Chapter 10

My son is straight and strong,Ready of lip and limb;’Twas the dream of my whole life longTo bear a son like him.He has griefs I cannot guess,He has joys I cannot know:I love him none the less—With a man it should be so.But where, where, whereIs the child so dear to me,With the silken-golden hairWho sobbed upon my knee?Elizabeth Waterhouse.

My son is straight and strong,Ready of lip and limb;’Twas the dream of my whole life longTo bear a son like him.

My son is straight and strong,

Ready of lip and limb;

’Twas the dream of my whole life long

To bear a son like him.

He has griefs I cannot guess,He has joys I cannot know:I love him none the less—With a man it should be so.

He has griefs I cannot guess,

He has joys I cannot know:

I love him none the less—

With a man it should be so.

But where, where, whereIs the child so dear to me,With the silken-golden hairWho sobbed upon my knee?

But where, where, where

Is the child so dear to me,

With the silken-golden hair

Who sobbed upon my knee?

Elizabeth Waterhouse.

For her alone the sea-breeze seemed to blow,For her in music did the white surf fall,For her alone the wheeling birds did callOver the shallows, and the sky for herWas set with white clouds far away and clear,E’en as her love, this strong and lovely one,Who held her hand, was but for her alone.Author not traced(Perseus and Andromeda).

For her alone the sea-breeze seemed to blow,

For her in music did the white surf fall,

For her alone the wheeling birds did call

Over the shallows, and the sky for her

Was set with white clouds far away and clear,

E’en as her love, this strong and lovely one,

Who held her hand, was but for her alone.

Author not traced(Perseus and Andromeda).

He cometh not a king to reign;The world’s long hope is dim;The weary centuries watch in vainThe clouds of heaven for Him.And not for sign in heaven aboveOr earth below they look,Who know with John His smile of love,With Peter His rebuke.In joy of inward peace, or senseOf sorrow over sin,He is His own best evidenceHis witness is within.The healing of His seamless dress,Is by our beds of pain;We touch Him in life’s throng and press,And we are whole again.O Lord and Master of us all!Whate’er our name or sign,We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,We test our lives by Thine....Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,What may Thy service be?—Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,But simply following Thee.We faintly hear, we dimly see,In differing phrase we pray;But, dim or clear, we own in Thee,The Light, the Truth, the Way!John Greenleaf Whittier(Our Master).

He cometh not a king to reign;The world’s long hope is dim;The weary centuries watch in vainThe clouds of heaven for Him.

He cometh not a king to reign;

The world’s long hope is dim;

The weary centuries watch in vain

The clouds of heaven for Him.

And not for sign in heaven aboveOr earth below they look,Who know with John His smile of love,With Peter His rebuke.

And not for sign in heaven above

Or earth below they look,

Who know with John His smile of love,

With Peter His rebuke.

In joy of inward peace, or senseOf sorrow over sin,He is His own best evidenceHis witness is within.

In joy of inward peace, or sense

Of sorrow over sin,

He is His own best evidence

His witness is within.

The healing of His seamless dress,Is by our beds of pain;We touch Him in life’s throng and press,And we are whole again.

The healing of His seamless dress,

Is by our beds of pain;

We touch Him in life’s throng and press,

And we are whole again.

O Lord and Master of us all!Whate’er our name or sign,We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,We test our lives by Thine....

O Lord and Master of us all!

Whate’er our name or sign,

We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,

We test our lives by Thine....

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,What may Thy service be?—Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,But simply following Thee.

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,

What may Thy service be?—

Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,

But simply following Thee.

We faintly hear, we dimly see,In differing phrase we pray;But, dim or clear, we own in Thee,The Light, the Truth, the Way!

We faintly hear, we dimly see,

In differing phrase we pray;

But, dim or clear, we own in Thee,

The Light, the Truth, the Way!

John Greenleaf Whittier(Our Master).

Many verses are omitted from this poem for want of space, and the last two are transposed in order.

’Tis weary watching wave by wave,And yet the Tide heaves onward,We climb, like Corals, grave by grave,That pave a pathway sunward;We are driven back, for our next frayA newer strength to borrow,And, where the Vanguard camps To-day,The Rear shall rest To-morrow.Gerald Massey(To-day and To-morrow).

’Tis weary watching wave by wave,And yet the Tide heaves onward,We climb, like Corals, grave by grave,That pave a pathway sunward;

’Tis weary watching wave by wave,

And yet the Tide heaves onward,

We climb, like Corals, grave by grave,

That pave a pathway sunward;

We are driven back, for our next frayA newer strength to borrow,And, where the Vanguard camps To-day,The Rear shall rest To-morrow.

We are driven back, for our next fray

A newer strength to borrow,

And, where the Vanguard camps To-day,

The Rear shall rest To-morrow.

Gerald Massey(To-day and To-morrow).

Where gods are not, spectres rule.

Where children are is a golden age.

A people, like a child, is a separate educational problem.

Novalis.

Once in an age, God sends to some of us a friend who loves in us,nota false imagining, an unreal character—but, looking through all the rubbish of our imperfections, loves in us the divine ideal of our nature—loves, not the man that we are, but the angel that we may be. Such friends seem inspired by a divine gift of prophecy—like the mother of St. Augustine, who, in the midst of the wayward, reckless youth of her son, beheld him in a vision, standing, clothed in white, a ministering priest at the right hand of God—as he has stood for long ages since. Could a mysterious foresight unveil to us this resurrection form of the friends with whom we daily walk, compassed about with mortal infirmity, we should follow them with faith and reverence through all the disguises of human faults and weaknesses, “waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God.”

