Chapter 15

De Quincey’s division of literature into “literature of power” and “literature of knowledge” still remains a useful classification.

A man should be able to render a reason for the faith that is in him.

Sydney Smith.

How brew the brave drink, Life?Take of the herb hight morning joy,Take of the herb hight evening rest,Pour in pain, lest bliss should cloy,Shake in sin to give it zest—Then down with the brave drink, Life!Author not traced.

How brew the brave drink, Life?

Take of the herb hight morning joy,

Take of the herb hight evening rest,

Pour in pain, lest bliss should cloy,

Shake in sin to give it zest—

Then down with the brave drink, Life!

Author not traced.

I had this attributed to Robert Burton, but cannot find it in theAnatomy of Melancholy. It may possibly be from Richard Brathwaite, whose works I think were at one time attributed to Burton; but I have no opportunity of consulting them.

I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good work, therefore, I can do or show to any fellow creature, let me do it now! Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.

William Penn.

I find that there has been much discussion inNotes and Queriesand elsewhere as to the origin of this quotation, and it is now usually attributed to the French-American Quaker, Stephen Grellet. As, however, Bartlett’sFamiliar Quotationsgives “I shall not pass this way again” as a favourite saying of William Penn’s, it seems more reasonable to consider him the author of the above.

Youth is a blunder, Manhood a struggle, Old Age a regret.

Disraeli(Coningsby).

She went into the garden to cut a cabbage to make an apple pie. Just then, a great she-bear coming down the street poked its nose into the shop-window. “What! no soap?” So he died, and she (very imprudently) married the barber. And there were present at the wedding the Joblillies, and the Piccannies, and the Gobelites, and the great Panjandrum himself, with the little button on top. So they all set to playing Catch-who-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.

Samuel Foote, 1720-1777.

Charles Macklin (1699-1797), actor and playwright, said in a lecture on oratory that by practice he had brought his memory to such perfection that he could learn anything by rote on once hearing or reading it. Foote (a more important dramatist and actor) wrote out the above and handed it up to Macklin to read and then repeat from memory! The passage was very familiar to us from Miss Edgeworth’sHarry and Lucy; and also fromVerdant Green, by Cuthbert Bede (Edward Bradley) where it was set in the bogus examination paper “To be turned into Latin after the manner of the Animals of Tacitus.”

You feel o’er you stealingThe old familiar, warm, champagny, brandy-punchy, feeling.J. R. Lowell(Old College Rooms).

You feel o’er you stealingThe old familiar, warm, champagny, brandy-punchy, feeling.

You feel o’er you stealing

The old familiar, warm, champagny, brandy-punchy, feeling.

J. R. Lowell(Old College Rooms).

The first and worst of all frauds is to cheatOne’s self.P. J. Bailey(Festus, “Anywhere”).

The first and worst of all frauds is to cheatOne’s self.

The first and worst of all frauds is to cheat

One’s self.

P. J. Bailey(Festus, “Anywhere”).

Truly it is to be noted, that children’s plays are not sports, and should be regarded as their most serious actions.

Montaigne.

Boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man; so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the sun and moon; and the harmless art of knucklebones has seen the fall of the Roman Empire and the rise of the United States.

R. L. Stevenson(The Lantern-Bearers).

Says Chloe, “Though tears it may cost,It is time we should part, my dear Sue;Foryourcharacter’s totally lost,AndI’venot sufficient for two!”Anon.

Says Chloe, “Though tears it may cost,It is time we should part, my dear Sue;Foryourcharacter’s totally lost,AndI’venot sufficient for two!”

Says Chloe, “Though tears it may cost,

It is time we should part, my dear Sue;

Foryourcharacter’s totally lost,

AndI’venot sufficient for two!”

Anon.

This was taken from a poor collection of epigrams by C. S. Carey (1872), no author being given. Andrew Lang quoted it in his Presidential address to the Society for Psychical Research, and it was duly inscribed in the Proceedings. I, with some diffidence, follow an illustrious example.

I cannot say, in Eastern style,Where’er she treads the pansy blows;Nor call her eyes twin-stars, her smileA sunbeam, and her mouth a rose.Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do,Talk of my raptures. Oh, how soreThe fond romance of twenty-twoIs parodied ere thirty-four!To-night I shake hands with the past,—Familiar years, adieu, adieu!An unknown door is open cast,An empty future wide and newStands waiting. O ye naked rooms,Void, desolate, without a charm,Will Love’s smile chase your lonely glooms,And drape your walls, and make them warm?Alexander Smith(1830-1867) (The Night before the Wedding).

I cannot say, in Eastern style,

Where’er she treads the pansy blows;

Nor call her eyes twin-stars, her smile

A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose.

Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do,

Talk of my raptures. Oh, how sore

The fond romance of twenty-two

Is parodied ere thirty-four!

To-night I shake hands with the past,—Familiar years, adieu, adieu!An unknown door is open cast,An empty future wide and newStands waiting. O ye naked rooms,Void, desolate, without a charm,Will Love’s smile chase your lonely glooms,And drape your walls, and make them warm?

