuse. The best thing we can do, + infinitely the best, indeed the only thing, that men may receive the + truth, is to be ourselves true. Beyond all doing of good is the being + good; for he that is good not only does good things, but all that he does + is good. Above all, let us be humble before the God of truth, faithfully + desiring of him that truth in the inward parts which alone can enable us + to walk according to that which we have attained. May the God of peace + give you his peace; may the love of Christ constrain you; may the gift of + the Holy Spirit be yours. Amen. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRUE CHRISTIAN MINISTERING. + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: A spoken sermon.] + </p> + <p> + MATT. xx. 25—28—But Jesus called them unto him and said, Ye + know that the princes of the Gentiles exercise dominion over them, and + they that are great exercise authority upon them. But it should not be so + among you: but whosoever will be great among you, let him be your + minister; and whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant: + even as the Son of Man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, + and to give his life a ransom for many. + </p> + <p> + How little this is believed! People think, if they think about it at all, + that this is very well in the church, but, as things go in the world, it + won’t do. At least, their actions imply this, for every man is struggling + to get above the other. Every man would make his neighbour his footstool + that he may climb upon him to some throne of glory which he has in his own + mind. There is a continual jostling, and crowding, and buzzing, and + striving to get promotion. Of course there are known and noble exceptions; + but still, there it is. And yet we call ourselves “Christians,” and we are + Christians, all of us, thus far, that the truth is within reach of us all, + that it has come nigh to us, talking to us at our door, and even speaking + in our hearts, and yet this is the way in which we go on! The Lord said, + “It shall not be so among you.” Did he mean only his twelve disciples? + This was all that he had to say to them, but—thanks be to him!—he + says the same to every one of us now. “It shall not be so among you: that + is not the way in my kingdom.” The people of the world—the people + who live in the world—will always think it best to get up, to have + less and less of service to do, more and more of service done to them. The + notion of rank in the world is like a pyramid; the higher you go up, the + fewer are there who have to serve those above them, and who are served + more than those underneath them. All who are under serve those who are + above, until you come to the apex, and there stands some one who has to do + no service, but whom all the others have to serve. Something like that is + the notion of position—of social standing and rank. And if it be so + in an intellectual way even—to say nothing of mere bodily service—if + any man works to a position that others shall all look up to him and that + he may have to look up to nobody, he has just put himself precisely into + the same condition as the people of whom our Lord speaks—as those + who exercise dominion and authority, and really he thinks it a fine thing + to be served. + </p> + <p> + But it is not so in the kingdom of heaven. The figure there is entirely + reversed. As you may see a pyramid reflected in the water, just so, in a + reversed way altogether, is the thing to be found in the kingdom of God. + It is in this way: the Son of Man lies at the inverted apex of the + pyramid; he upholds, and serves, and ministers unto all, and they who + would be high in his kingdom must go near to him at the bottom, to uphold + and minister to all that they may or can uphold and minister unto. There + is no other law of precedence, no other law of rank and position in God’s + kingdom. And mind, that is <i>the</i> kingdom. The other kingdom passes + away—it is a transitory, ephemeral, passing, bad thing, and away it + must go. It is only there on sufferance, because in the mind of God even + that which is bad ministers to that which is good; and when the new + kingdom is built the old kingdom shall pass away. + </p> + <p> + But the man who seeks this rank of which I have spoken, must be honest to + follow it. It will not do to say, “I want to be great, and therefore I + will serve.” A man will not get at it so. He may begin so, but he will + soon find that that will not do. He must seek it for the truth’s sake, for + the love of his fellows, for the worship of God, for the delight in what + is good. In the kingdom of heaven people do not think whether I am + promoted, or whether you are promoted. They are so absorbed in the delight + and glory of the goodness that is round about them, that they learn not to + think much about themselves. It is the bad that is in us that makes us + think about ourselves. It is necessary for us, because there is bad in us, + to think about ourselves, but as we go on we think less and less about + ourselves, until at last we are possessed with the spirit of the truth, + the spirit of the kingdom, and live in gladness and in peace. We are + prouder of our brothers and sisters than of ourselves; we delight to look + at them. God looks at us, and makes us what he pleases, and this is what + we must come to; there is no escape from it. + </p> + <p> + But the Lord says, that “the Son of Man came not to be ministered unto.” + Was he not