“As thro’ the land at eve we went,And pluck’d the ripen’d ears,We fell out, my wife and I,O we fell out I know not why,And kiss’d again with tears.And blessings on the falling outThat all the more endears,When we fall out with those we loveAnd kiss again with tears!For when we came where lies the childWe lost in other years,There above the little grave,O there above the little grave,We kiss’d again with tears.”
“As thro’ the land at eve we went,And pluck’d the ripen’d ears,We fell out, my wife and I,O we fell out I know not why,And kiss’d again with tears.And blessings on the falling outThat all the more endears,When we fall out with those we loveAnd kiss again with tears!For when we came where lies the childWe lost in other years,There above the little grave,O there above the little grave,We kiss’d again with tears.”
“As thro’ the land at eve we went,
And pluck’d the ripen’d ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out I know not why,
And kiss’d again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears!
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
O there above the little grave,
We kiss’d again with tears.”
Here we have the abiding influence of the child reaching back from the grave and uniting by its memory the tearful and desolate hearts of the estranged parents.
The second represents how the toil and labor of the father are ennobled and lightened amid the perils of the deep through the memory of the little babe for whose life and love he fondly braves every danger:
“Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me,While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
“Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me,
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
“Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.”
“Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.”
Sweet influence, indeed, this of the babe which reaches across the ocean and unites loving hearts.
The next song, “The Bugle,” is regarded by many as the finest lyric that has been written since the days of Shakespeare. Its real meaning is frequently not grasped by the casual reader. It is based upon the contrast between the echoes of a bugle on a mountain lake, which grow fainter and fainter in proportion to the receding distance, and the influence of soul upon soul through growing distances of time:
“The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
“The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
“O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
“O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
“O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Ourechoes roll from soul to soulAndgrowforever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.”
“O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Ourechoes roll from soul to soul
Andgrowforever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.”
The stress of meaning is in the wordsourandgrow.Ourechoes roll fromsoul to soul—from generation to generation—from grandparent to parent and grandchild. This poem represents unity through the family in its relation to the future, just as the first two songs represent that unity through the past and present.
The fourth is intended to show the influences of home and wedded love in nerving a man for the shocks and conflicts of life:
“Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,That beat to battle where he stands;Thy face across his fancy comes,And gives the battle to his hands:A moment while the trumpets blow,He sees his brood about thy knee;The next, like fire he meets the foe,And strikes him dead—for thine and thee.”
“Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,That beat to battle where he stands;Thy face across his fancy comes,And gives the battle to his hands:A moment while the trumpets blow,He sees his brood about thy knee;The next, like fire he meets the foe,And strikes him dead—for thine and thee.”
“Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead—for thine and thee.”
We see by this lyric that patriotism and heroic effort have their root and origin in home affection.
The next song represents the influence of the family, of which the child is the bond, upon the mother:
“Home they brought her warrior dead:She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry:All her maidens, watching, said,‘She must weep or she will die.’
“Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
“Then they praised him, soft and low,Call’d him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
“Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call’d him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
“Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;Yet she neither moved nor wept.
“Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
“Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee—Like summer tempest came her tears—‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’”
“Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’”
In this poem we see that desolation and despair have sealed the fountain of tears in the widowed wife—that the light of love has gone from her life and returns only through the influence of childhood, with all its tender links and memories.
The last song, “Ask Me No More,” is like the sestette in a sonnet—the application of all the preceding. These influences of the family, with all its sacred ties and affections, are too much for the strong and noble soul of the Princess, who throws aside all theories of intellectual independence for woman, and, yielding to the impulse of love and affection, proclaims the triumph of the womanly elements in her nature in the following sweet and tender lines:
“Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;But O too fond, when have I answered thee?Ask me no more.
“Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more.
“Ask me no more; what answer should I give?I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;Ask me no more.
“Ask me no more; what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.
“Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d:I strove against the stream and all in vain:Let the great river take me to the main:No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;Ask me no more.”
“Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.”
What bearing these six lyrics, which are truly miracles of workmanship, have upon the main theme of the story will be readily perceived. They not only contribute to the unity of the poem proper but are in themselves linked together by a kindred bond and purpose. They are the voice of the heart singing through the night, cheered by the kindly stars of faith, hope and love.