Harriet Beecher Stowe(The Minister’s Wooing).

Because thou hast the power and own’st the graceTo look through and behind this mask of me,(Against which years have beat thus blanchinglyWith their rains) and behold my soul’s true face,The dim and weary witness of life’s race,—Because thou hast the faith and love to see,Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,The patient angel waiting for a placeIn the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—Nothing repels thee, ... Dearest, teach me soTo pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!E. B. Browning(Sonnets from the Portuguese).

Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace

To look through and behind this mask of me,

(Against which years have beat thus blanchingly

With their rains) and behold my soul’s true face,

The dim and weary witness of life’s race,—

Because thou hast the faith and love to see,

Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,

The patient angel waiting for a place

In the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,

Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,

Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—

Nothing repels thee, ... Dearest, teach me so

To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

E. B. Browning(Sonnets from the Portuguese).

Here two fine thoughts of Mrs. Stowe and Mrs. Browning are inspired by the vision of Monica, the saintly mother of the great St. Augustine (354-430).This is a good illustration of the need of notes. Without a reference to St. Monica’s vision, I think that readers would be repelled, rather than attracted, by Mrs. Browning’s sonnet. It does not accord with one’s sense of modesty that a lady should say to her lover, “My unattractive person and incurable illness turned other men away, but you saw that, behind all this, I was ‘a patientangelwaiting for a place in the new Heavens.’” I myself could not understand how Mrs. Browning could write and her husband could publish this poem, until Hodgson, in one of his letters to me, referred to “the use made by Mrs. Browning of St. Monica’s vision in one of her sonnets.”The sonnet is not quoted as one of the finest of the series.I have placed Mrs. Stowe’s quotation first for an obvious reason; butThe Minister’s Wooingwas published in 1859, while the sonnet appeared in 1847.

Here two fine thoughts of Mrs. Stowe and Mrs. Browning are inspired by the vision of Monica, the saintly mother of the great St. Augustine (354-430).

This is a good illustration of the need of notes. Without a reference to St. Monica’s vision, I think that readers would be repelled, rather than attracted, by Mrs. Browning’s sonnet. It does not accord with one’s sense of modesty that a lady should say to her lover, “My unattractive person and incurable illness turned other men away, but you saw that, behind all this, I was ‘a patientangelwaiting for a place in the new Heavens.’” I myself could not understand how Mrs. Browning could write and her husband could publish this poem, until Hodgson, in one of his letters to me, referred to “the use made by Mrs. Browning of St. Monica’s vision in one of her sonnets.”

The sonnet is not quoted as one of the finest of the series.

I have placed Mrs. Stowe’s quotation first for an obvious reason; butThe Minister’s Wooingwas published in 1859, while the sonnet appeared in 1847.

Death is the ocean of immortal rest; ...Where shines ’mid laughing waves a far-off isle for meWhy fear? The light wind whitens all the brine,And throws fresh foam upon the marble shores;Or it may be that strong and strenuous oarsMust force the shallop o’er the hyaline;But, welcome utter calm or bitter blast,—The voyage will be done, the island reached at last....Will it be thus when the strange sleep of DeathLifts from the brow, and lost eyes live again?Will morning dawn on the bewildered brain,To cool and heal? And shall I feel the breathOf freshening winds that travel from the sea,And meet thy loving, laughing eyes, Earine?...O virgin world! O marvellous far days!No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitterNor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitterIn happy eyes. Decay alone decays;A moment—death’s dull sleep is o’er and weDrink the immortal morning air, Earine.Mortimer Collins.

Death is the ocean of immortal rest; ...Where shines ’mid laughing waves a far-off isle for me

Death is the ocean of immortal rest; ...

Where shines ’mid laughing waves a far-off isle for me

Why fear? The light wind whitens all the brine,And throws fresh foam upon the marble shores;Or it may be that strong and strenuous oarsMust force the shallop o’er the hyaline;But, welcome utter calm or bitter blast,—The voyage will be done, the island reached at last.

Why fear? The light wind whitens all the brine,

And throws fresh foam upon the marble shores;

Or it may be that strong and strenuous oars

Must force the shallop o’er the hyaline;

But, welcome utter calm or bitter blast,—

The voyage will be done, the island reached at last.

...

Will it be thus when the strange sleep of DeathLifts from the brow, and lost eyes live again?Will morning dawn on the bewildered brain,To cool and heal? And shall I feel the breathOf freshening winds that travel from the sea,And meet thy loving, laughing eyes, Earine?

Will it be thus when the strange sleep of Death

Lifts from the brow, and lost eyes live again?

Will morning dawn on the bewildered brain,

To cool and heal? And shall I feel the breath

Of freshening winds that travel from the sea,

And meet thy loving, laughing eyes, Earine?

...

O virgin world! O marvellous far days!No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitterNor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitterIn happy eyes. Decay alone decays;A moment—death’s dull sleep is o’er and weDrink the immortal morning air, Earine.

O virgin world! O marvellous far days!

No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitter

Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter

In happy eyes. Decay alone decays;

A moment—death’s dull sleep is o’er and we

Drink the immortal morning air, Earine.

Mortimer Collins.

We live in a world, where one fool makes many fools, but one wise man only a few wise men.

Lichtenberg.