ministered unto then? Ah! he was ministered unto as never man + was, but he did not come for that. Even now we bring to him the + burnt-offerings of our very spirits, but he did not come for that. It was + to help us that he came. We are told, likewise, that he is the express + image of the Father. Then what he does, the Father must do; and he says + himself, when he is accused of breaking the Sabbath by doing work on it, + “My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.” Then this must be God’s way too, + or else it could not have been Jesus’s way. It is God’s way. Oh! do not + think that God made us with his hands, and then turned us out to find out + our own way. Do not think of him as being always over our heads, merely + throwing over us a wide-spread benevolence. You can imagine the tenderness + of a mother’s heart who takes her child even from its beloved nurse to + soothe and to minister to it, and that is like God; that is God. His hand + is not only over us, but recollect what David said—“His hand was + upon me.” I wish we were all as good Christians as David was. “Wherever I + go,” he said, “God is there—beneath me, before me, his hand is upon + me; if I go to sleep he is there; when I go down to the dead he is there.” + Everywhere is God. The earth underneath us is his hand upholding us. + [Footnote: The waters are in the hollow of it.] Every spring-fountain of + gladness about us is his making and his delight. He tends us and cares for + us; he is close to us, breathing into our nostrils the breath of life, and + breathing into our spirit this thought and that thought to make us look up + and recognize the love and the care around us. What a poor thing for the + little baby would it be if it were to be constantly tended thus tenderly + and preciously by its mother, but if it were never to open its eyes to + look up and see her mother’s face bending over it. A poor thing all its + tending would be without that. It is for that that the other exists; it is + by that that the other comes. To recognize and know this loving-kindness, + and to stand up in it strong and glad; this is the ministration of God + unto us. Do you ever think “I could worship God if he was so-and-so?” Do + you imagine that God is not as good, as perfect, as absolutely all-in-all + as your thoughts can imagine? Aye, you cannot come up to it; do what you + will you never will come up to it. Use all the symbols that we have in + nature, in human relations, in the family—all our symbols of grace + and tenderness, and loving-kindness between man and man, and between man + and woman, and between woman and woman, but you can never come up to the + thought of what God’s ministration is. When our Lord came he just let us + see how his Father was doing this always, he “came to give his life a + ransom for many.” It was in giving his life a ransom for us that he died; + that was the consummation and crown of it all, but it was his life that he + gave for us—his whole being, his whole strength, his whole energy—not + alone his days of trouble and of toil, but deeper than that, he gave his + whole being for us; yea, he even went down to death for us. + </p> + <p> + But how are we to learn this ministration? I will tell you where it + begins. The most of us are forced to work; if you do not see that the + commonest things in life belong to the Christian scheme, the plan of God, + you have got to learn it. I say this is at the beginning. Most of us have + to work, and infinitely better is that for us than if we were not forced + to work, but not a very fine thing unless it goes to something farther. We + are forced to work; and what is our work? It is doing something for other + people always. It is doing; it is ministration in some shape or other. All + kind of work is a serving, but it may not be always Christian service. No. + Some of us only work for our wages; we must have them. We starve, and + deserve to starve, if we do not work to get them. But we must go a little + beyond that; yes, a very great way beyond that. There is no honest work + that one man does for another which he may not do as unto the Lord and not + unto men; in which he cannot do right as he ought to do right. Thus, I say + that the man who sees the commonest thing in the world, recognizing it as + part of the divine order of things, the law by which the world goes, being + the intention of God that one man should be serviceable and useful to + another—the man, I say, who does a thing well because of this, and + who tries to do it better, is doing God service. + </p> + <p> + We talk of “divine service.” It is a miserable name for a great thing. It + is not service, properly speaking, at all. When a boy comes to his father + and says, “May I do so and so for you?” or, rather, comes and breaks out + in some way, showing his love to his father—says, “May I come and + sit beside you? May I have some of your books? May I come and be quiet a + little in your room?” what would you think of that boy if he went and + said, “I have been doing my father a service.” So with praying to and + thanking God, do you call that serving God? If it is not serving + yourselves it is worth nothing; if it is not the best condition you can + find yourselves in, you have to learn what it is yet. Not so; the work you + have to do to-morrow in the counting-house, in the shop, or wherever you + may be, is that by which you are to serve God. Do it with a high regard, + and then there is nothing mean in it; but there is