To-night I shake hands with the past,—

Familiar years, adieu, adieu!

An unknown door is open cast,

An empty future wide and new

Stands waiting. O ye naked rooms,

Void, desolate, without a charm,

Will Love’s smile chase your lonely glooms,

And drape your walls, and make them warm?

Alexander Smith(1830-1867) (The Night before the Wedding).

In my notes, this strange poem is stated to have been actually written by Smith on the night before his wedding; but it is difficult to believe this. In the poem, the poet sits until dawn on his wedding-eve thinking of the “long-lost passions of his youth,” and comparing them with his calm and unimpassioned love, “pale blossom of the snow,” for the bride of the morrow. He even fears that his wife’s tenderness will keep alive the memories of his youthful loves:It may be that your loving wilesWill call a sigh from far-off years;It may be that your happiest smilesWill brim my eyes with hopeless tears;It may be that my sleeping breathWill shake with painful visions wrung;And, in the awful trance of death,A stranger’s name be on my tongue.This is sufficiently gruesome. However he finally comes to the conclusion (although it seems dragged in to save a very difficult situation) that his love for his future bride may become more satisfactory to him:For, as the dawning sweet and fastThrough all the heaven spreads and flows,Within life’s discord rude and vastLove’s subtle music grows and grows.My love, pale blossom of the snow,Has pierced earth, wet with wintry showers—O may it drink the sun, and blow,And be followed by all the year of flowers!Smith, with P. J. Bailey, Sydney Dobell and others, belonged to what was called the “Spasmodic” school which theBritannicasays is “now fallen into oblivion.” I do not know what this means. Smith, Bailey, and Dobell no doubt wrote extravagantly, but they have all written good verses. Take for example the following from Smith’s first poem, “A Life Drama,” written at twenty-two years of age:All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire;The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers,In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,When Love is born in each.Smith was also a charming essayist. See quotations elsewhere.

It may be that your loving wilesWill call a sigh from far-off years;It may be that your happiest smilesWill brim my eyes with hopeless tears;It may be that my sleeping breathWill shake with painful visions wrung;And, in the awful trance of death,A stranger’s name be on my tongue.

It may be that your loving wiles

Will call a sigh from far-off years;

It may be that your happiest smiles

Will brim my eyes with hopeless tears;

It may be that my sleeping breath

Will shake with painful visions wrung;

And, in the awful trance of death,

A stranger’s name be on my tongue.

This is sufficiently gruesome. However he finally comes to the conclusion (although it seems dragged in to save a very difficult situation) that his love for his future bride may become more satisfactory to him:

For, as the dawning sweet and fastThrough all the heaven spreads and flows,Within life’s discord rude and vastLove’s subtle music grows and grows.My love, pale blossom of the snow,Has pierced earth, wet with wintry showers—O may it drink the sun, and blow,And be followed by all the year of flowers!

For, as the dawning sweet and fastThrough all the heaven spreads and flows,Within life’s discord rude and vastLove’s subtle music grows and grows.

For, as the dawning sweet and fast

Through all the heaven spreads and flows,

Within life’s discord rude and vast

Love’s subtle music grows and grows.

My love, pale blossom of the snow,Has pierced earth, wet with wintry showers—O may it drink the sun, and blow,And be followed by all the year of flowers!

My love, pale blossom of the snow,

Has pierced earth, wet with wintry showers—

O may it drink the sun, and blow,

And be followed by all the year of flowers!

Smith, with P. J. Bailey, Sydney Dobell and others, belonged to what was called the “Spasmodic” school which theBritannicasays is “now fallen into oblivion.” I do not know what this means. Smith, Bailey, and Dobell no doubt wrote extravagantly, but they have all written good verses. Take for example the following from Smith’s first poem, “A Life Drama,” written at twenty-two years of age:

All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire;The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers,In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,When Love is born in each.

All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire;

All things have something more than barren use;

There is a scent upon the brier,

A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,

Cold morns are fringed with fire;

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers,In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,When Love is born in each.

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers,

In music dies poor human speech,

And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,

When Love is born in each.

Smith was also a charming essayist. See quotations elsewhere.

And so on to the end (and the end draws nearer)When our souls may be freer, our senses clearer,(’Tis an old-world creed which is nigh forgot),When the eyes of the sleepers may waken in wonder,And hearts may be joined that were riven asunder,And Time and Love shall be merged—in what?Author not traced.

And so on to the end (and the end draws nearer)

When our souls may be freer, our senses clearer,

(’Tis an old-world creed which is nigh forgot),

When the eyes of the sleepers may waken in wonder,

And hearts may be joined that were riven asunder,

And Time and Love shall be merged—in what?

Author not traced.

Soft music came to mine ear. It was like the rising breeze, that whirls, at first, the thistle’s beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass. It was the maid of Füarfed wild: she raised the nightly song; for she knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds.

James Macpherson(1736-1796).

Macpherson alleged that he had discovered poems by the Gaelic bard, Ossian, who lived in the Third Century, and he published translations of them. Actually the poems were his own, but they were beautiful and had a considerable effect upon literature.