Having analyzed the poem and reached its central thought, let us now consider who is the hero or heroine of the story. Assuredly it is not the Prince, for he has been ignominiously thrust out of Ida’s gates in draggled female clothes. Nor is it his jovial-hearted companion, Cyril, nor Arac, who cares for nothing save the tournament. It cannot even be the high-souled and stately Princess, for has she not been vanquished at the very moment of triumph? The only one who comes out triumphantly is Psyche’s baby—she is the real heroine of the epic. The little blossom, sweet Agläea, is the central point upon which the plot turns. In the poem, in the songs—everywhere—this unconscious child, the concrete embodiment of nature itself, exerts an overpowering influence, shaping, directing, nurturing the tender instincts of womanhood and clearing away all intellectual theories which tend to usurp the sacred offices of mother and home.
In the despatch which Ida sends to her brother she acknowledges the power of the child in the following lines:
“I took it for an hour in mine own bedThis morning: there the tender orphan handsFelt at my heart, and seemed to charm from thenceThe wrath I nursed against the world.”
“I took it for an hour in mine own bedThis morning: there the tender orphan handsFelt at my heart, and seemed to charm from thenceThe wrath I nursed against the world.”
“I took it for an hour in mine own bed
This morning: there the tender orphan hands
Felt at my heart, and seemed to charm from thence
The wrath I nursed against the world.”
And again:
“I feltThy helpless warmth about my barren breastIn the dead prime.”
“I feltThy helpless warmth about my barren breastIn the dead prime.”
“I felt
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast
In the dead prime.”
Notice, too, how ubiquitous the babe is. Ida carries it with her everywhere. It is on her judgment seat, it shares in her song of triumph when the tournament is ended, and is with her on the battlefield when she is tending her wounded brothers.
The babe is indeed the heroine of the story, holding the epic along the channel of its main motive, despite every current and breeze stirred by foreign elements in its course.
It is not hard to read in this poem Tennyson’s solution of the woman question, though there are some who maintain that it is vague and unsatisfactory. Such persons forget that it is the office of the poet not so much to affirm principles on a subject as to inspire the sentiments which ought to preside over the solution.
It seems to us that the transfiguration of Ida’s nature under the influence of the affections is the only solution possible that could be offered by the poet for the questions raised in “The Princess.” It is the office of poetry, not to guide the conclusions of the intellect, but to tone the feelings in accordance with truth and duty. Poetry is not to teach the truth—it is truth itself.
Those who have the interest of the true advancement of woman at heart should remember that neither the whole race nor woman herself can be benefited by any system of education for woman at variance with Nature and not co-ordinate with the highest needs of the race. It is idle to discuss the equality or inequality of gifts and faculties as between man and woman. Every person knows that woman is not only the equal of man in many respects, but his superior in not a few; yet this does not justify her in waging a war with Nature and, with her heart clothed in an iron panoply, riding forth into the arena of dust and turmoil to perform services for which the strong hand and knightly heart of man as well as the vocation of centuries have fitted him alone.
As to her education, that which enables her every faculty to grow and unfold its beauty and power, with no harm to her distinctive womanhood—that should be her privilege and right to enjoy, whether it be obtained in convent or co-education hall. That woman needs a greater breadth and solidity of intellectual culture goes without saying, and this for two reasons—to better fit her for the high moral offices which belong to her domestic mission, and to keep alive in her a just sympathy with the larger social movements of which she is the passive, but ought not to be the uninterested spectator.
If Ida’s theories were carried out, the child element in woman and the feminine element in man would be crushed out, and it is this very feminine element in man which gives him moral insight—it constitutes the poetic side of his nature. Without the feminine element in his nature Chaucer never could have written “The Canterbury Tales.”
Ida was right in seeking for a more generous culture, but the spirit in which she sought it was wrong. Mrs. Browning’s Aurora Leigh would be an artist first and then a woman. Ida, too, would crush out the womanly elements in her nature in her eagerness to satisfy the claims of the intellect. She set the claims of the head above those of the heart, and, like Aurora Leigh, she failed.