everything mean in it + if you are pretending to please people when you only look for your wages. + It is mean then; but if you have regard to doing a thing nobly, greatly, + and truly, because it is the work that God has given you to do, then you + are doing the divine service. + </p> + <p> + Of course, this goes a great deal farther. We have endless opportunities + of showing ourselves neighbours to the man who comes near us. That is the + divine service; that is the reality of serving God. The others ought to be + your reward, if “reward” is a word that can be used in such a relation at + all. Go home and speak to God; nay, hold your tongue, and quietly go to + him in the secret recesses of your own heart, and know that God is there. + Say, “God has given me this work to do, and I am doing it;” and that is + your joy, that is your refuge, that is your going to heaven. It is not + service. The words “divine service,” as they are used, always move me to + something of indignation. It is perfect paganism; it is looking to please + God by gathering together your services,—something that is supposed + to be service to him. He is serving us for ever, and our Lord says, “If I + have washed your feet, so you ought to wash one another’s feet.” This will + be the way in which to minister for some. + </p> + <p> + But still, when we are beginning to learn this, some of us are looking + about us in a blind kind of way, thinking, “I wish I could serve God; I do + not know what to do! How is it to be begun? What is it at the root of it? + What shall I find out to do? Where is there something to do?” + </p> + <p> + Now, first of all, service is obedience, or it is nothing. This is what I + would gladly impress upon you; upon every young man who has come to the + point to be able to receive it. There is a tendency in us to think that + there is something degrading in obedience, something degrading in service. + According to the social judgment there is; according to the judgment of + the earth there is. Not so according to the judgment of heaven, for God + would only have us do the very thing he is doing himself. You may see the + tendency of this nowadays. There is scarcely a young man who will speak of + his “master.” He feels as if there is something that hurts his dignity in + doing so. He does just what so many theologians have done about God, who, + instead of taking what our Lord has given us, talk about God as “the + Governor of the Universe.” So a young man talks about his master as “the + governor;” nay, he even talks of his own father in that way, and then you + come in another region altogether, and a worse one. I take these things as + symptoms, mind. I know habits may be picked up, when they get common, + without any great corresponding feeling; but a wrong habit tends always to + a wrong feeling, and if a man cannot learn to honour his father, so as to + be able to call him “father,” I think one or the other of them is greatly + to blame, whether the father or the son I cannot say. I know there are + such parents that to tell their children that God is their “Father” is no + help to them, but the contrary. I heard of a lady just the other day to + whom, in trying to comfort her, some one said, “Remember God is your + Father.” “Do not mention the name ‘father’ to me,” she said. Ah! that kind + of fault does not lie in God, but in those who, not being like him, cannot + use the names aright which belong to him. + </p> + <p> + But now, as to this service, this obedience. Our Lord came to give his + life a ransom for the many, and to minister unto all in obedience to his + Father’s will. We call him equal with God—at least, most of us here, + I suppose, do; of course we do not pretend to explain; we know that God is + greater than he, because he said so; but somehow, we can worship him with + our God, and we need not try to distinguish more than is necessary about + it. But do you think that he was less divine than the Father when he was + obedient? Observe his obedience to the will of his Father. He was not the + ruler there. He did not give the commands; he obeyed them. And yet we say + He is God! Ah, that is no difficulty to me. Obedience is as divine in its + essence as command; nay, it may be more divine in the human being far; it + cannot be more divine in God, but obedience is far more divine in its + essence with regard to humanity than command is. It is not the ruling + being who is most like God; it is the man who ministers to his fellow, who + is like God; and the man who will just sternly and rigidly do what his + master tells him—be that master what he may—who is likest + Christ in that one particular matter. Obedience is the grandest thing in + the world to begin with. Yes, and we shall end with it too. I do not think + the time will ever come when we shall not have something to do, because we + are told to do it without knowing why. Those parents act most foolishly + who wish to explain everything to their children—most foolishly. No; + teach your child to obey, and you give him the most precious lesson that + can be given to a child. Let him come to that before you have had him + long, to do what he is told, and you have given him the plainest, first, + and best lesson that you can give him. If he never goes to school at all + he had better have that lesson than all the schooling in the world. Hence, + when some people are accustomed to glorify this age of ours as being so + much better in everything than those which went before, I look