O Lady! We receive but what we give,And in our life alone does Nature live:Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!And would we aught behold, of higher worth,Than that inanimate cold world allowedTo the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,Ah, from the soul itself must issue forthA light, a glory, a fair luminous cloudEnveloping the Earth—And from the soul itself must there be sentA sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,Of all sweet sounds the life and element!S. T. Coleridge(Dejection).

O Lady! We receive but what we give,

And in our life alone does Nature live:

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!

And would we aught behold, of higher worth,

Than that inanimate cold world allowed

To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah, from the soul itself must issue forth

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth—

And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

S. T. Coleridge(Dejection).

See note to next quotation.

TELLING STORIES.

A little child He took for signTo them that sought the way Divine.And once a flower sufficed to showThe whole of that we need to know.Now here we lie, the child and I,And watch the clouds go floating by,Just telling stories turn by turn....Lord, which is teacher, which doth learn?H. D. Lowry.

A little child He took for signTo them that sought the way Divine.

A little child He took for sign

To them that sought the way Divine.

And once a flower sufficed to showThe whole of that we need to know.

And once a flower sufficed to show

The whole of that we need to know.

Now here we lie, the child and I,And watch the clouds go floating by,

Now here we lie, the child and I,

And watch the clouds go floating by,

Just telling stories turn by turn....Lord, which is teacher, which doth learn?

Just telling stories turn by turn....

Lord, which is teacher, which doth learn?

H. D. Lowry.

As Coleridge says in the last quotation, “We receive but what we give.” We bring with us the mind that sees, and the feelings and emotions with which we contemplate the universe; and, so far as use, habit, and other causes still the activity and lessen the receptivity of the mind and spirit, the world around us becomes less instinct with life and beauty.Putting aside the question whether, as Wordsworth says in his great Ode,Trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home,it will be familiar to anyone who has a sympathetic, appreciative sense that thechild’soutlook on the world around him is very different from our own. It has in him a more intense emotional reaction. He sees it with a freshness and wonder unfelt by us, because our sensibility is blunted and less vivid. And for the same reason that we trust our faculties in their prime rather than in their degeneration, so the fresh and clear emotional response of a child’s nature represents moretruthfulappreciation than our own. Our sensibility is blunted, not only by use and habit, but also by the hardening and coarsening experiences of our lives; and also again by the development of intellect, which grows largely at the expense of the emotions. We lose the transparent soul of the child, his simple faith and trusting nature. To anyone who cannotfeelthe difference between the child’s outlook and his own, this will convey no meaning—and words cannot assist him. It is as if one tried to describe love to a person who has never loved, or a religious experience to one who has never had such an experience, indeed, in both love and religious experience, there is the same child-like attitude of pure emotion; and hence Christ’s comparison of His true followers to “little children.” Poetry, music, love of nature, and the highest art produce in us at times the same indefinable feeling and give us back for evanescent periods the fresh, clear, emotional sensibility of a child.In Edward Fitzgerald’sEuphranor, at the point where Wordsworth’s ode is being discussed, the following passage is interesting:—“I have heard tell of another poet’s saying that he knew of no human outlook so solemn as that from an infant’s eyes; and how it was from those of his own he learned that those of the Divine Child in Raffaelle’s Sistine Madonna were not overcharged with expression, as he had previously thought they might be.”“Yes,” said I, “that was on the occasion, I think, of his having watched his child one morningworshipping the sunbeam on the bedpost—I suppose the worship of wonder.... If but the philosopher or poet could live in the child’s brain for a while!”(The poet referred to was Tennyson, see Memoir by his son, the baby in question, Vol. I., 357).

Putting aside the question whether, as Wordsworth says in his great Ode,

Trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home,

Trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home,

it will be familiar to anyone who has a sympathetic, appreciative sense that thechild’soutlook on the world around him is very different from our own. It has in him a more intense emotional reaction. He sees it with a freshness and wonder unfelt by us, because our sensibility is blunted and less vivid. And for the same reason that we trust our faculties in their prime rather than in their degeneration, so the fresh and clear emotional response of a child’s nature represents moretruthfulappreciation than our own. Our sensibility is blunted, not only by use and habit, but also by the hardening and coarsening experiences of our lives; and also again by the development of intellect, which grows largely at the expense of the emotions. We lose the transparent soul of the child, his simple faith and trusting nature. To anyone who cannotfeelthe difference between the child’s outlook and his own, this will convey no meaning—and words cannot assist him. It is as if one tried to describe love to a person who has never loved, or a religious experience to one who has never had such an experience, indeed, in both love and religious experience, there is the same child-like attitude of pure emotion; and hence Christ’s comparison of His true followers to “little children.” Poetry, music, love of nature, and the highest art produce in us at times the same indefinable feeling and give us back for evanescent periods the fresh, clear, emotional sensibility of a child.

In Edward Fitzgerald’sEuphranor, at the point where Wordsworth’s ode is being discussed, the following passage is interesting:—

“I have heard tell of another poet’s saying that he knew of no human outlook so solemn as that from an infant’s eyes; and how it was from those of his own he learned that those of the Divine Child in Raffaelle’s Sistine Madonna were not overcharged with expression, as he had previously thought they might be.”

“Yes,” said I, “that was on the occasion, I think, of his having watched his child one morningworshipping the sunbeam on the bedpost—I suppose the worship of wonder.... If but the philosopher or poet could live in the child’s brain for a while!”

(The poet referred to was Tennyson, see Memoir by his son, the baby in question, Vol. I., 357).