Enthusiasts often point to the glories achieved by women through the centuries, and make this a pretext for their vagaries and Utopian dreams. Because Corinna won the lyric prize from Pindar, and Judith delivered her people from Holofernes, and Joan of Arc repulsed the English from the walls of Orleans, and Queen Elizabeth laid the foundation of England’s supremacy upon the sea, is it meet that the whole social order should be turned upside down and Nature wounded in its very heart? Such enthusiasts forget that the mother of Themistocles was greater than the vanquisher of Pindar, the mother of St. Louis of France greater than the Maid of Orleans, and the mother of Shakespeare greater than she who held with firm grasp the sceptre of English sovereignty during the closing years of the Tudor period.
In spite, therefore, of all theories to the contrary, in spite of many zealous but misguided women who are looking in the near future for the reign of woman and the complete subserviency of man, the true mission of woman is, and always will continue to be, within the domestic sphere, where she conserves the accumulated sum of the moral education of the race, and keeps burning through the darkest night of civilization upon the sacred altar of humanity, the vestal fires of Truth, Beauty, and Love.
POETRY AND HISTORY TEACHINGFALSEHOOD
POETRY AND HISTORY TEACHING
FALSEHOOD
POETRY AND HISTORY TEACHING FALSEHOOD.
The function of the poet is to speak essential truths as opposed to relative truths, and Mrs. Browning in “Aurora Leigh” testifies to this fact in the following lines:
“I write soOf the only truth-tellers now left to God,The only speakers of essential truthOpposed to relative, comparative,And temporal truths; the only holders byHis sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms;The only teachers who instruct mankindFrom just a shadow on a charnel wallTo find man’s veritable stature outErect, sublime,—the measure of a man;And that’s the measure of an angel saysThe Apostle.”
“I write soOf the only truth-tellers now left to God,The only speakers of essential truthOpposed to relative, comparative,And temporal truths; the only holders byHis sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms;The only teachers who instruct mankindFrom just a shadow on a charnel wallTo find man’s veritable stature outErect, sublime,—the measure of a man;And that’s the measure of an angel saysThe Apostle.”
“I write so
Of the only truth-tellers now left to God,
The only speakers of essential truth
Opposed to relative, comparative,
And temporal truths; the only holders by
His sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms;
The only teachers who instruct mankind
From just a shadow on a charnel wall
To find man’s veritable stature out
Erect, sublime,—the measure of a man;
And that’s the measure of an angel says
The Apostle.”
It is much to be regretted that the poetry of the present day does not always fulfil this high purpose. The poets of to-day—and by poets of to-day I mean the poets of the past half-century—are not “the only truth-tellers now left to God.” Nay, they are often disseminators of falsehood. It is true the non-Catholic poet—a Wordsworth, a Byron, a Longfellow, or a Tennyson—by being true to art and inspiration, which has as its basis Catholic truth, sometimes unwittingly expresses a Catholic truth of the deepest significance. But as poetry is only a reflection of life idealized, and as there is nothing in poetry but what is in life, we may expect the anti-Catholic seeds scattered about by prejudiced hearts in the garden of the world to bear the poisonous blossoms of falsehood as they are translated and reflected in the pages of modern poetry.
And this is sometimes done indirectly. Sometimes, too, it is done by expressing a half truth or by seizing on some exceptional phase of Catholic religious life and impressing it upon the non-Catholic mind with an “Ab uno disce omnes.”
A concrete example will best illustrate this. Browning has a poem entitled “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church.” Now Browning’s poetic workshop was Italy, so this great psychological poet wrote:
“Open my heart and you shall seeGraven on it Italy.”
“Open my heart and you shall seeGraven on it Italy.”
“Open my heart and you shall see
Graven on it Italy.”
He found in the land of Dante and Michael Angelo fit subjects for his dramatic monologues. The art world of Italy opened up to Browning new themes, new thoughts. The intense life of its people, full of the sweetness and aroma of virtue and the dark tragedy of vice, gave him scope which he could not find elsewhere. Pity it is that he presents only the dark side of Italian character. Pity it is that the paganized and sensual Bishop of the Italian Renaissance depicted by Browning in “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church” did not find setting, in his poems, as a foil to the pure and pious men and women who prayed before the shrines and in the cloisters of Italy when the new wine of old classicism poured from Homeric flasks and casks had intoxicated the head and heart of that garden of Europe and turned possible saints into satyrs.
