Chapter 12

The gallop of life was once exciting,Madly we dashed over pleasant plains,And the joy, like the joy of a brave man fighting,Poured in a flood through our eager veins,Hot youth is the time for the splendid ardour,That stamps and startles, that throbs and thrillsAnd ever we pressed our horses harder,Galloping on at the pace that kills!So rapid the pace, so keen the pleasure,Scarcely we paused to glance aside,As we mocked the dullards, who watched at leisureThe frantic race that we chose to ride.Yes, youth is the time when a master-passion,Or love or ambition, our nature fills;And each of us rode in a different fashion—All of us rode at the pace that kills!And vainly, O friends, ye strive to bind us;Flippantly, gaily, we answer you:—“Shouldatra cura[25]jump up behind us,Strong are our steeds and can carry two!”But we find the road, so smooth at morning,Rugged at night ’mid the lonely hills;And all too late we recall the warningWeary at last of the pace that kills....The gallop of life was just beginning;Strength we wasted in efforts vain;And now, when the prizes are worth the winning,We’ve scarcely the spirit to ride again!The spirit, forsooth! ’Tis our strength has failed us,And sadly we ask, as we count our ills,“What pitiful, pestilent folly ailed us?Whydid we ride at the pace that kills?”W. J. Prowse.

The gallop of life was once exciting,

Madly we dashed over pleasant plains,

And the joy, like the joy of a brave man fighting,

Poured in a flood through our eager veins,

Hot youth is the time for the splendid ardour,

That stamps and startles, that throbs and thrills

And ever we pressed our horses harder,

Galloping on at the pace that kills!

So rapid the pace, so keen the pleasure,Scarcely we paused to glance aside,As we mocked the dullards, who watched at leisureThe frantic race that we chose to ride.Yes, youth is the time when a master-passion,Or love or ambition, our nature fills;And each of us rode in a different fashion—All of us rode at the pace that kills!

So rapid the pace, so keen the pleasure,

Scarcely we paused to glance aside,

As we mocked the dullards, who watched at leisure

The frantic race that we chose to ride.

Yes, youth is the time when a master-passion,

Or love or ambition, our nature fills;

And each of us rode in a different fashion—

All of us rode at the pace that kills!

And vainly, O friends, ye strive to bind us;Flippantly, gaily, we answer you:—“Shouldatra cura[25]jump up behind us,Strong are our steeds and can carry two!”But we find the road, so smooth at morning,Rugged at night ’mid the lonely hills;And all too late we recall the warningWeary at last of the pace that kills....

And vainly, O friends, ye strive to bind us;

Flippantly, gaily, we answer you:—

“Shouldatra cura[25]jump up behind us,

Strong are our steeds and can carry two!”

But we find the road, so smooth at morning,

Rugged at night ’mid the lonely hills;

And all too late we recall the warning

Weary at last of the pace that kills....

The gallop of life was just beginning;Strength we wasted in efforts vain;And now, when the prizes are worth the winning,We’ve scarcely the spirit to ride again!The spirit, forsooth! ’Tis our strength has failed us,And sadly we ask, as we count our ills,“What pitiful, pestilent folly ailed us?Whydid we ride at the pace that kills?”

The gallop of life was just beginning;

Strength we wasted in efforts vain;

And now, when the prizes are worth the winning,

We’ve scarcely the spirit to ride again!

The spirit, forsooth! ’Tis our strength has failed us,

And sadly we ask, as we count our ills,

“What pitiful, pestilent folly ailed us?

Whydid we ride at the pace that kills?”

W. J. Prowse.

Cato said ‘he had rather people should inquire why he had not a statue erected to his memory, than why he had.’

Plutarch(Political Precepts).

CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL.

I stood one shining morning, whereThe last pines stand on Montanvert,Gazing on giant spires that growFrom the great frozen gulfs below.How sheer they soared, how piercing roseAbove the mists, beyond the snows!No thinnest veil of vapour hidEach sharp and airy pyramid.No breeze moaned there, nor cooing bird,Deep down the torrent raved, unheard,Only the cow-bells’ clang, subdued,Shook in the fields below the wood.The vision vast, the lone large sky,The kingly charm of mountains high,The boundless silence, woke in meAbstraction, reverence, reverie.Days dawned that felt as wide awayAs the far peaks of silvery grey,Life’s lost ideal, love’s last painIn those full moments throbbed again.And a much differing scene was bornIn my mind’s eye on that blue morn;No splintered snowy summits thereShot arrowy heights in crystal air:But a calm sunset slanted stillO’er hoary crag and heath-flushed hill,And at their foot, by birchen brakeDimpled and smiled an English lake.I roamed where I had roamed beforeWith heart elate in years of yore,Through the green glens by Rotha side,Which Arnold loved, where Wordsworth died.That flower of heaven, eve’s tender star,Trembled with light above Nab Scar;And from his towering throne aloftFairfield poured purple shadows soft.The tapers twinkled through the treesFrom Rydal’s bower-bound cottages,And gentle was the river’s flow,Like love’s own quivering whisper low.One held my arm will walk no moreOn Loughrigg steeps by Rydall shore,And a sweet voice was speaking clear—Earth had no other sound so dear.Her words were, as we passed along,Of noble sons of truth and song—Of Arnold brave, and Wordsworth pure.And how their influences endure.“They have not left us—are not dead”(The earnest voice beside me said,)“For teacher strong and poet sageAre deeply working in the age.“For aught we know they now may broodO’er this enchanted solitude,With thought and feeling more intenseThan we in the blind life of sense.”...Those tones are hushed, that light is cold,And we (but not the world) grow old;The joy, “the bloom of young desire,”The zest, the force, the strenuous fire,Enthusiasms bright, sublime,That heaven-like made that early time:—These all are gone: must faith go too?Is truth too lovely to be true?In nature dwells no kindling soul?Moves no vast life throughout the whole?Are not thought, knowledge, love’s sweet might,Shadows of substance infinite?Shall rippling river, bow of rain,Blue mountains, and the bluer main.Red dawn, gold sundown, pearly starBe fair,nor something fairer far?That awful hope, so deep, that swellsAt the keen clash of Easter bellsIsita waning moon, that diesAs morn-like lights of science rise?By all that yearns in art and song,By the vague dreams that make men strong,By memory’s penance, by the glowOf lifted mood poetic,—No!No! by the stately forms that standLike angels in yon snowy land;No! by the stars that, pure and pale,Look down each night on Rydal-vale.J. Truman.

I stood one shining morning, whereThe last pines stand on Montanvert,Gazing on giant spires that growFrom the great frozen gulfs below.

I stood one shining morning, where

The last pines stand on Montanvert,

Gazing on giant spires that grow

From the great frozen gulfs below.