THE REVELATION

An idle poet, here and there,Looks round him; but, for all the rest,The world, unfathomably fair,Is duller than a witling’s jest.Love wakes men, once a life-time each;They lift their heavy heads and look;And, lo, what one sweet page can teachThey read with joy, then shut the book.And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,And most forget: but, either way,That, and the Child’s unheeded dream,Is all the light of all their day.Coventry Patmore(1823-1896).

An idle poet, here and there,Looks round him; but, for all the rest,The world, unfathomably fair,Is duller than a witling’s jest.

An idle poet, here and there,

Looks round him; but, for all the rest,

The world, unfathomably fair,

Is duller than a witling’s jest.

Love wakes men, once a life-time each;They lift their heavy heads and look;And, lo, what one sweet page can teachThey read with joy, then shut the book.

Love wakes men, once a life-time each;

They lift their heavy heads and look;

And, lo, what one sweet page can teach

They read with joy, then shut the book.

And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,And most forget: but, either way,That, and the Child’s unheeded dream,Is all the light of all their day.

And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,

And most forget: but, either way,

That, and the Child’s unheeded dream,

Is all the light of all their day.

Coventry Patmore(1823-1896).

The normal process of life contains moments as bad as any of those which insane melancholy is filled with. The lunatic’s visions of horror are all drawn from the material of daily fact. Our civilization is founded on the shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you arrive there yourself![21]To believe in the carnivorous reptiles of geologic times is hard for our imagination—they seem too much like mere museum specimens. Yet there is no tooth in any one of those museum-skulls that did not daily, through long years of the foretime, hold fast to the body struggling in despair of some fated living victim. Forms of horror just as dreadful to their victims, if on a smaller spatial scale, fill the world about us to-day. Here on our very hearths and in our gardens the infernal cat plays with the panting mouse, or holds the hot bird fluttering in her jaws. Crocodiles and rattlesnakes and pythons are at this moment vessels of life as real as we are; their loathsome existence fills every minute of every day that drags its length along, and whenever they or other wild beasts clutch their living prey, the deadly horror which an agitated melancholiac feels is the literally right reaction on the situation.

William James(The Varieties of Religious Experience).

Et in Arcadia ego.

(I too have been in Arcady.)

Anon.

Arcadia was a mountainous district in Greece which was taken to be the deal of pastoral simplicity and rural happiness—as in Sir Philip Sidney’sArcadiaand other literature. It was famous for its musicians and a favourite haunt of Pan.The saying is best known from the fine landscape in the Louvre by N. Poussin (1594-1665). In part of the landscape is a tomb on which these words are written, and some young people are seen reading them. I learn, however, fromKing’s Classical and Foreign Quotationsthat the words had been previously written on a picture by Bart. Schidone (1570-1615), where two young shepherds are looking at a skull.The meaning intended was thatdeathcame even to the joyous shepherds of Arcady. But the quotation is now used in a more general sense. “I too had my golden days of youth and love and happiness.”

The saying is best known from the fine landscape in the Louvre by N. Poussin (1594-1665). In part of the landscape is a tomb on which these words are written, and some young people are seen reading them. I learn, however, fromKing’s Classical and Foreign Quotationsthat the words had been previously written on a picture by Bart. Schidone (1570-1615), where two young shepherds are looking at a skull.

The meaning intended was thatdeathcame even to the joyous shepherds of Arcady. But the quotation is now used in a more general sense. “I too had my golden days of youth and love and happiness.”

It often happens that those are the best people, whose characters have been most injured by slanderers; as we usually find that to be the sweetest fruit which the birds have been pecking at.

Alexander Pope.

There are many flowers of heavenly origin in this world; they do not flourish in this climate but are properly heralds, clear-voiced messengers of a better existence: Religion is one; Love is another.

Novalis.

ON DYING

I always made an awkward bow.Keats.

I always made an awkward bow.

Keats.

On n’a pas d’antécédent pour cela. Il faut improviser—c’est donc si difficile. (Death admits of no rehearsal.)

Amiel.

C’est le maître jour; c’est le jour juge de tous les autres. (It is the master-day; the day that judges all the others.)

Montaigne.

Will she return, my lady? Nay:Love’s feet, that once have learned to stray,Turn never to the olden way.Ah, heart of mine, where lingers she?By what live stream or saddened sea?What wild-flowered swath of sungilt leaDo her feet press, and are her daysSweet with new stress of love and praise,Or sad with echoes of old lays?John Payne(Light o’ Love).

Will she return, my lady? Nay:Love’s feet, that once have learned to stray,Turn never to the olden way.

Will she return, my lady? Nay:

Love’s feet, that once have learned to stray,

Turn never to the olden way.

Ah, heart of mine, where lingers she?By what live stream or saddened sea?What wild-flowered swath of sungilt lea

Ah, heart of mine, where lingers she?

By what live stream or saddened sea?

What wild-flowered swath of sungilt lea

Do her feet press, and are her daysSweet with new stress of love and praise,Or sad with echoes of old lays?

Do her feet press, and are her days

Sweet with new stress of love and praise,

Or sad with echoes of old lays?

John Payne(Light o’ Love).

I search but cannot seeWhat purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it triesConclusions with, unless the fruit of victoriesStay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its ownFor ever, by some mode whereby shall be made knownThe gain of every life....I say, I cannot think that gains—which will not beExcept a special soul had gained them—that such gainCan ever be estranged, do aught but appertainImmortally, by right firm, indefeasible,To who performed the feat, through God’s grace and man’s will.R. Browning(Fifine at the Fair).