De Maistre, the great French publicist, has said that history for the past three hundred years has been a conspiracy against truth. Aye, and poetry, too, whose countenance should reflect the beauty of heavenly truth, often wears the mask of the assassin. To-day there are so-called advanced and up-to-date scholars in our universities and clubs who hold that “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church” is a true reflection of the religious life of the Italian Renaissance. They quote Ruskin as saying of that poem:
“I know of no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which there is so much told as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit—its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good Latin. It is nearly all that I have said of the Central Renaissance, in thirty pages of the ‘Stones of Venice,’ put into as many lines, Browning’s being also the antecedent work.”
We would say just here to students of literature and history: Let not the shadow of a great literary name overawe you. John Ruskin did a great deal for art and criticism, but he is far from being an infallible apostle of truth in either domain; and though he loved the lowly, brown-hooded friars of St. Francis, this love was not based on spiritual affinity, but on the poetry and art bound up in their humble lives.
John Ruskin and Robert Browning, respectively art critic and poet, have done the religious life of the Italian Renaissance a grievous wrong—nay, they grossly misrepresent it when they say that this abnormal picture of a Renaissance Catholic bishop truly represents and reflects the religious life of Italy at that period. No doubt but a certain amount of abuses and corruption prevailed in the Church at that time, largely as a consequence of the worldly spirit which had gained entrance into it during its exile at Avignon.
However, all was not darkness and sin. The vivifying life of the Church was not exemplified in the Bishop of St. Praxed’s. As the great historian of the Popes of the Renaissance, Dr. Ludwig Pastor, says, “If those days were full of failings and sins of every kind, the Church was not wanting in glorious manifestations through which the source of her higher life revealed itself. Striking contrasts—deep shadows on the one hand and most consoling gleams of sunshine on the other—are the special characteristics of this period. If the historian of the Church of the fifteenth century meets with some unworthy prelates and bishops, he also meets in every part of Christendom with an immense number of men distinguished for their virtue, piety and learning, not a few of whom have been, by the solemn voice of the Church, raised to her altars.”
Limiting ourselves to the most remarkable individuals of the period of which we are about to treat, we shall mention only the saints and holy men and women given by Italy to the Church: St. Bernardine of Siena, of the order of Minorites, whose eloquence won for him the title of “Trumpet of Heaven and fountain of knowledge”; around him are grouped his holy brothers in religion, Saints John Capestran and Jacopo della Marca. St. Antonius, whose unexampled zeal was displayed in Florence, the very centre of the Renaissance, had for his disciples blessed Antonio Neyrot of Ripoli and Constanzio di Fabriano. In the order of St. Augustine are the following who have been beatified: Andrea, who died at Montereale in 1497; Antonio Turriani, in 1494. In 1440 St. Frances, the foundress of the Oblates, was working at Rome. The labors of another founder, St. Francis of Paula, who died in 1507, belong in part to this period. These names, to which many more might be added, furnish the most striking proof of the vitality of religion in Italy at the time of the Renaissance. Such fruits do not ripen on trees which are “decayed and rotten to the core.”
Indeed, it is astonishing what nonsense is talked about this period of the Italian Renaissance, especially as it influenced the religious life of the people. In one breath our would-be professors will tell you that the Italian Renaissance movement swept the Catholic Church into a vortex of paganism—pope, cardinals, bishops, and all; and in the next they will lead you to believe that the Catholic Church set its face against the new revival of classical learning, fearing that the development of the intellect would be prejudicial to the faith of the people. Either slander will effect its end.
As we write we have before us two historical works of somewhat recent publication: “Books and Their Makers During-the Middle Ages,” by George Haven Putnam, A.M., and “A General History of Europe,” by Professors Thatcher and Schwill, of Chicago University. As the latter is now used as a text-book in many American High Schools, we will deal with its worth and wisdom first.
There is but one Chicago University in the world, and we might expect its distinguished professors of medieval and modern European history to understand at least the elementary truths of the Catholic Church and something of its spirit and policy.
Let us examine for a moment some of the statements contained in this “General History of Europe,” by Professors Thatcher and Schwill. Here is a choice morsel which will amuse the student of Church history. The topic is “The Church and Feudalism.” The author says: “As late as the eleventh century it was not at all uncommon for the clergy to marry. Since fiefs were hereditary, it seemed perfectly proper that their children should be provided for out of the Church lands which they held. But unless all their children became clergymen these lands would pass into the hands of laymen and therefore be lost to the Church.One of the purposes of the prohibition of the marriage of the clergy was to prevent this alienation and diminution of the Church lands.”