How sheer they soared, how piercing roseAbove the mists, beyond the snows!No thinnest veil of vapour hidEach sharp and airy pyramid.

How sheer they soared, how piercing rose

Above the mists, beyond the snows!

No thinnest veil of vapour hid

Each sharp and airy pyramid.

No breeze moaned there, nor cooing bird,Deep down the torrent raved, unheard,Only the cow-bells’ clang, subdued,Shook in the fields below the wood.

No breeze moaned there, nor cooing bird,

Deep down the torrent raved, unheard,

Only the cow-bells’ clang, subdued,

Shook in the fields below the wood.

The vision vast, the lone large sky,The kingly charm of mountains high,The boundless silence, woke in meAbstraction, reverence, reverie.

The vision vast, the lone large sky,

The kingly charm of mountains high,

The boundless silence, woke in me

Abstraction, reverence, reverie.

Days dawned that felt as wide awayAs the far peaks of silvery grey,Life’s lost ideal, love’s last painIn those full moments throbbed again.

Days dawned that felt as wide away

As the far peaks of silvery grey,

Life’s lost ideal, love’s last pain

In those full moments throbbed again.

And a much differing scene was bornIn my mind’s eye on that blue morn;No splintered snowy summits thereShot arrowy heights in crystal air:

And a much differing scene was born

In my mind’s eye on that blue morn;

No splintered snowy summits there

Shot arrowy heights in crystal air:

But a calm sunset slanted stillO’er hoary crag and heath-flushed hill,And at their foot, by birchen brakeDimpled and smiled an English lake.

But a calm sunset slanted still

O’er hoary crag and heath-flushed hill,

And at their foot, by birchen brake

Dimpled and smiled an English lake.

I roamed where I had roamed beforeWith heart elate in years of yore,Through the green glens by Rotha side,Which Arnold loved, where Wordsworth died.

I roamed where I had roamed before

With heart elate in years of yore,

Through the green glens by Rotha side,

Which Arnold loved, where Wordsworth died.

That flower of heaven, eve’s tender star,Trembled with light above Nab Scar;And from his towering throne aloftFairfield poured purple shadows soft.

That flower of heaven, eve’s tender star,

Trembled with light above Nab Scar;

And from his towering throne aloft

Fairfield poured purple shadows soft.

The tapers twinkled through the treesFrom Rydal’s bower-bound cottages,And gentle was the river’s flow,Like love’s own quivering whisper low.

The tapers twinkled through the trees

From Rydal’s bower-bound cottages,

And gentle was the river’s flow,

Like love’s own quivering whisper low.

One held my arm will walk no moreOn Loughrigg steeps by Rydall shore,And a sweet voice was speaking clear—Earth had no other sound so dear.

One held my arm will walk no more

On Loughrigg steeps by Rydall shore,

And a sweet voice was speaking clear—

Earth had no other sound so dear.

Her words were, as we passed along,Of noble sons of truth and song—Of Arnold brave, and Wordsworth pure.And how their influences endure.

Her words were, as we passed along,

Of noble sons of truth and song—

Of Arnold brave, and Wordsworth pure.

And how their influences endure.

“They have not left us—are not dead”(The earnest voice beside me said,)“For teacher strong and poet sageAre deeply working in the age.

“They have not left us—are not dead”

(The earnest voice beside me said,)

“For teacher strong and poet sage

Are deeply working in the age.

“For aught we know they now may broodO’er this enchanted solitude,With thought and feeling more intenseThan we in the blind life of sense.”...

“For aught we know they now may brood

O’er this enchanted solitude,

With thought and feeling more intense

Than we in the blind life of sense.”...

Those tones are hushed, that light is cold,And we (but not the world) grow old;The joy, “the bloom of young desire,”The zest, the force, the strenuous fire,

Those tones are hushed, that light is cold,

And we (but not the world) grow old;

The joy, “the bloom of young desire,”

The zest, the force, the strenuous fire,

Enthusiasms bright, sublime,That heaven-like made that early time:—These all are gone: must faith go too?Is truth too lovely to be true?

Enthusiasms bright, sublime,

That heaven-like made that early time:—

These all are gone: must faith go too?

Is truth too lovely to be true?

In nature dwells no kindling soul?Moves no vast life throughout the whole?Are not thought, knowledge, love’s sweet might,Shadows of substance infinite?

In nature dwells no kindling soul?

Moves no vast life throughout the whole?

Are not thought, knowledge, love’s sweet might,

Shadows of substance infinite?

Shall rippling river, bow of rain,Blue mountains, and the bluer main.Red dawn, gold sundown, pearly starBe fair,nor something fairer far?

Shall rippling river, bow of rain,

Blue mountains, and the bluer main.

Red dawn, gold sundown, pearly star

Be fair,nor something fairer far?

That awful hope, so deep, that swellsAt the keen clash of Easter bellsIsita waning moon, that diesAs morn-like lights of science rise?

That awful hope, so deep, that swells

At the keen clash of Easter bells

Isita waning moon, that dies

As morn-like lights of science rise?

By all that yearns in art and song,By the vague dreams that make men strong,By memory’s penance, by the glowOf lifted mood poetic,—No!

By all that yearns in art and song,

By the vague dreams that make men strong,

By memory’s penance, by the glow

Of lifted mood poetic,—No!

No! by the stately forms that standLike angels in yon snowy land;No! by the stars that, pure and pale,Look down each night on Rydal-vale.

No! by the stately forms that stand

Like angels in yon snowy land;

No! by the stars that, pure and pale,

Look down each night on Rydal-vale.

J. Truman.

Wordsworth lived at Rydal Mount. These verses were published inMacmillan’s, 1879.“Nor something fairer far.” In Sir F. Younghusband’sKashmir(1911) there is another suggestion, supplementary to this: “There came upon me this thought, which doubtless has occurred to many another besides myself—why the scene should so influence me and yet make no impression on the men about me. Here were men with far keener eyesight than my own, and around me were animals with eyesight keener still.... Clearly it is not the eye, but the soul that sees. But then comes the still further reflection: what may there not be staringmestraight in the face which I am as blind to as the Kashmir stags are to the beauties amidst which they spend their entire lives? The whole panorama may be vibrating with beauties man has not yet the soul to see. Some already living, no doubt, see beauties that we ordinary men cannot appreciate. It is only a century ago that mountains were looked upon as hideous. And in the long centuries to come may we not develop a soul for beauties unthought of now? Undoubtedly we must. And often in reverie on the mountains I have tried to imagine what still further loveliness they may yet possess for men.”

Wordsworth lived at Rydal Mount. These verses were published inMacmillan’s, 1879.