I dare not guess: but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream.It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant if one considers it,To own that death itself must be,Like all the rest, a mockery.Shelley(The Sensitive Plant).

I dare not guess: but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream.

I dare not guess: but in this life

Of error, ignorance, and strife,

Where nothing is, but all things seem,

And we the shadows of the dream.

It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant if one considers it,To own that death itself must be,Like all the rest, a mockery.

It is a modest creed, and yet

Pleasant if one considers it,

To own that death itself must be,

Like all the rest, a mockery.

Shelley(The Sensitive Plant).

I should like to make every man, woman, and child discontented with themselves, even as I am discontented with myself. I should like to waken in them, about their physical, their intellectual, their moral condition, that divine discontent which is the parent, first of upward aspiration and then of self-control, thought, effort to fulfil that aspiration even in part. For to be discontented with the divine discontent, and to be ashamed with the noble shame, is the very germ and first upgrowth of all virtue.

Charles Kingsley(The Science of Health, 1872).

The origin of the expression “divine discontent.”

He first deceas’d; she for a little triedTo live without him: liked it not, and died.Sir Henry Wotton(Reliquiae Wottonianae, 1685).

He first deceas’d; she for a little triedTo live without him: liked it not, and died.

He first deceas’d; she for a little tried

To live without him: liked it not, and died.

Sir Henry Wotton(Reliquiae Wottonianae, 1685).

Is the yellow bird dead?Lay your dear little headClose, close to my heart, and weep, precious one, there,While your beautiful hairOn my bosom lies light, like a sun-lighted cloud;No, you need not keep still,You may sob as you will;There is some little comfort in crying aloud.But the days they must come,When your grief will be dumb;Grown women like me must take care how they cry.You will learn by and by’Tis a womanly art to hide pain out of sight,To look round with a smile,Though your heart aches the whileAnd to keep back your tears till you’ve blown out the light.Marian Douglas(Picture Poems for Young Folks).

Is the yellow bird dead?

Lay your dear little head

Close, close to my heart, and weep, precious one, there,

While your beautiful hair

On my bosom lies light, like a sun-lighted cloud;

No, you need not keep still,

You may sob as you will;

There is some little comfort in crying aloud.

But the days they must come,When your grief will be dumb;Grown women like me must take care how they cry.You will learn by and by’Tis a womanly art to hide pain out of sight,To look round with a smile,Though your heart aches the whileAnd to keep back your tears till you’ve blown out the light.

But the days they must come,

When your grief will be dumb;

Grown women like me must take care how they cry.

You will learn by and by

’Tis a womanly art to hide pain out of sight,

To look round with a smile,

Though your heart aches the while

And to keep back your tears till you’ve blown out the light.

Marian Douglas(Picture Poems for Young Folks).

My Lord St. Albans said that wise nature did never put her precious jewels into a garret four stories high; and, therefore, that exceeding tall men had ever empty heads.

Bacon(Apothegms).

That low man seeks a little thing to do,Sees it and does it:This high man, with a great thing to pursue,Dies ere he knows it.That low man goes on adding one to one,His hundred’s soon hit:This high man, aiming at a million.Misses a unit.That, has the world here—should he need the next,Let the world mind him!This, throws himself on God, and unperplexedSeeking shall find Him.R. Browning(A Grammarian’s Funeral).

That low man seeks a little thing to do,

Sees it and does it:

This high man, with a great thing to pursue,

Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one,

His hundred’s soon hit:

This high man, aiming at a million.

Misses a unit.

That, has the world here—should he need the next,

Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed

Seeking shall find Him.

R. Browning(A Grammarian’s Funeral).

SeeThe Inn Album(IV) where Browning makes his heroine say:Better have failed in the high aim, as I,Than vulgarly in the low aim succeedAs, God be thanked, I do not!

SeeThe Inn Album(IV) where Browning makes his heroine say:

Better have failed in the high aim, as I,Than vulgarly in the low aim succeedAs, God be thanked, I do not!

Better have failed in the high aim, as I,

Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed

As, God be thanked, I do not!

There is a secret belief among some men that God is displeased with man’s happiness; and in consequence they slink about creation, ashamed and afraid to enjoy anything.

Sir A. Helps(Companions of my Solitude).

O eloquent, just, and mightie Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised. Thou hast drawne together all the farre stretched greatnesse, all the pride, crueltie, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words,Hic jacet!

Sir Walter Raleigh(Historie of the World).

A REQUIEM

Thou hast lived in pain and woe,Thou hast lived in grief and fear;Now thine heart can dread no blow,Now thine eyes can shed no tear:Storms round us shall beat and rave;Thou art sheltered in the grave.Thou for long, long years hast borne,Bleeding through Life’s wilderness,Heavy loss and wounding scorn;Now thine heart is burdenless:Vainly rest for ours we crave;Thine is quiet in the grave.James Thomson(“B.V.”).