And this little paragraph dealing with the Italian Renaissance, found on page 264 of the same work: “Medieval life knew nothing of the freedom, beauty and joy of the Greek world. . . . The medieval man had no eye for the beauty of nature. To him nature was evil. God had indeed created the world and pronounced it very good, but through the fall of man all nature had been corrupted. Satan was now the prince of the world.As a result no one could either study or admire nature.” Pray note the force of the auxiliary “could.”
Just think of it! A Catholic—a medieval Catholic—was forbidden to look at or admire a flower, a forest, or a mountain peak. How so much of nature got mixed up in the singing of “Old Dan Chaucer,” a Catholic poet of the fourteenth century, we know not. ’Tis a mystery. Chaucer is essentially the poet of the daisy, and robed it in verse long before Burns turned it over with his plough.
Then we have the brown-hooded and gentle Friar, St. Francis of Assisi, who was wont to call the birds of the air and the beasts of the field his brothers, and who composed canticles to the winds, the flowers and the sun. Did the erudite professors of Chicago University ever make a study of Gothic architecture, the distinct inspiration and creation of medieval times? If so, they will remember that plants and flowers play, in symbolism, an important part in ornamentation. The hatred of nature as well as the hatred of art imputed to the early Christians is simply a “fable convenue,” manufactured by the partisan and superficial historian who is either too dishonest or indolent to state or reach the real facts.
It is enough to say that Professors Thatcher and Schwill’s work is actually teeming with historical inaccuracies and gross misrepresentations of the Catholic Church. Whether by inference or blunt statement, these two professors have written themselves down in the pages of their history either as ignorant or dishonest historians, and it is unworthy of a presumably great university, such as Chicago, to give itsimprimaturto such unreliable and unscholarly works.
But lest we may not have convicted as yet Professors Thatcher and Schwill of having misrepresented the truth, life and policy of the Catholic Church in the pages of their history, we shall cite one more paragraph found on page 172. It deals with monasticism. The author says: “The philosophic basis of asceticism is the belief that matter is the seat of evil, and therefore that all contact with it is contaminating. This conception of evil is neither Christian nor Jewish, but purely heathen. Jesus freely used the good things of this world and taught that sin is in nothing external to man, but has its seat only in the heart.But His teaching was not understood by His followers.The peculiar form which this asceticism in the Church took is called monasticism. . . . After about 175 A.D. the Church rapidly grew worldly. As Christianity became popular large numbers entered the Church and became Christians in name; but at heart and in life they remained heathen. The bishops were often proud and haughty and lived in grand style. Those who were really in earnest about their salvation, unsatisfied with such worldliness, fled from the contamination in the Church and went to live in the desert and find the way to God without the aid of the Church: her means of grace were for common Christians. Those who would could obtain, by means of asceticism and prayer, all that others received by means of the sacraments of the Church. There were to be two ways of salvation: one through the Church and her means of grace; the other through asceticism and contemplation.”
There is assuredly something of the historicalnaïvetéof the schoolboy in the above. Mark when the Christian Church became corrupt—nearly one hundred and fifty years before it was upheld by the arm of Constantine and when it had been hiding for more than one hundred years in the Catacombs carving and painting in symbol the truths and mysteries of God. This was the corruption, that as Christ had birth in the lowly manger of Bethlehem so the Church, His Spouse, was cradled in humility, hidden away from the purple rage of the Cæsars, and, like a little child whose dreams are of the past and the future, was rudely fashioning her life and soul in terms of eternity, in symbols of the palm, the dove and the lamb.