“Nor something fairer far.” In Sir F. Younghusband’sKashmir(1911) there is another suggestion, supplementary to this: “There came upon me this thought, which doubtless has occurred to many another besides myself—why the scene should so influence me and yet make no impression on the men about me. Here were men with far keener eyesight than my own, and around me were animals with eyesight keener still.... Clearly it is not the eye, but the soul that sees. But then comes the still further reflection: what may there not be staringmestraight in the face which I am as blind to as the Kashmir stags are to the beauties amidst which they spend their entire lives? The whole panorama may be vibrating with beauties man has not yet the soul to see. Some already living, no doubt, see beauties that we ordinary men cannot appreciate. It is only a century ago that mountains were looked upon as hideous. And in the long centuries to come may we not develop a soul for beauties unthought of now? Undoubtedly we must. And often in reverie on the mountains I have tried to imagine what still further loveliness they may yet possess for men.”

He that dies in an earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded in hot blood, who for the time scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind, fixed and bent upon somewhat that is good, doth best avert the dolours of death.

Bacon.

Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could die;Which in life did harbour giveTo more virtue than doth live.Ben Jonson(EpigramCXXIV).

Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could die;Which in life did harbour giveTo more virtue than doth live.

Underneath this stone doth lie

As much beauty as could die;

Which in life did harbour give

To more virtue than doth live.

Ben Jonson(EpigramCXXIV).

As Dr. Johnson said; “In lapidary inscriptions a man is not upon oath.”

“En Angleterre,” said a cynical Dutch diplomatist, “numéro deux va chez numéro un, pour s’en glorifier auprès de numéro trois.”

(In England, Number Two goes to Number One’s house in order to boast about it to Number Three.)

Laurence Oliphant(Piccadilly).

Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how—With this blue air, blue sea,This yellow sand, that grassy brow,All isolating me—Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart,My thoughts to thine draw near;But thou canst fill who mad’st my heart,Who gay’st me words must hear.Thou mad’st the hand with which I write,The eye that watches slowThrough rosy gates that rosy lightAcross thy threshold go,Those waves that bend in golden spray,As if thy foot they bore:I think I know thee, Lord, to-day,Shall know thee evermore.I know thy father, thine and mine:Thou the great fact hast bared:Master, the mighty words are thine—Such I had never dared!Lord, thou hast much to make me yet—Thy father’s infant still:Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set,That I may grow thy will.My soul with truth clothe all about,And I shall question free:The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt,In that fear doubteth thee.G. Macdonald(The Disciple).

Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how—With this blue air, blue sea,This yellow sand, that grassy brow,All isolating me—

Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how—

With this blue air, blue sea,

This yellow sand, that grassy brow,

All isolating me—

Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart,My thoughts to thine draw near;But thou canst fill who mad’st my heart,Who gay’st me words must hear.

Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart,

My thoughts to thine draw near;

But thou canst fill who mad’st my heart,

Who gay’st me words must hear.

Thou mad’st the hand with which I write,The eye that watches slowThrough rosy gates that rosy lightAcross thy threshold go,

Thou mad’st the hand with which I write,

The eye that watches slow

Through rosy gates that rosy light

Across thy threshold go,

Those waves that bend in golden spray,As if thy foot they bore:I think I know thee, Lord, to-day,Shall know thee evermore.

Those waves that bend in golden spray,

As if thy foot they bore:

I think I know thee, Lord, to-day,

Shall know thee evermore.

I know thy father, thine and mine:Thou the great fact hast bared:Master, the mighty words are thine—Such I had never dared!

I know thy father, thine and mine:

Thou the great fact hast bared:

Master, the mighty words are thine—

Such I had never dared!

Lord, thou hast much to make me yet—Thy father’s infant still:Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set,That I may grow thy will.

Lord, thou hast much to make me yet—

Thy father’s infant still:

Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set,

That I may grow thy will.

My soul with truth clothe all about,And I shall question free:The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt,In that fear doubteth thee.

My soul with truth clothe all about,

And I shall question free:

The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt,

In that fear doubteth thee.

G. Macdonald(The Disciple).

Our ideas, like the children of our youth, often die before us, and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we are fast approaching—where, though the brass and marble may remain, the inscriptions are effaced by time and the imagery moulders away.

John Locke(1632-1704).

What makes such a passage attractive is its use of poetic imagery; and yet Locke had no regard for poetry. See next quotation.

If these may be any reasons against children’s making Latin themes at school, I have much more to say, and of more weight, against their making verses—verses of any sort. For if he has no genius to Poetry, ’tis the most unreasonable thing in the world to torment a child and waste his time about that which can never succeed; and if he have a poetic vein, ’tis to me the strangest thing in the world that the father should desire or suffer it to be cherished or improved. Methinks the parents should labour to have it stifled and suppressed as much as may be; and I know not what reason a father can have to wish his son a poet, who does not desire to have him bid defiance to all other callings and business.... For it is very seldom seen that any one discovers mines of gold or silver in Parnassus.... Poetry and Gaming usually go together.... If, therefore, you would not have your son the fiddle to every jovial company, without whom the Sparks could not relish their wine, nor know how to pass an afternoon idly; if you would not have him to waste his time and estate to divert others, and contemn the dirty acres left him by his ancestors, I do not think you will very much care he should be a Poet.

John Locke(1632-1704) (Some Thoughts Concerning Education, 1693).

Locke was writing during the dreary Dryden period, when poetry had so greatly degenerated since the brilliant Elizabethan epoch. He himself evidently had no interest in poetry. We know that he did not appreciate Milton (whoseParadise Lostappeared in 1667, when Locke was in his prime).Compare with the above quotationp. 357.

Compare with the above quotationp. 357.

Weeping, we hold Him fast, who weptFor us, we hold Him fast,And will not let Him go, exceptHe bless us first or last.Christina Rossetti.

Weeping, we hold Him fast, who weptFor us, we hold Him fast,And will not let Him go, exceptHe bless us first or last.

Weeping, we hold Him fast, who wept

For us, we hold Him fast,

And will not let Him go, except

He bless us first or last.

Christina Rossetti.

INDWELLING.

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,Like to a shell dishabited,Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,And say, “This is not dead,”And fill thee with Himself instead:But thou art all replete with verythou.And hast such shrewd activity,That, when He comes, He says, “This is enowUnto itself—’Twere better let it be:It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.”T. E. Brown(1830-1897).

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,Like to a shell dishabited,Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,And say, “This is not dead,”And fill thee with Himself instead:

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,

Like to a shell dishabited,

Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,

And say, “This is not dead,”

And fill thee with Himself instead:

But thou art all replete with verythou.And hast such shrewd activity,That, when He comes, He says, “This is enowUnto itself—’Twere better let it be:It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.”