Thou hast lived in pain and woe,

Thou hast lived in grief and fear;

Now thine heart can dread no blow,

Now thine eyes can shed no tear:

Storms round us shall beat and rave;

Thou art sheltered in the grave.

Thou for long, long years hast borne,Bleeding through Life’s wilderness,Heavy loss and wounding scorn;Now thine heart is burdenless:Vainly rest for ours we crave;Thine is quiet in the grave.

Thou for long, long years hast borne,

Bleeding through Life’s wilderness,

Heavy loss and wounding scorn;

Now thine heart is burdenless:

Vainly rest for ours we crave;

Thine is quiet in the grave.

James Thomson(“B.V.”).

AMPHIBIAN

The fancy I had to-day,Fancy which turned a fear!I swam far out in the bay,Since waves laughed warm and clear.I lay and looked at the sun,The noon-sun looked at me:Between us two, no oneLive creature, that I could see.Yes! There came floating byMe, who lay floating too,Such a strange butterfly!Creature as dear as new:Because the membraned wingsSo wonderful, so wide,So sun-suffused, were thingsLike soul and nought beside....What if a certain soulWhich early slipped its sheath,And has for its home the wholeOf heaven, thus look beneath.Thus watch one who, in the world,But lives and likes life’s way,Nor wishes the wings unfurledThat sleep in the worm, they say?But sometimes when the weatherIs blue, and warm waves temptTo free oneself of tether,And try a life exemptFrom worldly noise and dust,In the sphere which overbrimsWith passion and thought,—why, justUnable to fly, one swims!...Emancipate through passionAnd thought, with sea for sky,We substitute, in a fashion,For heaven—poetry:Which sea, to all intent,Gives flesh such noon-disportAs a finer elementAffords the spirit sort.Whatever they are, we seem:Imagine the thing they know;All deeds they do, we dream;Can heaven be else but so?And meantime, yonder streakMeets the horizon’s verge;That is the land, to seekIf we tire or dread the surge:Land the solid and safe—To welcome again (confess!)When, high and dry, we chafeThe body, and don the dress.Does she look, pity, wonderAt one who mimics flight,Swims—heaven above, sea under,Yet always earth in sight?R. Browning(Prologue toFifine at the Fair).

The fancy I had to-day,Fancy which turned a fear!I swam far out in the bay,Since waves laughed warm and clear.

The fancy I had to-day,

Fancy which turned a fear!

I swam far out in the bay,

Since waves laughed warm and clear.

I lay and looked at the sun,The noon-sun looked at me:Between us two, no oneLive creature, that I could see.

I lay and looked at the sun,

The noon-sun looked at me:

Between us two, no one

Live creature, that I could see.

Yes! There came floating byMe, who lay floating too,Such a strange butterfly!Creature as dear as new:

Yes! There came floating by

Me, who lay floating too,

Such a strange butterfly!

Creature as dear as new:

Because the membraned wingsSo wonderful, so wide,So sun-suffused, were thingsLike soul and nought beside....

Because the membraned wings

So wonderful, so wide,

So sun-suffused, were things

Like soul and nought beside....

What if a certain soulWhich early slipped its sheath,And has for its home the wholeOf heaven, thus look beneath.

What if a certain soul

Which early slipped its sheath,

And has for its home the whole

Of heaven, thus look beneath.

Thus watch one who, in the world,But lives and likes life’s way,Nor wishes the wings unfurledThat sleep in the worm, they say?

Thus watch one who, in the world,

But lives and likes life’s way,

Nor wishes the wings unfurled

That sleep in the worm, they say?

But sometimes when the weatherIs blue, and warm waves temptTo free oneself of tether,And try a life exempt

But sometimes when the weather

Is blue, and warm waves tempt

To free oneself of tether,

And try a life exempt

From worldly noise and dust,In the sphere which overbrimsWith passion and thought,—why, justUnable to fly, one swims!...

From worldly noise and dust,

In the sphere which overbrims

With passion and thought,—why, just

Unable to fly, one swims!...

Emancipate through passionAnd thought, with sea for sky,We substitute, in a fashion,For heaven—poetry:

Emancipate through passion

And thought, with sea for sky,

We substitute, in a fashion,

For heaven—poetry:

Which sea, to all intent,Gives flesh such noon-disportAs a finer elementAffords the spirit sort.

Which sea, to all intent,

Gives flesh such noon-disport

As a finer element

Affords the spirit sort.

Whatever they are, we seem:Imagine the thing they know;All deeds they do, we dream;Can heaven be else but so?

Whatever they are, we seem:

Imagine the thing they know;

All deeds they do, we dream;

Can heaven be else but so?

And meantime, yonder streakMeets the horizon’s verge;That is the land, to seekIf we tire or dread the surge:

And meantime, yonder streak

Meets the horizon’s verge;

That is the land, to seek

If we tire or dread the surge:

Land the solid and safe—To welcome again (confess!)When, high and dry, we chafeThe body, and don the dress.

Land the solid and safe—

To welcome again (confess!)

When, high and dry, we chafe

The body, and don the dress.

Does she look, pity, wonderAt one who mimics flight,Swims—heaven above, sea under,Yet always earth in sight?