back to the + times of chivalry, which we regard now, almost, as a thing to laugh at, or + a merry thing to make jokes about; but I find that the one essential of + chivalry was obedience. It is recognized in our army still, but in those + times it was carried much farther. When a boy was seven years old he was + sent into another family, and put with another boy there to do what? To + wait with him upon the master and the mistress of the house, and to be + taught, as well, what few things they knew in those times in the way of + intellectual cultivation. But he also learned stern, strict obedience, + such as it was impossible for him to forget. Then, when he had been there + seven years, hard at work, standing behind the chair, and ministering, he + was advanced a step; and what was that step? He was made an esquire. He + had his armour given him; he had to watch his armour in the chapel all + night, laying it on the altar in silent devotion to God. I do not say that + all these things were carried out afterwards, but this was the idea of + them. He was an esquire, and what was the duty of an esquire? More + service; more important service. He still had to attend to his master, the + knight. He had to watch him; he had to groom his horse for him; he had to + see that his horse was sound; he had to clean his armour for him; to see + that every bolt, every rivet, every strap, every buckle was sound, for the + life of his master was in his hands. The master, having to fight, must not + be troubled with these things, and therefore the squire had to attend to + them. Then seven years after that a more solemn ceremony is gone through, + and the squire is made a knight; but is he free of service then? No; he + makes a solemn oath to help everybody who needs help, especially women and + children, and so he rides out into the world to do the work of a true man. + There was a grand and essential idea of Christianity in that—no + doubt wonderfully broken and shattered, but not more so than the Christian + church has been; wonderfully broken and shattered, but still the essence + of obedience; and I say it is recognized in our army still, and in every + army; and where it is lost it is a terrible loss, and an army is worth + nothing without it. You remember that terrible story from the East, that + fearful death-charge, one of the grandest things in our history, although + one of the most blundering:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Theirs not to make reply, + Theirs not to reason why, + Theirs but to do and die; + Into the valley of death + Rode the Six Hundred.” + </pre> + <p> + So with the Christian man; whatever meets him, obedience is the thing. If + he is told by his conscience, which is the candle of God within him, that + he must do a thing, why he must do it. He may tremble from head to foot at + having to do it, but he will tremble more if he turns his back. You + recollect how our old poet Spenser shows us the Knight of the Red Cross, + who is the knight of holiness, ill in body, diseased in mind, without any + of his armour on, attacked by a fearful giant. What does he do? Run away? + No, he has but time to catch up his sword, and, trembling in every limb, + he goes on to meet the giant; and that is the thing that every Christian + man must do. I cannot put it too strongly; it is impossible. There is no + escape from it. If death itself lies before us, and we know it, there is + nothing to be said; it is all to be done, and then there is no loss; + everything else is all lost unto God. Look at our Lord. He gave his life + to do the will of his Father, and on he went and did it. Do you think it + was easy for him—easier for him than it would have been for us? Ah! + the greater the man the more delicate and tender his nature, and the more + he shrinks from the opposition even of his fellowmen, because he loves + them. It was a terrible thing for Christ. Even now and then, even in the + little touches that come to us in the scanty story (though enough) this + breaks out. “We are told by John that at the Last Supper He was troubled + in spirit, and testified.” And then how he tries to comfort himself as + soon as Judas has gone out to do the thing which was to finish his great + work: “Now is the Son of Man glorified, and God is glorified in him. If + God be glorified in him, God shall also glorify him in himself.” Then he + adds,—just gathering up his strength,—“I shall straightway + glorify him.” This was said to his disciples, but I seem to see in it that + some of it was said for himself. This is the grand obedience! Oh, friends, + this is a hard lesson to learn. We find every day that it is a hard thing + to teach. We are continually grumbling because we cannot get the people + about us, our servants, our tradespeople, or whoever they may be, to do + just what we tell them. It makes half the misery in the world because they + will have something of their own in it against what they are told. But are + we not always doing the same thing? and ought we not to learn something of + forgiveness for them, and very much from the fact that we are just in the + same position? We only recognize in part that we are put here in this + world precisely to learn to be obedient. He who is our Lord and our God + went on being obedient all the time, and was obedient always; and I say it + is as divine for us to obey as it is for God to rule. As I have said + already, God is ministering the whole time. Now, do you want to know how + to minister? Begin by obeying. Obey every one who has a right to command + you; but above all, look to what our Lord has said, and find out what he + wants you to do out of what he left behind, and try whether obedience to + that will not give a consciousness of use, of ministering, of being a part + of the grand scheme and way of God in this world. In fact, take your place + in it as a vital portion of the divine kingdom, or—to use a better + figure than that—a vital portion of the Godhead. Try it, and see + whether obedience is not salvation; whether service is not dignity; + whether you will not feel in yourselves that you have begun to be cleansed + from your plague when you begin to say, “I will seek no more to be above + my fellows, but I will seek to minister to them, doing my work in God’s + name for them.