But thou art all replete with verythou.

And hast such shrewd activity,

That, when He comes, He says, “This is enow

Unto itself—’Twere better let it be:

It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.”

T. E. Brown(1830-1897).

Oh! ever thus from childhood’s hour,I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;I never loved a tree or flower,But ’twas the first to fade away.I never nursed a dear gazelleTo glad me with its soft black eye,But when it came to know me well,And love me, it was sure to die!Thomas Moore(Lalla Rookh).

Oh! ever thus from childhood’s hour,

I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never loved a tree or flower,

But ’twas the first to fade away.

I never nursed a dear gazelle

To glad me with its soft black eye,

But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die!

Thomas Moore(Lalla Rookh).

As in other cases mentioned in thePreface, I find that these lines, so familiar in my day, appear to be unknown to younger men.

ON BLACKSTONE’S COMMENTARIES.

In taking leave of our Author (Sir William Blackstone) I finish gladly with this pleasing peroration: a scrutinizing judgment, perhaps, would not be altogether satisfied with it; but the ear is soothed by it, and the heart is warmed.

Jeremy Bentham(1748-1832) (A Fragment of Government).

I think it worth while quoting from my notes this amusing piece of sarcasm aimed by a young man of twenty-eight at the most renowned legal writer of the time.A Fragment of Government(1776), the first of Bentham’s works, not only showed the utter folly of Blackstone’s praise of the English constitution, but also laid the foundation of political science. (The passage, which the quotation refers to, is in Sec. 2 of the Introduction to theCommentaries, “Thus far as to the right of the supreme power to make law ... public tranquillity.”)Not only was the English constitution a subject of eulogy in Bentham’s day, but also English law, then in a most barbarous state, was alleged to be the perfection of human reason! Through the efforts of this great and original thinker many dreadful abuses were removed, but it is a remarkable illustration of the blind strength of English conservatism that hiswise counsel has not yet been followed in many exceedingly important directions.In the seventy-eighty period, with which this book mainly deals there was a strong agitation for law reform, which had some results.

Not only was the English constitution a subject of eulogy in Bentham’s day, but also English law, then in a most barbarous state, was alleged to be the perfection of human reason! Through the efforts of this great and original thinker many dreadful abuses were removed, but it is a remarkable illustration of the blind strength of English conservatism that hiswise counsel has not yet been followed in many exceedingly important directions.

In the seventy-eighty period, with which this book mainly deals there was a strong agitation for law reform, which had some results.

It was the boast of Augustus, that he found Rome of brick and left it of marble. But how much nobler will be our Sovereign’s boast when he shall have it to say that he found law dear, and left it cheap; found it a sealed book—left it a living letter; found it the patrimony of the rich—left it the inheritance of the poor; found it the two-edged sword of craft and oppression—left it the staff of honesty and the shield of innocence!

Lord Brougham(1778-1868) (Speech in Parliament, 1828).

It would indeed be a proud boast—but not one of these objects has yet been achieved.

When Lord Ellenborough was trying one of the Government charges against Horne Tooke, he found occasion to praise the impartial manner in which justice is administered. “In England, Mr. Tooke, the law is open to all men, rich or poor.” “Yes, my lord,” answered the prisoner, “and so is the London Tavern.”

Henry S. Leigh(Jeux d’Esprit).

The same story is told in Rogers’Table Talk, but a different judge is named. (Probably both are wrong, but it is immaterial.) The London Tavern was where Horne Tooke’s Constitutional Society met, and must have been often referred to during the trial; but of course the meaning simply is that the throne of justice cannot be approached with an empty purse.

Revenons à nos moutons.

(Let us return to our sheep.)

(La Farce de Maistre Pierre Patelin, Anon. 15 Cent.).

In the farce, a cloth merchant, who is suing his shepherd for stolen sheep, discovers also that the attorney on the other side is a man who had robbed him of some cloth. Dropping the charge against the shepherd, he begins accusing the lawyer of his offence; and, to recall him to the point, the judge impatiently interrupts him withSus revenons à nos moutons, “Come, let us get back to our sheep.”Compare Martial VI, 19: “My suit has nothing to do with assault, or battery, or poisoning, but is about three goats, which, I complain, have been stolen by my neighbour. This the judge desires to have proved to him; but you, with swelling words and extravagant gestures, dilate on the Battle of Cannae, the Mithridatic war, and the perjuries of the insensate Carthaginians, the Syllae, the Marii, and the Mucii. It is time, Postumus, to say something about my three goats.”The reference to the French play I owe toKing’s Classical and Foreign Quotations.

Compare Martial VI, 19: “My suit has nothing to do with assault, or battery, or poisoning, but is about three goats, which, I complain, have been stolen by my neighbour. This the judge desires to have proved to him; but you, with swelling words and extravagant gestures, dilate on the Battle of Cannae, the Mithridatic war, and the perjuries of the insensate Carthaginians, the Syllae, the Marii, and the Mucii. It is time, Postumus, to say something about my three goats.”

The reference to the French play I owe toKing’s Classical and Foreign Quotations.

(The wife of a poor man deserted him for another man, and he married again. On being convicted for bigamy Mr. Justice Maule sentenced him as follows:) Prisoner at the bar: You have been convicted of the offence of bigamy, that is to say, of marrying a woman while you had a wife still alive, though it is true she has deserted you and is living in adultery with another man. You have, therefore, committed a crime against the laws of your country, and you have also acted under a very serious misapprehension of the course which you ought to have pursued. You should have gone to the ecclesiastical court and there obtained against your wife a decreea mensa et thoro. You should then have brought an action in the courts of common law and recovered, as no doubt you would have recovered, damages against your wife’s paramour. Armed with these decrees, you should have approached the legislature and obtained an Act of Parliament which would have rendered you free and legally competent to marry the person whom you have taken on yourself to marry with no such sanction. It is quite true that these proceedings would have cost you many hundreds of pounds, whereas you probably have not as many pence.But the law knows no distinction between rich and poor.The sentence of the court upon you, therefore, is that you be imprisoned for one day, which period has already been exceeded, as you have been in custody since the commencement of the assizes.

Sir W. H. Maule(1788-1858).

This fine piece of irony, well known to lawyers, materially helped to end the old bad state of the law of divorce. We need more men of the same stamp to draw attention to other abuses.

Is this pleading causes, Cinna? Is this speaking eloquently to say nine words in ten hours? Just now you asked with a loud voice for four more clepsydrae.[26]What a long time you take to say nothing, Cinna!

MartialVIII, 7.