Does she look, pity, wonder

At one who mimics flight,

Swims—heaven above, sea under,

Yet always earth in sight?

R. Browning(Prologue toFifine at the Fair).

This is not one of Browning’s best poems, but it is interesting. The butterfly in the air over the poet swimming is compared to a ‘certain soul,’ Mrs. Browning, looking down upon him from heaven. The ‘flying,’ free and entirely released from the earth, is the life of the soul, to which the poet cannot attain; but during periods of inspiration he lives a life free of ‘worldly noise and dust,’ which approaches that of the soul. Such periods of inspiration are likened to ‘swimming’ with the land always in sight, as compared with the ‘flying’ of the soul in the far-removed celestial regions. “We substitute, in a fashion, For heaven—poetry.”Whatever they are we seem: during inspiration the poet’s life is a reflex of or approach to the heavenly life.Amphibian, because the poet is of earth and yet can “swim” in the sea of imagination. Charles Lamb speaks of his charming Child Angel, half-angel, half-human, as Amphibium. Browning’s poem may have been an unconscious development of a passage from Sir Thomas Browne’sReligio Medici:—“Thus is Man that great and trueAmphibium, whose nature is disposed to live, not only like other creatures in divers elements, but in divided and distinguished worlds: for though there be but one to sense, there are two to reason, the one visible, the other invisible.”The sixth and last verses are interesting. Browning, while in the world “Both lives and likes life’s way,” nor is anxious that his “wings” should be “unfurled”; and he wonders how his angel-wife regards him, content with his “mimic flight.”—See p. 114.

Whatever they are we seem: during inspiration the poet’s life is a reflex of or approach to the heavenly life.

Amphibian, because the poet is of earth and yet can “swim” in the sea of imagination. Charles Lamb speaks of his charming Child Angel, half-angel, half-human, as Amphibium. Browning’s poem may have been an unconscious development of a passage from Sir Thomas Browne’sReligio Medici:—“Thus is Man that great and trueAmphibium, whose nature is disposed to live, not only like other creatures in divers elements, but in divided and distinguished worlds: for though there be but one to sense, there are two to reason, the one visible, the other invisible.”

The sixth and last verses are interesting. Browning, while in the world “Both lives and likes life’s way,” nor is anxious that his “wings” should be “unfurled”; and he wonders how his angel-wife regards him, content with his “mimic flight.”—See p. 114.

We work so hard, we age so soon,We live so swiftly, one and all,That ere our day be fairly noon,The shadows eastward seem to fall.Some tender light may gild them yet,As yet, ’tis not soverycold,And, on the whole, Iwon’tregretMy slender chance of growing old.W. J. Prowse(1836-1870) (My Lost Old Age).

We work so hard, we age so soon,

We live so swiftly, one and all,

That ere our day be fairly noon,

The shadows eastward seem to fall.

Some tender light may gild them yet,

As yet, ’tis not soverycold,

And, on the whole, Iwon’tregret

My slender chance of growing old.

W. J. Prowse(1836-1870) (My Lost Old Age).

Prowse wrote excellent verses before he was 20 and he died at 34.

Calm Soul of all things! make it mineTo feel, amid the city’s jar,That there abides a peace of thineMan did not make, and cannot mar.Matthew Arnold(Lines written in Kensington Gardens).

Calm Soul of all things! make it mineTo feel, amid the city’s jar,That there abides a peace of thineMan did not make, and cannot mar.

Calm Soul of all things! make it mine

To feel, amid the city’s jar,

That there abides a peace of thine

Man did not make, and cannot mar.

Matthew Arnold(Lines written in Kensington Gardens).

A woman needs to be wooed long after she is won, and the husband who ceases to court his wife is courting disaster.

Author not traced.

TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEASHORE

Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?Who hid such import in an infant’s gloom?Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?Who mass’d, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?...Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known:Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own:Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.Some exile’s, mindful how the past was glad?Some angel’s, in an alien planet born?—No exile’s dream was ever half so sad,Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn.Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weighLife well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;But in disdainful silence turn away,Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope,Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give—Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,Forseen thy harvest, yet proceed’st to live....Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star,Match that funereal aspect with her pall,I think, thou wilt have fathom’d life too far,Have known too much—or else forgotten all.The Guide of our dark steps a triple veilBetwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;Hath sown with cloudless passages the taleOf grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,Not daily labour’s dull, Lethaean spring,Oblivion in lost angels can infuseOf the soil’d glory, and the trailing wing;And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may.In the throng’d fields where winning comes by strife;And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life; ...Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern,Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain!Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return,And wear this majesty of grief again.Matthew Arnold.

Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?Who hid such import in an infant’s gloom?Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?Who mass’d, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?...

Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?

Who hid such import in an infant’s gloom?

Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?

Who mass’d, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?...

Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known:Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own:Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.

Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known:

Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.

Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own:

Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.

What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.

What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?

His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,

Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?

—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.

Some exile’s, mindful how the past was glad?Some angel’s, in an alien planet born?—No exile’s dream was ever half so sad,Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn.