Now let us cite from Putnam’s “Books and Their Makers in the Middle Ages” an instance of historical contradiction within the compass of three pages. It is said that he who misrepresents the truth must have a good memory, but the author of “Books and Their Makers in the Middle Ages” is evidently devoid of that faculty, otherwise he would not have contradicted himself in almost succeeding pages of his work. Here is the contradiction. He is speaking of book-making at the time of the Italian Renaissance. On page 331, Vol. I., the author says: “A production of Beccadelli’s, perhaps the most brilliant of Alfonso’s literaryprotégés, is to be noted as having been proscribed by the Pope, being one of the earliest Italian publications to be so distinguished. Eugenius IV. forbade, under penalty of excommunication, the reading of Beccadelli’s “Hermaphroditus,” which was declared to becontra bonos mores. The book was denounced from many pulpits, and copies were burned, together with portraits of the poet, on the public squares of Bologna, Milan and Ferrara.”
On page 333 of the same volume Putnam writes—and we beg the reader will compare carefully the two statements: “Poggio is to be noted as a free thinker who managed to keep in good relations with the Church.So long as free thinkers confined their audacity to such matters as form the topic of Poggio’s ‘Facetiae,’ Beccadelli’s ‘Hermaphroditus’ or La Casa’s ‘Capitolo del Farno’ the Roman Curia looked on and smiled approvingly. The most obscene books to be found in any literature escaped the Papal censure, and a man like Aretino, notorious for his ribaldry, could aspire with fair prospects of success to the scarlet of a Cardinal.”
These are the kind of books that stuff the shelves of the libraries in our great secular universities.
There is perhaps no other period in the history of the world that requires more careful investigation than that of the Renaissance in Italy, and this because of its complex character. Speaking of this complexity Dr. Pastor says: “In the nature of things it must be extremely difficult to present a truthful picture of an age which witnessed so many revolutions affecting almost all departments of human life and thought, and abounded in contradictions and startling contrasts. But the difficulty becomes enormously increased if we are endeavoring to formulate a comprehensive appreciation of the moral and religious character of such an epoch. In fact in one sense the task is an impossible one. No mortal eye can penetrate the conscience of a single man; how much less can any human intellect strike the balance between the incriminating and the extenuating circumstances on which our judgment of the moral condition of such a period depends, amid the whirl of conflicting events. In a rough way, no doubt, we can form an estimate, but it can never pretend to absolute accuracy. As Burckhardt, author of ‘The Civilization of the Period of the Renaissance in Italy,’ says: ‘In this region the more clearly the facts seem to point to any conclusion the more must we be upon our guard against unconditional or universal assertions.’”
It were well assuredly if some of our professors of history in the great secular universities—professors who assume to understand the Catholic Church and her policy better than her own clergy and laity—it were well, we say, if these would lay to their historical souls Pastor’s judicial words ere they indict the “Renaissance Period” and blacken the character of its popes, its prelates and its people.
The truth is that few if any non-Catholic students read Catholic historical works to-day. Jansen’s great work, dealing with the social and religious life of Germany in the period that preceded the advent of Luther, is considered to be the last word on this debatable ground, and yet how many non-Catholic students have ever opened its pages? The same may be said of Pastor’s monumental work. “Lives of the Popes Since the Close of the Middle Ages.” When this ignorance of Catholic fact is supplemented by the reading of such misrepresentation as is found in Browning’s poem, “The Bishop Orders His Tomb,” what hope can there be of justice to Catholic truth and the Catholic faith in our great secular universities?
We see, then, that not alone are the facts of history falsified, but the genius of the poet is enlisted to give glamor and glow to the historical slander.
Take again Tennyson’s poem, “St. Simeon Stylites.” This is a satire on ascetic life. Tennyson was a Broad Churchman, and it is said that he was particularly careful not to write anything that would offend the religious feelings of any of his friends. He saw, however, at the time of the “Oxford Movement,” the English mind in certain quarters look with favor on monasticism, and he wrote “St. Simeon Stylites” as a rebuke to the movement. But is it a true picture of the spirit and life of those early hermits of the desert? Not at all. Tennyson as a satirist did not aim at truth, but rather at exaggeration. So he puts into the mouth of this pillar-fixed saint these words of pride:
“A time may come, yea, even now,When you may worship me without reproach,And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,When I am gathered to the glorious Saints.”
“A time may come, yea, even now,When you may worship me without reproach,And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,When I am gathered to the glorious Saints.”
“A time may come, yea, even now,
When you may worship me without reproach,
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,
When I am gathered to the glorious Saints.”