I search but cannot see

What purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it tries

Conclusions with, unless the fruit of victories

Stay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its own

For ever, by some mode whereby shall be made known

The gain of every life.

...

I say, I cannot think that gains—which will not be

Except a special soul had gained them—that such gain

Can ever be estranged, do aught but appertain

Immortally, by right firm, indefeasible,

To who performed the feat, through God’s grace and man’s will.

R. Browning(Fifine at the Fair).

Nature, they say, doth doteAnd cannot make a manSave on some worn-out planRepeating us by rote.J. R. Lowell(Ode at Harvard Commemoration).

Nature, they say, doth doteAnd cannot make a manSave on some worn-out planRepeating us by rote.

Nature, they say, doth dote

And cannot make a man

Save on some worn-out plan

Repeating us by rote.

J. R. Lowell(Ode at Harvard Commemoration).

Die when I may, I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower, where I thought a flower would grow.

Abraham Lincoln.

Why describe our life-history as a state of waking rather than of sleep? Why assume that sleep is the acquired, vigilance the normal condition? It would not be hard to defend the opposite thesis. The newborn infant might urge with cogency that his habitual state of slumber was primary, as regards the individual, ancestral as regards the race; resembling at least, far more closely than does our adult life, a primitive or protozoic habit. “Mine,” he might say, “is a centrally stable state. It would need only some change in external conditions (as the permanent immersion in a nutritive fluid) to be safely and indefinitely maintained. Your waking state, on the other hand, is centrally unstable. While you talk and bustle around me you are living on your physiological capital, and the mere prolongation of vigilance is torture and death.”

A paradox such as this forms no part of my argument; but it may remind us that physiology at any rate hardly warrants us in speaking of our waking state as if that alone represented our true selves, and every deviation from it must be at best a mere interruption. Vigilance in reality is but one of two co-ordinate phases of our personality, which we have acquired or differentiated from each other during the stages of our long evolution.

F. W. H. Myers(Multiplex Personality).

This is from an article inThe Nineteenth Centuryfor November, 1886, in which Myers urged the study of the trance-personalities that exhibit themselves under hypnotism. In hisHuman Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Deathhis views on sleep may be very briefly summarized as follows: In the low forms of animal life there is an undifferentiated state, neither sleep nor waking, and this is also seen in our prenatal and earliest infantile life. In life generally the waking time can exist only for brief periods continuously. We cannot continue life without resort to the fuller vitality which sleep brings to us. Again, from the original undifferentiated state, our waking life has been developed by practical needs; the faculties required for our earthly life then become intensified, but by natural selection other faculties and sensations (including those which connect us with the spiritual world) are dropped out of our consciousness. The state of sleep cannot be regarded as the mereabsence of waking faculties. In this state we have some faint glimmer of the other faculties and sensations in various forms—dreams, somnambulism, etc. Myers then develops the theory that the relations of hysteria andgeniusto ordinary life correspond to those of somnambulism and hypnotic trance to sleep; and he arrives at the question of self-suggestion and hypnotism generally.Thus in sleep there are,first, certain physiological changes (including a greater control of the physical organism, as seen in the muscular powers of somnambulists); no length of time spent lying down awake in darkness and silence will give the recuperative effect that even a few moments of sleep will give. But also,secondly, we find existing in sleep the other faculties withdrawn from use in ordinary waking life. Thus during sleep we find memory revived, problems unexpectedly solved, poems like “Kubla Khan” composed, and many intense sensations and emotions experienced. Beyond these powers again Myers finds in sleep still higher powers which seem to connect us with the spiritual world. Hence the advisability of studying the phenomena of sleep and investigating itexperimentallyby employing hypnotism.William James adopted much the same view as Myers (see, for example,The Varieties of Religious Experience). But much has been written of late about sub-consciousness and about dreams; and the tendency is rather to follow Martineau’s view of mental development—that the lower nervous centres are unconscious “habits” deposited from the old intelligence (see p. 304). Thus, for instance, memories of the past would be recorded in the sub-conscious, but there is nothing to be found thereof a higher characterthan in the conscious self. In sleep, the waking control being removed, our dreams reveal impulses and desires that have been inhibited or kept under in waking life, but do not reveal anything of thehigherindicated by Myers. However, although it is too large a subject to discuss here, there is a vast deal yet to be explained, as, for example, inspiration, and what we used to call “unconscious cerebration,” and the amazing results of hypnotism and suggestion. Also who or what is it thatcomposesthe dream-story, or who or whatmakes usact or dream the story?

Thus in sleep there are,first, certain physiological changes (including a greater control of the physical organism, as seen in the muscular powers of somnambulists); no length of time spent lying down awake in darkness and silence will give the recuperative effect that even a few moments of sleep will give. But also,secondly, we find existing in sleep the other faculties withdrawn from use in ordinary waking life. Thus during sleep we find memory revived, problems unexpectedly solved, poems like “Kubla Khan” composed, and many intense sensations and emotions experienced. Beyond these powers again Myers finds in sleep still higher powers which seem to connect us with the spiritual world. Hence the advisability of studying the phenomena of sleep and investigating itexperimentallyby employing hypnotism.