Some exile’s, mindful how the past was glad?

Some angel’s, in an alien planet born?

—No exile’s dream was ever half so sad,

Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn.

Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weighLife well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;But in disdainful silence turn away,Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?

Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh

Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;

But in disdainful silence turn away,

Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?

Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope,Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give—Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,Forseen thy harvest, yet proceed’st to live....

Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope,

Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give

—Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,

Forseen thy harvest, yet proceed’st to live....

Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star,Match that funereal aspect with her pall,I think, thou wilt have fathom’d life too far,Have known too much—or else forgotten all.

Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star,

Match that funereal aspect with her pall,

I think, thou wilt have fathom’d life too far,

Have known too much—or else forgotten all.

The Guide of our dark steps a triple veilBetwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;Hath sown with cloudless passages the taleOf grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.

The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil

Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;

Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale

Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.

Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,Not daily labour’s dull, Lethaean spring,Oblivion in lost angels can infuseOf the soil’d glory, and the trailing wing;

Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,

Not daily labour’s dull, Lethaean spring,

Oblivion in lost angels can infuse

Of the soil’d glory, and the trailing wing;

And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may.In the throng’d fields where winning comes by strife;And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life; ...

And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may.

In the throng’d fields where winning comes by strife;

And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,

Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life; ...

Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern,Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain!Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return,And wear this majesty of grief again.

Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern,

Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain!

Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return,

And wear this majesty of grief again.

Matthew Arnold.

Animula, vagula, blandula.Hospes, comesque corporis,Quae nunc abibis in loca,Pallidula, frigida, nudula;Nec, ut soles, dabis joca!Spartianus(Life of Hadrian).

Animula, vagula, blandula.Hospes, comesque corporis,Quae nunc abibis in loca,Pallidula, frigida, nudula;Nec, ut soles, dabis joca!

Animula, vagula, blandula.

Hospes, comesque corporis,

Quae nunc abibis in loca,

Pallidula, frigida, nudula;

Nec, ut soles, dabis joca!

Spartianus(Life of Hadrian).

These lines, put into the mouth of the dying Emperor, have been translated by Vaughan, Prior, Byron and others. Mr. Clodd (The Question—If a Man Die) gives this version, without naming the translator:—Soul of mine, thou fleeting, clinging thing,Long my body’s mate and guest,Ah! now whither wilt thou wing,Pallid, naked, shivering,Never more to speak and jest.In all these versionspallidula, etc., are applied toanimula, but, as Mr. Alfred S. West points out to me, they appear to be epithets oflocathus:—“Fleeting, winsome soul, my body’s guest and comrade, that art now about to set out for regions wan, cold and bare, no more to jest according to thy wont.”

Soul of mine, thou fleeting, clinging thing,Long my body’s mate and guest,Ah! now whither wilt thou wing,Pallid, naked, shivering,Never more to speak and jest.

Soul of mine, thou fleeting, clinging thing,

Long my body’s mate and guest,

Ah! now whither wilt thou wing,

Pallid, naked, shivering,

Never more to speak and jest.

In all these versionspallidula, etc., are applied toanimula, but, as Mr. Alfred S. West points out to me, they appear to be epithets oflocathus:—“Fleeting, winsome soul, my body’s guest and comrade, that art now about to set out for regions wan, cold and bare, no more to jest according to thy wont.”

This wretched Inn, where we scarce stay to bait,We call our Dwelling-place:But angels in their full enlightened state,Angels, who Live, and know what ’tis to Be,Who all the nonsense of our language see,Who speakthings, and ourwords—their ill-drawn pictures—scorn,When we, by a foolish figure, say,“Behold an old man dead!” then theySpeak properly, and cry, “Behold a man-child born!”Abraham Cowley, 1618-1667 (Life).

This wretched Inn, where we scarce stay to bait,

We call our Dwelling-place:

But angels in their full enlightened state,

Angels, who Live, and know what ’tis to Be,

Who all the nonsense of our language see,

Who speakthings, and ourwords—their ill-drawn pictures—scorn,

When we, by a foolish figure, say,

“Behold an old man dead!” then they

Speak properly, and cry, “Behold a man-child born!”

Abraham Cowley, 1618-1667 (Life).

Here now I am: the house is fast;I am shut in from all but Thee;Great witness of my privacy,Dare I unshamed my soul undress,And, like a child, seek Thy caress,Thou Ruler of a realm so vast?T. T. Lynch.

Here now I am: the house is fast;I am shut in from all but Thee;Great witness of my privacy,Dare I unshamed my soul undress,And, like a child, seek Thy caress,Thou Ruler of a realm so vast?

Here now I am: the house is fast;

I am shut in from all but Thee;

Great witness of my privacy,

Dare I unshamed my soul undress,

And, like a child, seek Thy caress,

Thou Ruler of a realm so vast?

T. T. Lynch.

The dog walked off to play with a black beetle. The beetle was hard at work trying to roll home a great ball of dung it had been collecting all the morning; but Doss broke the ball, and ate the beetle’s hind legs, and then bit off its head. And it was all play, and no one could tell what it had lived and worked for. A striving, and a striving, and an ending in nothing.