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Who sweeps a room as for Thy law, + Makes that and the action fine.” + </pre> + <p> + Both the room and the action are good when done for God’s sake. That is + dear old George Herbert’s way of saying the same truth, for every man has + his own way of saying it. The gift of the Spirit of God to make you think + as God thinks, feel as God feels, judge as God judges, is just the one + thing that is promised. I do not know anything else that is promised + positively but that, and who dares pray for anything else with perfect + confidence? God will not give us what we pray for except it be good for + us, but that is one thing that we must have or perish. Therefore, let us + pray for that, and with the name of God dwelling in us—if this is + not true, the whole world is a heap of ruins—let us go forth and do + this service of God in ministering to our fellows, and so helping him in + his work of upholding, and glorifying and saving all. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FANTASTIC IMAGINATION + </h2> + <p> + That we have in English no word corresponding to the German <i>Mährchen</i>, + drives us to use the word <i>Fairytale</i>, regardless of the fact that + the tale may have nothing to do with any sort of fairy. The old use of the + word <i>Fairy</i>, by Spenser at least, might, however, well be adduced, + were justification or excuse necessary where <i>need must</i>. + </p> + <p> + Were I asked, what is a fairytale? I should reply, <i>Read Undine: that is + a fairytale; then read this and that as well, and you will see what is a + fairytale</i>. Were I further begged to describe the <i>fairytale</i>, or + define what it is, I would make answer, that I should as soon think of + describing the abstract human face, or stating what must go to constitute + a human being. A fairytale is just a fairytale, as a face is just a face; + and of all fairytales I know, I think <i>Undine</i> the most beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Many a man, however, who would not attempt to define <i>a man</i>, might + venture to say something as to what a man ought to be: even so much I will + not in this place venture with regard to the fairytale, for my long past + work in that kind might but poorly instance or illustrate my now more + matured judgment. I will but say some things helpful to the reading, in + right-minded fashion, of such fairytales as I would wish to write, or care + to read. + </p> + <p> + Some thinkers would feel sorely hampered if at liberty to use no forms but + such as existed in nature, or to invent nothing save in accordance with + the laws of the world of the senses; but it must not therefore be imagined + that they desire escape from the region of law. Nothing lawless can show + the least reason why it should exist, or could at best have more than an + appearance of life. + </p> + <p> + The natural world has its laws, and no man must interfere with them in the + way of presentment any more than in the way of use; but they themselves + may suggest laws of other kinds, and man may, if he pleases, invent a + little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that in him which + delights in calling up new forms—which is the nearest, perhaps, he + can come to creation. When such forms are new embodiments of old truths, + we call them products of the Imagination; when they are mere inventions, + however lovely, I should call them the work of the Fancy: in either case, + Law has been diligently at work. + </p> + <p> + His world once invented, the highest law that comes next into play is, + that there shall be harmony between the laws by which the new world has + begun to exist; and in the process of his creation, the inventor must hold + by those laws. The moment he forgets one of them, he makes the story, by + its own postulates, incredible. To be able to live a moment in an imagined + world, we must see the laws of its existence obeyed. Those broken, we fall + out of it. The imagination in us, whose exercise is essential to the most + temporary submission to the imagination of another, immediately, with the + disappearance, of Law, ceases to act. Suppose the gracious creatures of + some childlike region of Fairyland talking either cockney or Gascon! Would + not the tale, however lovelily begun, sink at once to the level of the + Burlesque—of all forms of literature the least worthy? A man’s + inventions may be stupid or clever, but if he do not hold by the laws of + them, or if he make one law jar with another, he contradicts himself as an + inventor, he is no artist. He does not rightly consort his instruments, or + he tunes them in different keys. The