William James adopted much the same view as Myers (see, for example,The Varieties of Religious Experience). But much has been written of late about sub-consciousness and about dreams; and the tendency is rather to follow Martineau’s view of mental development—that the lower nervous centres are unconscious “habits” deposited from the old intelligence (see p. 304). Thus, for instance, memories of the past would be recorded in the sub-conscious, but there is nothing to be found thereof a higher characterthan in the conscious self. In sleep, the waking control being removed, our dreams reveal impulses and desires that have been inhibited or kept under in waking life, but do not reveal anything of thehigherindicated by Myers. However, although it is too large a subject to discuss here, there is a vast deal yet to be explained, as, for example, inspiration, and what we used to call “unconscious cerebration,” and the amazing results of hypnotism and suggestion. Also who or what is it thatcomposesthe dream-story, or who or whatmakes usact or dream the story?

Without good nature man is but a better kind of vermin.

Extreme self-lovers will set a man’s house on fire, though it were but to roast their eggs.

Bacon.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face,Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace,Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to hear, and scorns to wish it past.Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.A. H. Clough(Songs in Absence)

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face,Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace,Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.

On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face,

Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace,

Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch below

The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to hear, and scorns to wish it past.

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,

How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast

Exults to hear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

A. H. Clough(Songs in Absence)

The Ship is the ship of life. The first line is taken from Wordsworth’s sonnet, “Where lies the land to which yon Ship must go.”

The brooding East with awe beheldHer impious younger world.The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d,And on her head was hurled.The East bowed low before the blastIn patient, deep disdain;She let the legions thunder past,And plunged in thought again.M. Arnold(Obermann Once More)

The brooding East with awe beheldHer impious younger world.The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d,And on her head was hurled.

The brooding East with awe beheld

Her impious younger world.

The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d,

And on her head was hurled.

The East bowed low before the blastIn patient, deep disdain;She let the legions thunder past,And plunged in thought again.

The East bowed low before the blast

In patient, deep disdain;

She let the legions thunder past,

And plunged in thought again.

M. Arnold(Obermann Once More)

Learn to win a lady’s faithNobly as the thing is high,Bravely as for life and death,With a loyal gravity.E. B. Browning(The Lady’s Yes).

Learn to win a lady’s faithNobly as the thing is high,Bravely as for life and death,With a loyal gravity.

Learn to win a lady’s faith

Nobly as the thing is high,

Bravely as for life and death,

With a loyal gravity.

E. B. Browning(The Lady’s Yes).

THE CORAL REEF

In my dreams I dreamtOf a coral reef—Far away, far, far away,Where seas were lulled and calm,A place of silver sand.Truly a lovely land,Truly a lovely dream,Truly a peaceful scene—When, like a flash, through all the seaThere shone a gleam.Rising like Venus from her wat’ry bedRose a young mermaid with her hair unkempt,Beautiful hair! light as a golden leaf,Shining like Phoebus at the break of day.And she tossed and shook her lovely head,Shook off drops more precious, far, than pearls.To a coral rock she slowly went,Slowly floated like a graceful swan;Combed her hair that hung in yellow curlsTill the evening shadows ’gan to fall;Then she gave one look round, that was all,Rose—and then, her figure curved, arms bentAbove her head—a flash! and she was gone;And ripples in wide circles rise and fall,Spreading and spreading still, where she has been.Betty Bray, January 1918. Aged 11.

In my dreams I dreamt

Of a coral reef—

Far away, far, far away,

Where seas were lulled and calm,

A place of silver sand.

Truly a lovely land,

Truly a lovely dream,

Truly a peaceful scene—

When, like a flash, through all the sea

There shone a gleam.

Rising like Venus from her wat’ry bed

Rose a young mermaid with her hair unkempt,

Beautiful hair! light as a golden leaf,

Shining like Phoebus at the break of day.

And she tossed and shook her lovely head,

Shook off drops more precious, far, than pearls.

To a coral rock she slowly went,

Slowly floated like a graceful swan;

Combed her hair that hung in yellow curls

Till the evening shadows ’gan to fall;

Then she gave one look round, that was all,

Rose—and then, her figure curved, arms bent

Above her head—a flash! and she was gone;

And ripples in wide circles rise and fall,

Spreading and spreading still, where she has been.

Betty Bray, January 1918. Aged 11.

See Note on page 155.

BENEATH MY WINDOW

Beneath my window, roses red and whiteNod like a host of flitting butterflies;But, faded by the day, one ev’ry nightShakes its soft petals to the ground, and dies.And that is why I see, when night doth pass,Tears in her sisters’ eyes, and on the grass.Betty Bray, 1920. Aged 13.

Beneath my window, roses red and white

Nod like a host of flitting butterflies;

But, faded by the day, one ev’ry night

Shakes its soft petals to the ground, and dies.

And that is why I see, when night doth pass,

Tears in her sisters’ eyes, and on the grass.

Betty Bray, 1920. Aged 13.

MUSIC

Three wondrous things there are upon the earth,Three gentle spirits, that I love full well,Three glorious voices, which by far excelEven the silver-throated Philomel.For not in sound alone lies music’s worth,But rather in the feeling that it brings,Whether of joy, or peace, or dreaminess.And when I hear the rain soft, softly beat,Singing with low, sweet voice, and musical,I think of all the tears that ever fellIn perfect happiness, or deep distress,And so it brings a pang, half sad, half sweet,Into my heart.Then, when the sparkling rillDances between the sunny banks, and singsFor very joy, all dimpling with delight,O all the happy laughter ’neath the skyRings sweet and clear, and makes the world more bright.And, when the sun has sunk beneath the seaAnd vanished from the glory of the west,Leaving the peaceful eve to melt to night,—O then it is the loveliest voice of all,The gentle night-wind softly sings to me,Tender and low, as sweetest lullabyAs ever hushed a weary head to rest:On, on it sings, until from drowsinessMy tired eyes softly close, and all is still.Betty Bray, 1920 Aged 13.