Olive Schreiner(The Story of an African Farm).

The author is depicting the sadness of life.

GRACE FOR A CHILD

Here a little child I stand,Heaving up my either hand;Cold as Paddocks though they be, frogsHere I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fall blessingOn our meat, and on us all.Amen.Robert Herrick(1591-1674).

Here a little child I stand,Heaving up my either hand;Cold as Paddocks though they be, frogsHere I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fall blessingOn our meat, and on us all.Amen.

Here a little child I stand,

Heaving up my either hand;

Cold as Paddocks though they be, frogs

Here I lift them up to Thee,

For a benison to fall blessing

On our meat, and on us all.Amen.

Robert Herrick(1591-1674).

As the moon’s soft splendourO’er the faint cold starlight of HeavenIs thrown,So your voice most tenderTo the strings without soul had then givenIts own....Though the sound overpowers,Sing again, with your dear voice revealingA toneOf some world far from ours,Where music and moonlight and feelingAre one.Shelley(To Jane).

As the moon’s soft splendourO’er the faint cold starlight of HeavenIs thrown,So your voice most tenderTo the strings without soul had then givenIts own....

As the moon’s soft splendour

O’er the faint cold starlight of Heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own....

Though the sound overpowers,Sing again, with your dear voice revealingA toneOf some world far from ours,Where music and moonlight and feelingAre one.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

Shelley(To Jane).

While I listen to thy voice,Chloris! I feel my life decay:That pow’rful noiseCalls my fleeting soul away.Oh! suppress that magic sound,Which destroys without a wound.Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die;That, together, you and ITo heaven may go:For all we knowOf what the Blessèd do aboveIs, that they sing, and that they love.Edmund Waller(1606-1687).

While I listen to thy voice,Chloris! I feel my life decay:That pow’rful noiseCalls my fleeting soul away.Oh! suppress that magic sound,Which destroys without a wound.

While I listen to thy voice,

Chloris! I feel my life decay:

That pow’rful noise

Calls my fleeting soul away.

Oh! suppress that magic sound,

Which destroys without a wound.

Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die;That, together, you and ITo heaven may go:For all we knowOf what the Blessèd do aboveIs, that they sing, and that they love.

Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die;

That, together, you and I

To heaven may go:

For all we know

Of what the Blessèd do above

Is, that they sing, and that they love.

Edmund Waller(1606-1687).

To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old.

O. W. Holmes.

From letter to Julia Ward Howe in 1889 on her seventieth birthday. Mrs. Howe wrote the fine “Battle Hymn of the American Republic,” beginning:—Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:His truth is marching on.

From letter to Julia Ward Howe in 1889 on her seventieth birthday. Mrs. Howe wrote the fine “Battle Hymn of the American Republic,” beginning:—

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:His truth is marching on.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

INSOMNIA

A house of sleepers, I alone unblestAm still awake and empty vigil keep:When those who share Life’s day with me find rest,Oh, let me not be last to fall, asleep.Anna Reeve Aldrich.

A house of sleepers, I alone unblestAm still awake and empty vigil keep:When those who share Life’s day with me find rest,Oh, let me not be last to fall, asleep.

A house of sleepers, I alone unblest

Am still awake and empty vigil keep:

When those who share Life’s day with me find rest,

Oh, let me not be last to fall, asleep.

Anna Reeve Aldrich.

She did “fall asleep” at the early age of twenty-six in June, 1892.

The world is full of willing people: some willing to work, and the rest willing to let them.

Author not traced.

“THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY”

What we, when face to face we seeThe Father of our souls, shall be,John tells us, doth not yet appear;Ah! did he tell what we are here!A mind for thoughts to pass into,A heart for loves to travel through,Five senses to detect things near,Is this the whole that we are here?Ah yet, when all is thought and saidThe heart still overrules the head;Still what we hope we must believe,And what is given us receive;Must still believe, for still we hopeThat in a world of larger scope,What here is faithfully begunWill be completed, not undone.My child, we still must think, when weThat ampler life together see,Some true result will yet appearOf what we are, together, here.A. H. Clough.

What we, when face to face we seeThe Father of our souls, shall be,John tells us, doth not yet appear;Ah! did he tell what we are here!

What we, when face to face we see

The Father of our souls, shall be,

John tells us, doth not yet appear;

Ah! did he tell what we are here!

A mind for thoughts to pass into,A heart for loves to travel through,Five senses to detect things near,Is this the whole that we are here?

A mind for thoughts to pass into,

A heart for loves to travel through,

Five senses to detect things near,

Is this the whole that we are here?

Ah yet, when all is thought and saidThe heart still overrules the head;Still what we hope we must believe,And what is given us receive;

Ah yet, when all is thought and said

The heart still overrules the head;

Still what we hope we must believe,

And what is given us receive;

Must still believe, for still we hopeThat in a world of larger scope,What here is faithfully begunWill be completed, not undone.

Must still believe, for still we hope

That in a world of larger scope,

What here is faithfully begun

Will be completed, not undone.