In Racine’s comedy,Les Plaideurs, Act III, Sc. III, a prolix advocate begins his speech by referring to the Creation of the world. “Avocat, passons au déluge” (Let us get along to the Deluge), says the judge. See alsoThe Merchant of Venice, Act I, Sc. I:—Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing; more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing; more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.

“There’s nae place like hame,” quoth the de’il, when he found himself in the Court o’ Session.

Scottish Proverb.

I understand that the original wording was “‘Hame’s hamely,’ quoth the de’il, etc.” Perhaps the only English Institution which the Hindu appreciates is that of English Law—but not as a system of Justice. To his acute mind it is a remarkably clever and most ingeniousgambling game. It is said that two Hindus will even fabricate mutual complaints, the one against the other, to bring before the Courts—and that it is almost equivalent to a patent of nobility to have had a case taken to the Privy Council. The following incident actually happened to a friend of mine who was Resident in a Native State. Sitting in his judicial capacity he reproved a Hindu gentleman for his excessive litigiousness. The latter retorted that it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black; that he had seen the Resident put his rupees on the totalisator the day before; and the British race-course wasn’t a bit more of a gamble than the British Law Courts. For his part he preferred to have his flutter on the latter.

BALDER’S RETURN TO EARTH[27]

He sat down in a lonely landOf mountain, moor, and mere,And watch’d, with chin upon his hand,Dark maids that milk’d the deer.And while the sun set in the skies,And stars shone in the blue,They sang sweet songs, till Balder’s eyesWere sad with kindred dew.He passed along the hamlets dimWith twilight’s breath of balm,And whatsoe’er was touch’d by himGrew beautiful and calm....He came unto a hut forlornAs evening shadows fell,And saw the man among the corn,The woman at the well.And entering the darken’d place,He found the cradled child;Stooping he lookt into its face,Until it woke and smiled!Then Balder passed into the nightWith soft and shining tread,The cataract called upon the height,The stars gleam’d overhead.He raised his eyes to those cold skiesWhich he had left behind,—And saw the banners of the godsBlown back upon the wind.He watched them as they came and fled,Then his divine eyes fell.“I love the green Earth best,” he said,“And I on Earth will dwell!” ...Then Balder said, “The Earth is fair, and fairYea fairer than the stormy lives of gods,The lives of gentle dwellers on the Earth;For shapen are they in the likenessesOf goddesses and gods, and on their limbsSunlight and moonlight mingle, and they lieHappy and calm in one another’s armsO’er-canopied with greenness; and their handsHave fashioned fire that springeth beautifulStraight as a silvern lily from the ground,Wondrously blowing; and they measure outGlad seasons by the pulses of the stars.”...And Balder bends above them, glory-crown’d.Marking them as they creep upon the ground.Busy as ants that toil without a sound,With only gods to mark.But list! O list! what is that cry of pain,Faint as the far-off murmur of the main?Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again!“Lo! Death makes all things dark!”Ay me, it is the earthborn souls that sigh,Coming and going underneath the sky;They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry—O Balder, bend, and hark!...(Oh, listen! listen!) “Blessed is the light,We love the golden day, the silvern night, ...“And yet though life is glad and love divine,This Shape we fear is here i’ the summer shine,—He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,And soon he leaves us stark.“He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep,He finds us as we sow and as we reap,He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—Ah, Death makes all things dark.”Bright Balder cried, “Curst be this thingWhich will not let man rest,Slaying with swift and cruel stingThe very babe at breast!“On man and beast, on flower and bird,He creepeth evermore;Unseen he haunts the Earth; unheardHe crawls from door to door.“I will not pause in any land,Nor sleep beneath the skies,Till I have held him by the handAnd gazed into his eyes!”...He sought him on the mountains bleak and bareAnd on the windy moors;He found his secret footprints everywhere,Yea, ev’n by human doors.All round the deerfold on the shrouded heightThe starlight glimmer’d clear;Therein sat Death, wrapt round with vapours whiteTouching the dove-eyed deer.And thither Balder silent-footed flew,But found the Phantom not;The rain-wash’d moon had risen cold and blueAbove that lonely spot.Then as he stood and listen’d, gazing roundIn the pale silvern glow,He heard a wailing and a weeping soundFrom the wild huts below.He marked the sudden flashing of the lightsHe heard cry answering cry—And lo! he saw upon the silent heightsA shadowy form pass by.Wan was the face, the eyeballs pale and wild,The robes like rain wind-blown,And as it fled it clasp’d a naked childUnto its cold breast-bone.And Balder clutch’d its robe with fingers weakTo stay it as it flew—A breath of ice blew chill upon his cheek,Blinding his eyes of blue.’Twas Death! ’twas gone!—All night the shepherds sped,Searching the hills in fear;At dawn they found their lost one lying deadUp by the lone black mere....R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).

He sat down in a lonely landOf mountain, moor, and mere,And watch’d, with chin upon his hand,Dark maids that milk’d the deer.

He sat down in a lonely land

Of mountain, moor, and mere,

And watch’d, with chin upon his hand,

Dark maids that milk’d the deer.

And while the sun set in the skies,And stars shone in the blue,They sang sweet songs, till Balder’s eyesWere sad with kindred dew.

And while the sun set in the skies,

And stars shone in the blue,

They sang sweet songs, till Balder’s eyes

Were sad with kindred dew.

He passed along the hamlets dimWith twilight’s breath of balm,And whatsoe’er was touch’d by himGrew beautiful and calm....

He passed along the hamlets dim

With twilight’s breath of balm,

And whatsoe’er was touch’d by him

Grew beautiful and calm....

He came unto a hut forlornAs evening shadows fell,And saw the man among the corn,The woman at the well.

He came unto a hut forlorn

As evening shadows fell,

And saw the man among the corn,

The woman at the well.

And entering the darken’d place,He found the cradled child;Stooping he lookt into its face,Until it woke and smiled!

And entering the darken’d place,

He found the cradled child;

Stooping he lookt into its face,

Until it woke and smiled!

Then Balder passed into the nightWith soft and shining tread,The cataract called upon the height,The stars gleam’d overhead.

Then Balder passed into the night

With soft and shining tread,

The cataract called upon the height,

The stars gleam’d overhead.

He raised his eyes to those cold skiesWhich he had left behind,—And saw the banners of the godsBlown back upon the wind.

He raised his eyes to those cold skies

Which he had left behind,—

And saw the banners of the gods

Blown back upon the wind.

He watched them as they came and fled,Then his divine eyes fell.“I love the green Earth best,” he said,“And I on Earth will dwell!” ...

He watched them as they came and fled,

Then his divine eyes fell.

“I love the green Earth best,” he said,

“And I on Earth will dwell!” ...