Three wondrous things there are upon the earth,Three gentle spirits, that I love full well,Three glorious voices, which by far excelEven the silver-throated Philomel.

Three wondrous things there are upon the earth,

Three gentle spirits, that I love full well,

Three glorious voices, which by far excel

Even the silver-throated Philomel.

For not in sound alone lies music’s worth,But rather in the feeling that it brings,Whether of joy, or peace, or dreaminess.

For not in sound alone lies music’s worth,

But rather in the feeling that it brings,

Whether of joy, or peace, or dreaminess.

And when I hear the rain soft, softly beat,Singing with low, sweet voice, and musical,I think of all the tears that ever fellIn perfect happiness, or deep distress,And so it brings a pang, half sad, half sweet,Into my heart.

And when I hear the rain soft, softly beat,

Singing with low, sweet voice, and musical,

I think of all the tears that ever fell

In perfect happiness, or deep distress,

And so it brings a pang, half sad, half sweet,

Into my heart.

Then, when the sparkling rillDances between the sunny banks, and singsFor very joy, all dimpling with delight,O all the happy laughter ’neath the skyRings sweet and clear, and makes the world more bright.

Then, when the sparkling rill

Dances between the sunny banks, and sings

For very joy, all dimpling with delight,

O all the happy laughter ’neath the sky

Rings sweet and clear, and makes the world more bright.

And, when the sun has sunk beneath the seaAnd vanished from the glory of the west,Leaving the peaceful eve to melt to night,—O then it is the loveliest voice of all,The gentle night-wind softly sings to me,Tender and low, as sweetest lullabyAs ever hushed a weary head to rest:On, on it sings, until from drowsinessMy tired eyes softly close, and all is still.

And, when the sun has sunk beneath the sea

And vanished from the glory of the west,

Leaving the peaceful eve to melt to night,—

O then it is the loveliest voice of all,

The gentle night-wind softly sings to me,

Tender and low, as sweetest lullaby

As ever hushed a weary head to rest:

On, on it sings, until from drowsiness

My tired eyes softly close, and all is still.

Betty Bray, 1920 Aged 13.

See Note on page 155.

THE MARTYR

When night fell softly on the silent city,A little white moth thro’ my window cameOut of the darkness and the shadows dim,Seeking the brightness of my candle’s flame.Around and round the lighted wick he flew,Winging his wonderful and curious flight;And near, and still more near, the circles grew....And then—the flame no more was bright for him.Then all my heart went out in sudden pityTo that small martyr, who had sought for light,And found—his death. O he was fair to die.I rose and snuffed the candle with a sigh.Betty Bray, September 26, 1920. Aged 14 years.

When night fell softly on the silent city,

A little white moth thro’ my window came

Out of the darkness and the shadows dim,

Seeking the brightness of my candle’s flame.

Around and round the lighted wick he flew,

Winging his wonderful and curious flight;

And near, and still more near, the circles grew....

And then—the flame no more was bright for him.

Then all my heart went out in sudden pity

To that small martyr, who had sought for light,

And found—his death. O he was fair to die.

I rose and snuffed the candle with a sigh.

Betty Bray, September 26, 1920. Aged 14 years.

These fresh, clear, spontaneous verses have a special value. They bring us a promise of Spring—the message that we may still hope for a revival of English Poetry.Therefore, I have included them (in this third edition) although they are outside the general scope of my book.Miss Betty Bray has been writing since she was seven years of age. She writes with great facility and has already filled two manuscript books. Her verses are entirely her own, no defects being pointed out or other assistance or guidance given her.She was born on June 11th, 1906. She is the daughter of Mr. Denys de Saumarez Bray, C.S.I., and the grand-niece of my late partner the Hon. Sir John Bray, K.C.M.G., who was Premier of South Australia. Her grandfather was born in Adelaide.

These fresh, clear, spontaneous verses have a special value. They bring us a promise of Spring—the message that we may still hope for a revival of English Poetry.

Therefore, I have included them (in this third edition) although they are outside the general scope of my book.

Miss Betty Bray has been writing since she was seven years of age. She writes with great facility and has already filled two manuscript books. Her verses are entirely her own, no defects being pointed out or other assistance or guidance given her.

She was born on June 11th, 1906. She is the daughter of Mr. Denys de Saumarez Bray, C.S.I., and the grand-niece of my late partner the Hon. Sir John Bray, K.C.M.G., who was Premier of South Australia. Her grandfather was born in Adelaide.

Thus with the yearSeasons return; but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud instead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me, from the cheerful ways of menCut off, and for the book of knowledge fairPresented with a universal blankOf nature’s works to me expung’d and ras’d,And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.Milton(Paradise Lost).

Thus with the year

Seasons return; but not to me returns

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men

Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair

Presented with a universal blank

Of nature’s works to me expung’d and ras’d,

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

Milton(Paradise Lost).

Milton refers to his blindness in this and other passages—as in the well known sonnet.

THE ATTAINMENT

You love? That’s high as you shall go;For ’tis as true as Gospel text,Not noble then is never so,Either in this world or the next.Coventry Patmore(The Angel in the House).

You love? That’s high as you shall go;For ’tis as true as Gospel text,Not noble then is never so,Either in this world or the next.