My child, we still must think, when weThat ampler life together see,Some true result will yet appearOf what we are, together, here.

My child, we still must think, when we

That ampler life together see,

Some true result will yet appear

Of what we are, together, here.

A. H. Clough.

Plus je vois les hommes, plus j’admire les chiens.

(The more I see of men, the more I admire dogs.)

Author not traced.

He who doth not smoke hath either known no great griefs, or refuseth himself the softest consolation next to that which cometh from heaven. “What, softer than woman?” whispers the young reader. Young reader, woman teases as well as consoles. Woman makes half the sorrows which she boasts the privilege of soothing. On the whole, then, woman in this scale, the weed in that—Jupiter!hang out thy balance and weigh them both; and, if thou give the preference to woman, all I can say is, the next time Juno ruffles thee, O Jupiter,try the weed!

Bulwer Lytton(What will He do with It?)

Compare Kipling in “The Betrothed”:—A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.

Compare Kipling in “The Betrothed”:—

A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.

Il y a toujours l’un qui baise, et l’autre qui tend la joue.

(There is always one who kisses and the other who offers the cheek.)

Author not traced.

Ah, wasteful woman, she who mayOn her sweet self set her own price,Knowing he cannot choose but pay,How has she cheapen’d paradise;How given for nought her priceless gift,How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine,Which, spent with due respective thrift,Had made brutes men, and men divine!C. Patmore(The Angel in the House).

Ah, wasteful woman, she who may

On her sweet self set her own price,

Knowing he cannot choose but pay,

How has she cheapen’d paradise;

How given for nought her priceless gift,

How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine,

Which, spent with due respective thrift,

Had made brutes men, and men divine!

C. Patmore(The Angel in the House).

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think—More than I merit, yes, by many times.But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow,And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,And the low voice my soul hears, as a birdThe fowler’s pipe and follows to the snare—Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged“God and the glory! never care for gain.”I might have done it for you.R. Browning(Andrea del Sarto).

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think—

More than I merit, yes, by many times.

But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow,

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,

And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird

The fowler’s pipe and follows to the snare—

Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!

Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged

“God and the glory! never care for gain.”

I might have done it for you.

R. Browning(Andrea del Sarto).

The painter says that his wife, instead of urging him to work for immediate gain, might have incited him to nobler efforts.

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS

Once on a time, when sunny MayWas kissing up the April showers,I saw fair Childhood hard at playUpon a bank of blushing flowers;Happy—he knew not whence or how—And smiling,—who could choose but love him?For not more glad than Childhood’s brow,Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.Old Time, in most appalling wrath,That valley’s green repose invaded;The brooks grew dry upon his path,The birds were mute, the lilies faded.But Time so swiftly winged his flight,In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,That Childhood watched his paper kite,And knew just nothing of the matter....Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,And proffered him a fearful cupFull to the brim of bitter water:Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;And when the beldame muttered, “Sorrow,”He said, “Don’t interrupt my game;I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.” ...Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,And taught him with most sage endeavour,Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,And why no toy may last for ever.She talked of all the wondrous lawsWhich Nature’s open book discloses,And Childhood, ere she made a pauseWas fast asleep among the roses.Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood’s dreamsAre all of earthly pain or pleasure,Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:But to the couch where Childhood liesA more delicious trance is given,Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,And glimpses of remembered Heaven!W. M. Praed.

Once on a time, when sunny May

Was kissing up the April showers,

I saw fair Childhood hard at play

Upon a bank of blushing flowers;

Happy—he knew not whence or how—

And smiling,—who could choose but love him?

For not more glad than Childhood’s brow,

Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,That valley’s green repose invaded;The brooks grew dry upon his path,The birds were mute, the lilies faded.But Time so swiftly winged his flight,In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,That Childhood watched his paper kite,And knew just nothing of the matter....

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,

That valley’s green repose invaded;

The brooks grew dry upon his path,

The birds were mute, the lilies faded.

But Time so swiftly winged his flight,

In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,

That Childhood watched his paper kite,

And knew just nothing of the matter....

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,And proffered him a fearful cupFull to the brim of bitter water:Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;And when the beldame muttered, “Sorrow,”He said, “Don’t interrupt my game;I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.” ...

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,

And proffered him a fearful cup

Full to the brim of bitter water:

Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;

And when the beldame muttered, “Sorrow,”

He said, “Don’t interrupt my game;

I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.” ...

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,And taught him with most sage endeavour,Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,And why no toy may last for ever.She talked of all the wondrous lawsWhich Nature’s open book discloses,And Childhood, ere she made a pauseWas fast asleep among the roses.

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,

And taught him with most sage endeavour,

Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,

And why no toy may last for ever.

She talked of all the wondrous laws

Which Nature’s open book discloses,

And Childhood, ere she made a pause

Was fast asleep among the roses.

Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood’s dreamsAre all of earthly pain or pleasure,Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:But to the couch where Childhood liesA more delicious trance is given,Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood’s dreams

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,

Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:

But to the couch where Childhood lies

A more delicious trance is given,

Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,

And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

W. M. Praed.

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