Then Balder said, “The Earth is fair, and fairYea fairer than the stormy lives of gods,The lives of gentle dwellers on the Earth;For shapen are they in the likenessesOf goddesses and gods, and on their limbsSunlight and moonlight mingle, and they lieHappy and calm in one another’s armsO’er-canopied with greenness; and their handsHave fashioned fire that springeth beautifulStraight as a silvern lily from the ground,Wondrously blowing; and they measure outGlad seasons by the pulses of the stars.”...

Then Balder said, “The Earth is fair, and fair

Yea fairer than the stormy lives of gods,

The lives of gentle dwellers on the Earth;

For shapen are they in the likenesses

Of goddesses and gods, and on their limbs

Sunlight and moonlight mingle, and they lie

Happy and calm in one another’s arms

O’er-canopied with greenness; and their hands

Have fashioned fire that springeth beautiful

Straight as a silvern lily from the ground,

Wondrously blowing; and they measure out

Glad seasons by the pulses of the stars.”...

And Balder bends above them, glory-crown’d.Marking them as they creep upon the ground.Busy as ants that toil without a sound,With only gods to mark.

And Balder bends above them, glory-crown’d.

Marking them as they creep upon the ground.

Busy as ants that toil without a sound,

With only gods to mark.

But list! O list! what is that cry of pain,Faint as the far-off murmur of the main?Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again!“Lo! Death makes all things dark!”

But list! O list! what is that cry of pain,

Faint as the far-off murmur of the main?

Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again!

“Lo! Death makes all things dark!”

Ay me, it is the earthborn souls that sigh,Coming and going underneath the sky;They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry—O Balder, bend, and hark!...

Ay me, it is the earthborn souls that sigh,

Coming and going underneath the sky;

They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry—

O Balder, bend, and hark!...

(Oh, listen! listen!) “Blessed is the light,We love the golden day, the silvern night, ...

(Oh, listen! listen!) “Blessed is the light,

We love the golden day, the silvern night, ...

“And yet though life is glad and love divine,This Shape we fear is here i’ the summer shine,—He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,And soon he leaves us stark.

“And yet though life is glad and love divine,

This Shape we fear is here i’ the summer shine,—

He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,

And soon he leaves us stark.

“He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep,He finds us as we sow and as we reap,He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—Ah, Death makes all things dark.”

“He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep,

He finds us as we sow and as we reap,

He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—

Ah, Death makes all things dark.”

Bright Balder cried, “Curst be this thingWhich will not let man rest,Slaying with swift and cruel stingThe very babe at breast!

Bright Balder cried, “Curst be this thing

Which will not let man rest,

Slaying with swift and cruel sting

The very babe at breast!

“On man and beast, on flower and bird,He creepeth evermore;Unseen he haunts the Earth; unheardHe crawls from door to door.

“On man and beast, on flower and bird,

He creepeth evermore;

Unseen he haunts the Earth; unheard

He crawls from door to door.

“I will not pause in any land,Nor sleep beneath the skies,Till I have held him by the handAnd gazed into his eyes!”...

“I will not pause in any land,

Nor sleep beneath the skies,

Till I have held him by the hand

And gazed into his eyes!”...

He sought him on the mountains bleak and bareAnd on the windy moors;He found his secret footprints everywhere,Yea, ev’n by human doors.

He sought him on the mountains bleak and bare

And on the windy moors;

He found his secret footprints everywhere,

Yea, ev’n by human doors.

All round the deerfold on the shrouded heightThe starlight glimmer’d clear;Therein sat Death, wrapt round with vapours whiteTouching the dove-eyed deer.

All round the deerfold on the shrouded height

The starlight glimmer’d clear;

Therein sat Death, wrapt round with vapours white

Touching the dove-eyed deer.

And thither Balder silent-footed flew,But found the Phantom not;The rain-wash’d moon had risen cold and blueAbove that lonely spot.

And thither Balder silent-footed flew,

But found the Phantom not;

The rain-wash’d moon had risen cold and blue

Above that lonely spot.

Then as he stood and listen’d, gazing roundIn the pale silvern glow,He heard a wailing and a weeping soundFrom the wild huts below.

Then as he stood and listen’d, gazing round

In the pale silvern glow,

He heard a wailing and a weeping sound

From the wild huts below.

He marked the sudden flashing of the lightsHe heard cry answering cry—And lo! he saw upon the silent heightsA shadowy form pass by.

He marked the sudden flashing of the lights

He heard cry answering cry—

And lo! he saw upon the silent heights

A shadowy form pass by.

Wan was the face, the eyeballs pale and wild,The robes like rain wind-blown,And as it fled it clasp’d a naked childUnto its cold breast-bone.

Wan was the face, the eyeballs pale and wild,

The robes like rain wind-blown,

And as it fled it clasp’d a naked child

Unto its cold breast-bone.

And Balder clutch’d its robe with fingers weakTo stay it as it flew—A breath of ice blew chill upon his cheek,Blinding his eyes of blue.

And Balder clutch’d its robe with fingers weak

To stay it as it flew—

A breath of ice blew chill upon his cheek,

Blinding his eyes of blue.

’Twas Death! ’twas gone!—All night the shepherds sped,Searching the hills in fear;At dawn they found their lost one lying deadUp by the lone black mere.

’Twas Death! ’twas gone!—All night the shepherds sped,

Searching the hills in fear;

At dawn they found their lost one lying dead

Up by the lone black mere.

...

R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).

I retain this extract from Buchanan’s poem for the reason set out in thepreface.

How many an acorn falls to dieFor one that makes a tree!How many a heart must pass me byFor one that cleaves to me!How many a suppliant wave of soundMust still unheeded roll,For one low utterance that foundAn echo in my soul.John Banister Tabb(b. 1845)

How many an acorn falls to dieFor one that makes a tree!How many a heart must pass me byFor one that cleaves to me!

How many an acorn falls to die

For one that makes a tree!

How many a heart must pass me by

For one that cleaves to me!

How many a suppliant wave of soundMust still unheeded roll,For one low utterance that foundAn echo in my soul.

How many a suppliant wave of sound

Must still unheeded roll,

For one low utterance that found

An echo in my soul.

John Banister Tabb(b. 1845)

I have “Compensation” as the title of these verses, but it must surely be incorrect. If a man passes through life unrecognised by kindred souls, it is the reverse of ‘compensation’ to him if he also fails to recognise other sympathetic natures.The author is, or was, an American Catholic priest.

The author is, or was, an American Catholic priest.

What we gave, we have;What we spent, we had;What we left, we lost.(Epitaph on Earl of Devonshire, about 1200 A.D.)

What we gave, we have;What we spent, we had;What we left, we lost.