mind of man is the product of live + Law; it thinks by law, it dwells in the midst of law, it gathers from law + its growth; with law, therefore, can it alone work to any result. + Inharmonious, unconsorting ideas will come to a man, but if he try to use + one of such, his work will grow dull, and he will drop it from mere lack + of interest. Law is the soil in which alone beauty will grow; beauty is + the only stuff in which Truth can be clothed; and you may, if you will, + call Imagination the tailor that cuts her garments to fit her, and Fancy + his journeyman that puts the pieces of them together, or perhaps at most + embroiders their button-holes. Obeying law, the maker works like his + creator; not obeying law, he is such a fool as heaps a pile of stones and + calls it a church. + </p> + <p> + In the moral world it is different: there a man may clothe in new forms, + and for this employ his imagination freely, but he must invent nothing. He + may not, for any purpose, turn its laws upside down. He must not meddle + with the relations of live souls. The laws of the spirit of man must hold, + alike in this world and in any world he may invent. It were no offence to + suppose a world in which everything repelled instead of attracted the + things around it; it would be wicked to write a tale representing a man it + called good as always doing bad things, or a man it called bad as always + doing good things: the notion itself is absolutely lawless. In physical + things a man may invent; in moral things he must obey—and take their + laws with him into his invented world as well. + </p> + <p> + “You write as if a fairytale were a thing of importance: must it have a + meaning?” + </p> + <p> + It cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it + has vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it than + the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the + fairytale would give no delight. Everyone, however, who feels the story, + will read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will + read one meaning in it, another will read another. + </p> + <p> + “If so, how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning + into it, but yours out of it?” + </p> + <p> + Why should you be so assured? It may be better that you should read your + meaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than the + mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to mine. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose my child ask me what the fairytale means, what am I to say?” + </p> + <p> + If you do not know what it means, what is easier than to say so? If you do + see a meaning in it, there it is for you to give him. A genuine work of + art must mean many things; the truer its art, the more things it will + mean. If my drawing, on the other hand, is so far from being a work of art + that it needs THIS IS A HORSE written under it, what can it matter that + neither you nor your child should know what it means? It is there not so + much to convey a meaning as to wake a meaning. If it do not even wake an + interest, throw it aside. A meaning may be there, but it is not for you. + If, again, you do not know a horse when you see it, the name written under + it will not serve you much. At all events, the business of the painter is + not to teach zoology. + </p> + <p> + But indeed your children are not likely to trouble you about the meaning. + They find what they are capable of finding, and more would be too much. + For my part, I do not write for children, but for the childlike, whether + of five, or fifty, or seventy-five. + </p> + <p> + A fairytale is not an allegory. There may be allegory in it, but it is not + an allegory. He must be an artist indeed who can, in any mode, produce a + strict allegory that is not a weariness to the spirit. An allegory must be + Mastery or Moorditch. + </p> + <p> + A fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips at + every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to my + mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means something; and + where there is the faculty of talking with suitable vagueness, and + choosing metaphor sufficiently loose, mind may approach mind, in the + interpretation of a sonata, with the result of a more or less contenting + consciousness of sympathy. But if two or three men sat down to write each + what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to definite idea would be + the result? Little enough—and that little more than needful. We + should find it had roused related, if not identical, feelings, but + probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it + undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to impart anything + defined, anything notionally recognizable? + </p> + <p> + “But words are not music; words at least are meant and fitted to carry a + precise meaning!” + </p> + <p> + It is very seldom indeed that they carry the exact meaning of any user of + them! And if they can be so used as to convey definite meaning, it does + not follow that they ought never to carry anything else. Words are live + things that may be variously employed to various ends. They can convey a + scientific fact, or throw a shadow of her child’s dream on the heart of a + mother. They are things to put together like the pieces of a dissected + map, or to arrange like the notes on a stave. Is the music in them to go + for nothing? It can hardly help the definiteness of a meaning: is it + therefore to be disregarded? They