You love? That’s high as you shall go;

For ’tis as true as Gospel text,

Not noble then is never so,

Either in this world or the next.

Coventry Patmore(The Angel in the House).

For one fair Vision ever fledDown the waste waters day and night,And still we follow where she led,In hope to gain upon her flight.Her face was evermore unseen,And fixt upon the far sea-line;But each man murmured, “O my Queen,I follow till I make thee mine!”And now we lost her, now she gleamedLike Fancy made of golden air.Now nearer to the prow she seemedLike Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair,Now high on waves that idly burstLike Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea,And now, the bloodless point reversed,She bore the blade of Liberty.Tennyson(The Voyage).

For one fair Vision ever fled

Down the waste waters day and night,

And still we follow where she led,

In hope to gain upon her flight.

Her face was evermore unseen,

And fixt upon the far sea-line;

But each man murmured, “O my Queen,

I follow till I make thee mine!”

And now we lost her, now she gleamedLike Fancy made of golden air.Now nearer to the prow she seemedLike Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair,Now high on waves that idly burstLike Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea,And now, the bloodless point reversed,She bore the blade of Liberty.

And now we lost her, now she gleamed

Like Fancy made of golden air.

Now nearer to the prow she seemed

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair,

Now high on waves that idly burst

Like Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea,

And now, the bloodless point reversed,

She bore the blade of Liberty.

Tennyson(The Voyage).

King Stephen was a worthy peere,His breeches cost him but a crowne;He held them sixpence all too deareTherefore he called the taylor lowne,rascalHe was a wight of high renowneAnd thouse but of a low degree,thou artIt’s pride that putts the countrye downe,Man, take thine old cloake about thee.Percy’sReliques.

King Stephen was a worthy peere,

His breeches cost him but a crowne;

He held them sixpence all too deare

Therefore he called the taylor lowne,rascal

He was a wight of high renowne

And thouse but of a low degree,thou art

It’s pride that putts the countrye downe,

Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

Percy’sReliques.

The poor man wants a new cloak, but his wife objects.The verse is sung by Iago (Othello, Act II., Sc. 3), the words being a little different.

The poor man wants a new cloak, but his wife objects.

The verse is sung by Iago (Othello, Act II., Sc. 3), the words being a little different.

LOVE’S LAST MESSAGES

Merry, merry little stream,Tell me, hast thou seen my dear?I left him with an azure dream,Calmly sleeping on his bier—But he has fled!“I passed him in his churchyard bed—A yew is sighing o’er his head,And grass-roots mingle with his hair.”What doth he there?O cruel, can he lie alone?Or in the arms of one more dear?Or hides he in that bower of stone,To cause, and kiss away my fear?“He doth not speak, he doth not moan—Blind, motionless, he lies alone;But, ere the grave-snake fleshed his sting,This one warm tear he bade me bringAnd lay it at thy feetAmong the daisies sweet.”Moonlight whisperer, summer air,Songster of the groves above,Tell the maiden rose I wearWhether thou hast seen my love.“This night in heaven I saw him lie,Discontented with his bliss;And on my lips he left this kiss,For thee to taste and then to die.”T. L. Beddoes(1803-1849).

Merry, merry little stream,Tell me, hast thou seen my dear?I left him with an azure dream,Calmly sleeping on his bier—But he has fled!

Merry, merry little stream,

Tell me, hast thou seen my dear?

I left him with an azure dream,

Calmly sleeping on his bier—

But he has fled!

“I passed him in his churchyard bed—A yew is sighing o’er his head,And grass-roots mingle with his hair.”

“I passed him in his churchyard bed—

A yew is sighing o’er his head,

And grass-roots mingle with his hair.”

What doth he there?O cruel, can he lie alone?Or in the arms of one more dear?Or hides he in that bower of stone,To cause, and kiss away my fear?

What doth he there?

O cruel, can he lie alone?

Or in the arms of one more dear?

Or hides he in that bower of stone,

To cause, and kiss away my fear?

“He doth not speak, he doth not moan—Blind, motionless, he lies alone;But, ere the grave-snake fleshed his sting,This one warm tear he bade me bringAnd lay it at thy feetAmong the daisies sweet.”

“He doth not speak, he doth not moan—

Blind, motionless, he lies alone;

But, ere the grave-snake fleshed his sting,

This one warm tear he bade me bring

And lay it at thy feet

Among the daisies sweet.”

Moonlight whisperer, summer air,Songster of the groves above,Tell the maiden rose I wearWhether thou hast seen my love.

Moonlight whisperer, summer air,

Songster of the groves above,

Tell the maiden rose I wear

Whether thou hast seen my love.

“This night in heaven I saw him lie,Discontented with his bliss;And on my lips he left this kiss,For thee to taste and then to die.”

“This night in heaven I saw him lie,

Discontented with his bliss;

And on my lips he left this kiss,

For thee to taste and then to die.”

T. L. Beddoes(1803-1849).

Beddoes intended to destroy this poem, but it was published without his knowledge. This is one of the cases where artists have shown themselves incapable critics of their own work.

O Earth so full of dreary noises!O men with wailing in your voices!O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!O strife, O curse that o’er it fall!God strikes a silence through you allAnd giveth His beloved sleep.E. B. Browning(The Sleep).

O Earth so full of dreary noises!

O men with wailing in your voices!

O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!

O strife, O curse that o’er it fall!

God strikes a silence through you all

And giveth His beloved sleep.

E. B. Browning(The Sleep).

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