What we gave, we have;

What we spent, we had;

What we left, we lost.

(Epitaph on Earl of Devonshire, about 1200 A.D.)

ALL SUNG

What shall I sing when all is sungAnd every tale is told,And in the world is nothing youngThat was not long since old?Why should I fret unwilling earsWith old things sung anewWhile voices from the old dead yearStill go on singing too?A dead man singing of his maidMakes all my rhymes in vain,Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,And mine shall sing again.Why should I strive thro’ weary moonsTo make my music true?Only the dead men know the tunesThe live world dances to.R. le Gallienne.

What shall I sing when all is sungAnd every tale is told,And in the world is nothing youngThat was not long since old?

What shall I sing when all is sung

And every tale is told,

And in the world is nothing young

That was not long since old?

Why should I fret unwilling earsWith old things sung anewWhile voices from the old dead yearStill go on singing too?

Why should I fret unwilling ears

With old things sung anew

While voices from the old dead year

Still go on singing too?

A dead man singing of his maidMakes all my rhymes in vain,Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,And mine shall sing again.

A dead man singing of his maid

Makes all my rhymes in vain,

Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,

And mine shall sing again.

Why should I strive thro’ weary moonsTo make my music true?Only the dead men know the tunesThe live world dances to.

Why should I strive thro’ weary moons

To make my music true?

Only the dead men know the tunes

The live world dances to.

R. le Gallienne.

Mr. le Gallienne was not the first to complain that poetic subjects were exhausted. A recentSpectatorquotes the following from Choerilus, a Samian poet of the Fifth Century, B.C. (2,000 years before Shakespeare): “Happy was the follower of the muses in that time, when the field was still virgin soil. But now when all has been divided up and the arts have reached their limits, we are left behind in the race, and, look where’er we may, there is no room anywhere for a new-yoked chariot to make its way to the front.” (St. John Thackeray,Anthologia Graeca).

Go out into the woods and valleys, when your heart is rather harassed than bruised, and when you suffer from vexation more than grief. Then the trees all hold out their arms to you to relieve you of the burthen of your heavy thoughts; and the streams under the trees glance at you as they run by, and will carry away your trouble along with the fallen leaves; and the sweet-breathing airwill draw it off together with the silver multitudes of the dew. But let it be with anguish or remorse in your heart that you go forth into Nature, and instead of your speaking her language, you make her speak yours. Your distress is then infused through all things and clothes all things, and Nature only echoes and seems to authenticate your self-loathing or your hopelessness. Then you find the device of your sorrow on the argent shield of the moon, and see all the trees of the field weeping and wringing their hands with you, while the hills, seated at your side in sackcloth, look down upon you prostrate, and reprove you like the comforters of Job.

Robert Alfred Vaughan(1823-1857) (Hours with the Mystics).

If this fine writer had lived, much might have been expected of him. He is one of the many instances of “the fatal thirty-fours and thirty-sevens.”

First man appeared in the class of inorganic things,Next he passed therefrom into that of plants,For years he lived as one of the plants,Remembering nought of his inorganic state so different;And, when he passed from the vegetive to the animal state,He had no remembrance of his state as a plant,Except the inclination he felt to the world of plants,Especially at the time of spring and sweet flowers;Like the inclination of infants towards their mothers,Which know not the cause of their inclination to the breast.Again, the great Creator, as you know,Drew man out of the animal into the human state.Thus man passed from one order of nature to another,Till he became wise and knowing and strong as he is now.Of his first souls he has now no remembrance,And he will be again changed from his present soul.[28]Masnair(Bk. IV) of Jalal ad Din (13th century).

First man appeared in the class of inorganic things,

Next he passed therefrom into that of plants,

For years he lived as one of the plants,

Remembering nought of his inorganic state so different;

And, when he passed from the vegetive to the animal state,

He had no remembrance of his state as a plant,

Except the inclination he felt to the world of plants,

Especially at the time of spring and sweet flowers;

Like the inclination of infants towards their mothers,

Which know not the cause of their inclination to the breast.

Again, the great Creator, as you know,

Drew man out of the animal into the human state.

Thus man passed from one order of nature to another,

Till he became wise and knowing and strong as he is now.

Of his first souls he has now no remembrance,

And he will be again changed from his present soul.[28]

Masnair(Bk. IV) of Jalal ad Din (13th century).

The gases gather to the solid firmament; the chemic lump arrives at the plant and grows; arrives at the quadruped and walks; arrives at the man and thinks.

Emerson(Uses of Great Men).

HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING

From his shoulder HiawathaTook the camera of rosewood,Made of sliding, folding rosewood;This he perched upon a tripod—Crouched beneath its dusky cover—Stretched his hand, enforcing silence—Said, “Be motionless, I beg you!”Mystic, awful was the process.All the family in orderSat before him for their pictures:Each in turn, as he was taken,Volunteered his own suggestions,His ingenious suggestions.First the Governor, the Father:He suggested velvet curtainsLooped about a massy pillar;And the corner of a table,Of a rosewood dining-table.He would hold a scroll of something,Hold it firmly in his left-hand;He would keep his right-hand buried(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;He would contemplate the distanceWith a look of pensive meaning,As of ducks that die in tempests.Grand, heroic was the notion:Yet the picture failed entirely:Failed, because he moved a little,Moved, because he couldn’t help it,Next, his better half took courage;Shewould have her picture taken,She came dressed beyond description,Dressed in jewels and in satinFar too gorgeous for an empress.Gracefully she sat down sideways,With a simper scarcely human,Holding in her hand a bouquetRather larger than a cabbage.All the while that she was sitting,Still the lady chattered, chattered,Like a monkey in the forest,“Am I sitting still?” she asked him“Is my face enough in profile?Shall I hold the bouquet higher?Will it come into the picture?”And the picture failed completely.Next the Son, the Stunning-CantabHe suggested curves of beauty,Curves pervading all his figure,Which the eye might follow onward,Till they centered in the breast-pin,Centered in the golden breast-pin.He had learnt it all from RuskinAnd perhaps he had not fullyUnderstood his author’s meaning;But, whatever was the reason,All was fruitless, as the pictureEnded in an utter failure.Next to him the eldest daughter:She suggested very little,Only asked if he would take herWith her look of “passive beauty.”Her idea of passive beautyWas a squinting of the left-eye,Was a drooping of the right-eye,Was a smile that went up sidewaysTo the corner of the nostrils.Hiawatha, when she asked him,Took no notice of the question,Looked as if he hadn’t heard it;But, when pointedly appealed to,Smiled in his peculiar manner,Coughed and said it “didn’t matter,”Bit his lip and changed the subject.Nor in this was he mistaken,As the picture failed completely.So in turn the other sisters.Last, the youngest son was taken:Very rough and thick his hair was,Very round and red his face was,Very dusty was his jacket,Very fidgety his manner.And his overbearing sistersCalled him names he disapproved of:Called him Johnny, “Daddy’s Darling,”Called him Jacky, “Scrubby School-boy.”And, so awful was the picture,In comparison the othersSeemed, to his bewildered fancy,To have partially succeeded.Finally my HiawathaTumbled all the tribe together,(“Grouped” is not the right expression).And, as happy chance would have it,Did at last obtain a pictureWhere the faces all succeeded:Each came out a perfect likeness.Then they joined and all abused it,Unrestrainedly abused it,As “the worst and ugliest pictureThey could possibly have dreamed of.Giving one such strange expressions—Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.Really any one would take us(Any one that did not know us)For the most unpleasant people!”(Hiawatha seemed to think so,Seemed to think it not unlikely).All together rang their voices,Angry, loud, discordant voices,As of dogs that howl in concert,As of cats that wail in chorus.But my Hiawatha’s patience,His politeness and his patience,Unaccountably had vanished,And he left that happy party.Neither did he leave them slowly,With the calm deliberation,The intense deliberationOf a photographic artist:But he left them in a hurry,Left them in a mighty hurry,Stating that he would not stand it,Stating in emphatic languageWhat he’d be before he’d stand it.Thus departed Hiawatha.Lewis Carroll(C. L. Dodgson) 1832-1898.