have length, and breadth, and outline: + have they nothing to do with depth? Have they only to describe, never to + impress? Has nothing any claim to their use but the definite? The cause of + a child’s tears may be altogether undefinable: has the mother therefore no + antidote for his vague misery? That may be strong in colour which has no + evident outline. A fairytale, a sonata, a gathering storm, a limitless + night, seizes you and sweeps you away: do you begin at once to wrestle + with it and ask whence its power over you, whither it is carrying you? The + law of each is in the mind of its composer; that law makes one man feel + this way, another man feel that way. To one the sonata is a world of odour + and beauty, to another of soothing only and sweetness. To one, the cloudy + rendezvous is a wild dance, with a terror at its heart; to another, a + majestic march of heavenly hosts, with Truth in their centre pointing + their course, but as yet restraining her voice. The greatest forces lie in + the region of the uncomprehended. + </p> + <p> + I will go farther.—The best thing you can do for your fellow, next + to rousing his conscience, is—not to give him things to think about, + but to wake things up that are in him; or say, to make him think things + for himself. The best Nature does for us is to work in us such moods in + which thoughts of high import arise. Does any aspect of Nature wake but + one thought? Does she ever suggest only one definite thing? Does she make + any two men in the same place at the same moment think the same thing? Is + she therefore a failure, because she is not definite? Is it nothing that + she rouses the something deeper than the understanding—the power + that underlies thoughts? Does she not set feeling, and so thinking at + work? Would it be better that she did this after one fashion and not after + many fashions? Nature is mood-engendering, thought-provoking: such ought + the sonata, such ought the fairytale to be. + </p> + <p> + “But a man may then imagine in your work what he pleases, what you never + meant!” + </p> + <p> + Not what he pleases, but what he can. If he be not a true man, he will + draw evil out of the best; we need not mind how he treats any work of art! + If he be a true man, he will imagine true things; what matter whether I + meant them or not? They are there none the less that I cannot claim + putting them there! One difference between God’s work and man’s is, that, + while God’s work cannot mean more than he meant, man’s must mean more than + he meant. For in everything that God has made, there is layer upon layer + of ascending significance; also he expresses the same thought in higher + and higher kinds of that thought: it is God’s things, his embodied + thoughts, which alone a man has to use, modified and adapted to his own + purposes, for the expression of his thoughts; therefore he cannot help his + words and figures falling into such combinations in the mind of another as + he had himself not foreseen, so many are the thoughts allied to every + other thought, so many are the relations involved in every figure, so many + the facts hinted in every symbol. A man may well himself discover truth in + what he wrote; for he was dealing all the time with things that came from + thoughts beyond his own. + </p> + <p> + “But surely you would explain your idea to one who asked you?” + </p> + <p> + I say again, if I cannot draw a horse, I will not write THIS IS A HORSE + under what I foolishly meant for one. Any key to a work of imagination + would be nearly, if not quite, as absurd. The tale is there, not to hide, + but to show: if it show nothing at your window, do not open your door to + it; leave it out in the cold. To ask me to explain, is to say, “Roses! + Boil them, or we won’t have them!” My tales may not be roses, but I will + not boil them. + </p> + <p> + So long as I think my dog can bark, I will not sit up to bark for him. + </p> + <p> + If a writer’s aim be logical conviction, he must spare no logical pains, + not merely to be understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where his + object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him assail + the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. If there be + music in my reader, I would gladly wake it. Let fairytale of mine go for a + firefly that now flashes, now is dark, but may flash again. Caught in a + hand which does not love its kind, it will turn to an insignificant, ugly + thing, that can neither flash nor fly. + </p> + <p> + The best way with music, I imagine, is not to bring the forces of our + intellect to bear upon it, but to be still and let it work on that part of + us for whose sake it exists. We spoil countless precious things by + intellectual greed. He who will be a man, and will not be a child, must—he + cannot help himself—become a little man, that is, a dwarf. He will, + however, need no consolation, for he is sure to think himself a very large + creature indeed. + </p> + <p> + If any strain of my “broken music” make a child’s eyes flash, or his + mother’s grow for a moment dim, my labour will not have been in vain. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Dish Of Orts, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DISH OF ORTS *** + +***** This file should be named 9393-h.htm or 9393-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/3/9/9393/ + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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