The essence of the Catholic faith is not “the torpidity of assurance,” but the working out of one’s salvation in fear and trembling. That pride should sometimes gain entrance into the cloister and assume the garb of humility is no doubt true; but the self-renunciation which is the true spirit of the cloister, giving up all for the service of God, is in itself a mantle of virtue—a seamless garment of grace which neither the false satire of a Tennyson nor the flashlight of a Browning monologue can transform from a beauteous raiment of light.
It is true that the same pen which gave us “St. Simeon” gave us also these beautiful lines in “St. Agnes’ Eve,” a poem which is stirred with the loveliness and tenderness of religious life. St. Agnes on the very eve of death utters these ecstatic words in beatific vision:
“He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strews her lights below,And deepens on and up! The gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the heavenly Bridegroom waitsTo make me pure of sin.The Sabbaths of Eternity,One Sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride.”
“He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strews her lights below,And deepens on and up! The gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the heavenly Bridegroom waitsTo make me pure of sin.The Sabbaths of Eternity,One Sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride.”
“He lifts me to the golden doors;
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
And strews her lights below,
And deepens on and up! The gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the heavenly Bridegroom waits
To make me pure of sin.
The Sabbaths of Eternity,
One Sabbath deep and wide—
A light upon the shining sea—
The Bridegroom with his bride.”
The student, before accepting Tennyson’s poetic or, more correctly, satiric picture of the hermits of the desert in the early centuries of the Church as represented in “St. Simeon Stylites,” would do well to study the condition of the Christian, or rather pagan, world at the time when the hermits fled to the desert. It is a remote period in the life of the world, and like all remote periods you must translate yourself into it if you would clearly and justly understand it. But we warn you that Kingsley’s “Hermits” will not enlighten you.
Catholics have no need to apologize for the life or policy of their Church during its reign of nineteen hundred years. It is a book open to the world, and every chapter in it is a record of the spiritual and intellectual progress of man. There have been, indeed, twilight epochs—spiritual eclipses—when man seemed to forget his divine destiny; but the Church of God still stood at her altars waiting for her people to kneel—waiting for the “Introibo ad altare Dei” to reach the heart of king and noble, peasant and slave.
Therefore as a student of history and literature we protest against every misrepresentation of Catholic truth, whether within the pages of history, fiction or poetry, no matter who may be its author—a professor in one of our New World universities, a Marie Corelli counting her gains as she kneels at the shrine of a publisher, a Tennyson striking the chords of falsehood and “looking down towards Camelot,” or a Browning constructing his little monologue chapel by the wayside to seduce from Catholic truth his poetic pilgrim—it is ever misrepresentation wearing the specious garb of truth, whether it be in history or fiction or poetry teaching falsehood.
THE STUDY AND INTERPRETATIONOF LITERATURE
THE STUDY AND INTERPRETATION
OF LITERATURE
THE STUDY AND INTERPRETATION OF LITERATURE.
The study of literature has of late years become somewhat sane and rational in its aim and purpose. There was a time, and that not very long ago, when literature was forced to yield up its spirit in the class-room to mere analysis or a talk about grammar, philology, rhetoric and sundry other irrelevant subjects.
To-day, however, in the best schools and colleges, this vicious method, which has for years worked destruction to true literary culture, has pretty well died out; nor is a through ticket by flying express down the centuries from Chaucer to Tennyson any longer regarded as satisfactory evidence that the privileged passenger knows much of the glory which nestles on the way.
How any person can hope to become a literary scholar in the highest and best sense of the word without assimilating theINFORMINGlife of literature has always seemed to us a problem in dire need of solution. We can well understand how one may possess himself of the literature of knowledge without such assimilation, but how he can become possessed of the literature of power without responding to the inner life of an art product, is to us a question incomprehensible.
Nor has the old spirit, we fear, been fully and wholly exorcised, as yet, from the class and lecture room. There are still to be found those who believe that the analytical exegesis of literature should be the main purpose of the teacher—that to elucidate the intellectual thought which articulates a poem, precipitating it from a concrete creation into a barren abstraction—this and this alone should be the aim and end of all literary study in the school or lecture room.