From his shoulder Hiawatha

Took the camera of rosewood,

Made of sliding, folding rosewood;

This he perched upon a tripod—

Crouched beneath its dusky cover—

Stretched his hand, enforcing silence—

Said, “Be motionless, I beg you!”

Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order

Sat before him for their pictures:

Each in turn, as he was taken,

Volunteered his own suggestions,

His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father:

He suggested velvet curtains

Looped about a massy pillar;

And the corner of a table,

Of a rosewood dining-table.

He would hold a scroll of something,

Hold it firmly in his left-hand;

He would keep his right-hand buried

(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;

He would contemplate the distance

With a look of pensive meaning,

As of ducks that die in tempests.

Grand, heroic was the notion:

Yet the picture failed entirely:

Failed, because he moved a little,

Moved, because he couldn’t help it,

Next, his better half took courage;

Shewould have her picture taken,

She came dressed beyond description,

Dressed in jewels and in satin

Far too gorgeous for an empress.

Gracefully she sat down sideways,

With a simper scarcely human,

Holding in her hand a bouquet

Rather larger than a cabbage.

All the while that she was sitting,

Still the lady chattered, chattered,

Like a monkey in the forest,

“Am I sitting still?” she asked him

“Is my face enough in profile?

Shall I hold the bouquet higher?

Will it come into the picture?”

And the picture failed completely.

Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab

He suggested curves of beauty,

Curves pervading all his figure,

Which the eye might follow onward,

Till they centered in the breast-pin,

Centered in the golden breast-pin.

He had learnt it all from Ruskin

And perhaps he had not fully

Understood his author’s meaning;

But, whatever was the reason,

All was fruitless, as the picture

Ended in an utter failure.

Next to him the eldest daughter:

She suggested very little,

Only asked if he would take her

With her look of “passive beauty.”

Her idea of passive beauty

Was a squinting of the left-eye,

Was a drooping of the right-eye,

Was a smile that went up sideways

To the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him,

Took no notice of the question,

Looked as if he hadn’t heard it;

But, when pointedly appealed to,

Smiled in his peculiar manner,

Coughed and said it “didn’t matter,”

Bit his lip and changed the subject.

Nor in this was he mistaken,

As the picture failed completely.

So in turn the other sisters.

Last, the youngest son was taken:

Very rough and thick his hair was,

Very round and red his face was,

Very dusty was his jacket,

Very fidgety his manner.

And his overbearing sisters

Called him names he disapproved of:

Called him Johnny, “Daddy’s Darling,”

Called him Jacky, “Scrubby School-boy.”

And, so awful was the picture,

In comparison the others

Seemed, to his bewildered fancy,

To have partially succeeded.

Finally my Hiawatha

Tumbled all the tribe together,

(“Grouped” is not the right expression).

And, as happy chance would have it,

Did at last obtain a picture

Where the faces all succeeded:

Each came out a perfect likeness.

Then they joined and all abused it,

Unrestrainedly abused it,

As “the worst and ugliest picture

They could possibly have dreamed of.

Giving one such strange expressions—

Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.

Really any one would take us

(Any one that did not know us)

For the most unpleasant people!”

(Hiawatha seemed to think so,

Seemed to think it not unlikely).

All together rang their voices,

Angry, loud, discordant voices,

As of dogs that howl in concert,

As of cats that wail in chorus.

But my Hiawatha’s patience,

His politeness and his patience,

Unaccountably had vanished,

And he left that happy party.

Neither did he leave them slowly,

With the calm deliberation,

The intense deliberation

Of a photographic artist:

But he left them in a hurry,

Left them in a mighty hurry,

Stating that he would not stand it,

Stating in emphatic language

What he’d be before he’d stand it.

Thus departed Hiawatha.

Lewis Carroll(C. L. Dodgson) 1832-1898.

It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a man’s death hallows him anew to us; as if life were not sacred too,—as if it were comparatively a light thing to fail in love and reverence to the brother who has to climb the whole toilsome steep with us, and all our tears and tenderness were due to the one who is spared that hard journey.

George Eliot(Janet’s Repentance).

It has been said by Schiller, in his letters on aesthetic culture, that the sense of beauty never farthered the performance of a single duty.

Although this gross and inconceivable falsity will hardly be accepted by any one in so many terms, seeing that there are few so utterly lost but that they receive, and know that they receive, at certain moments, strength of some kind, or rebuke from the appealings of outward things; and that it is not possible for a Christian man to walk across so much as a rood of the natural earth, with mind unagitated and rightly poised, without receiving strength and hope from stone, flower, leaf or sound, nor without a sense of a dew falling upon him out of the sky; though I say this falsity is not wholly and in terms admitted, yet it seems to be partly and practically so in much of the doing and teaching even of holy men, who in the recommending of the love of God to us, refer but seldom to those things in which it is most abundantly and immediately shown; though they insist much on his giving of bread, and raiment, and health (which he gives to all inferior creatures), they require us not to thank him for that glory of his works which he has permitted us alone to perceive: they tell us often to meditate in the closet, but they send us not, like Isaac, into the fields at even; they dwell on the duty of self-denial, but they exhibit not theduty of delight.[29]

John Ruskin(Modern Painters, III, I, XV).

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