The fault with such persons is, that they do not fully understand and appreciate the true meaning and import of literature, mistaking its lesser coefficient for its chief and primary one. No definition of literature can be at all adequate which does not take into consideration the spiritual element as a factor. The late Brother Azarias, whose study of literature was most profound, clear and sympathetic, gives us a definition in the very opening chapter of his charming little volume, “A Philosophy of Literature,” which is entirely satisfactory. He regards literature as the verbal expression of man’s affections, as acted upon in his relations with the material world, society and his Creator. Literature may therefore be defined as the expression in letters of the spiritual co-operating with the intellectual man, the former being the dominant co-efficient.
Knowing, then, that the spiritual element constitutes theINFORMINGlife of a poem, how can teachers fritter their time away with brilliant analytics which do little or nothing for true literary culture? Better, far better, that the students under their charge be turned loose in some library—there to browse at will, free to follow their literary tastes and inclinations.
We have long considered that examinations for certificates and degrees are for the most part a detriment to literary studies—that they dull the finer faculties of appreciation and magnify the importance of mere acquisition. Assuredly, when a young man finds that in order to reach his diploma or degree he must be able to discuss the Elizabethan English as found in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” and “As You Like It,” or trace the gerundial infinitive through Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales,” he will pay little heed to either the spirit of Shakespeare or Chaucer as embodied in their works.
In our great eagerness to fill our heads with facts, without any co-ordination, we lose sight amid the stress and strain of our educational work of theONE GREAT FACT: That if we would be wisely educated, we must seek it on the basis of a maximum of education with a minimum of acquirement. It is impossible to play fast and loose with the spirit of literature and not suffer for our insincerity. Literature is a jealous mistress and will brook no rival. Those who woo her must come with clean hearts and minds, setting aside all thought of mercenary returns, for, as Mrs. Browning says:
“We get no goodIn being ungenerous, even to a book,And calculating profits—so much helpBy so much reading. It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves and plungeSoul-forward, headlong into a book’s profoundImpassion’d for its beauty and salt of truth—’Tis then we get the right good from a book.”
“We get no goodIn being ungenerous, even to a book,And calculating profits—so much helpBy so much reading. It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves and plungeSoul-forward, headlong into a book’s profoundImpassion’d for its beauty and salt of truth—’Tis then we get the right good from a book.”
“We get no good
In being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits—so much help
By so much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong into a book’s profound
Impassion’d for its beauty and salt of truth—
’Tis then we get the right good from a book.”
Another fault which characterizes the literary studies of to-day is, that we grasp at too much, and not a little that we fain would compass is, as far as literary training and culture are concerned, entirely unimportant. A few great literary personages—epochal men—who have handed the intellectual torch down the centuries—these are worthy of a devoted study. We think it is Ruskin who says that he who knows the history of Rome, Venice, Florence, Paris and London has a full knowledge of medieval and modern civilization. Twenty authors are not many, still they largely cover the great masterpieces of poetic thought, both ancient and modern. Homer, Virgil and Dante, Calderon, Molière and Goethe, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth and Tennyson—these contain much of the best poetic thought in all ages, and yet we have but named little more than half of the twenty. There is a flood of ephemeral literature—chiefly novels—day by day deluging the land, which fashion and frivolity set up for literary study. How much harm these novels do, lashing with their waves the moral shores of life. God alone knows. To-day, in the minds of many, the novel has supplanted the Bible, and the ethics of George Eliot take precedence of the Sermon on the Mount. It is doubtful if either Cardinal Newman or John Ruskin ever read a line of Tolstoi, Ibsen or Kipling, and yet both hold respectable places in literature.
Passing now from the subject of literature in itself to a consideration of its interpretation, we desire to touch upon a subject of vital import: The Vocal Interpretation of Literature. The spiritual element in a poem is indefinite and cannot be formulated in terms of x and y. No examination on paper, be it ever so thorough, can satisfactorily reach it. The only full response to this spiritual element, this essential life of a poem, that can be secured by the teacher is through a vocal rendering of it. But before he is capable of doing so he must first have sympathetically assimilated theINFORMINGlife of the poem. This is why no person need hope to become a great reader without a deep and sympathetic study of literature, nor a great interpreter of literature—which means a great teacher of literature—without the vocal capabilities requisite for voicing the indefinite or spiritual element which constitutes the soul of an art product. A true literary scholar is one who grows soulward. It is not enough that he store his mind with intellectual facts, he should grow vitalized at every point of his soul in his literary studies.