Chapter 16

Alas, how easily things go wrong!A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,And life is never the same again.G. MacDonald(Phantastes).

Alas, how easily things go wrong!A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,And life is never the same again.

Alas, how easily things go wrong!

A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,

And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,

And life is never the same again.

G. MacDonald(Phantastes).

L’ENVOI

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yieldAnd the ricks stand grey to the sun,Singing:—“Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the cloverAnd your English summer’s done.”You have heard the beat of the off-shore windAnd the thresh of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,We’ve seen the seasons through,And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sunOr South to the blind Horn’s hate;Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,Or West to the Golden Gate;Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,And the wildest tales are true,And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea rollOf a black Bilboa tramp;With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,And a drunken Dago crew,And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trailFrom Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,Or the way of a man with a maid;But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the seaIn the heel of the North-East trade,Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,And the drum of the racing screw,As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,And the fenders grind and heave,And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new....O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,And the sirens hoot their dread!When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deepTo the sob of the questing lead!It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,With the Gunfleet Sands in view,Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of lightThat holds the hot sky tame,And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floorsWhere the scared whale flukes in flame!Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,And her ropes are taut with the dew,For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Then home, get her home, when the drunken rollers comb,And the shouting seas drive by,And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,And the Southern Cross rides high!Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,That blaze in the velvet blue,They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—We’re steaming all too slow,And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isleWhere the trumpet-orchids blow!You have heard the call of the off-shore windAnd the voice of the deep-sea rain:You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,And the deuce knows what we may do—But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Rudyard Kipling.

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield

And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

Singing:—“Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover

And your English summer’s done.”

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song—how long! how long!

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,We’ve seen the seasons through,And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We’ve seen the seasons through,

And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sunOr South to the blind Horn’s hate;Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,Or West to the Golden Gate;Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,And the wildest tales are true,And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun

Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea rollOf a black Bilboa tramp;With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,And a drunken Dago crew,And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trailFrom Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilboa tramp;

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,Or the way of a man with a maid;But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the seaIn the heel of the North-East trade,Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,And the drum of the racing screw,As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea

In the heel of the North-East trade,

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,

And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,And the fenders grind and heave,And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new....

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,

It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”

And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new....

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,And the sirens hoot their dread!When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deepTo the sob of the questing lead!It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,With the Gunfleet Sands in view,Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep

To the sob of the questing lead!

It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Gunfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of lightThat holds the hot sky tame,And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floorsWhere the scared whale flukes in flame!Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,And her ropes are taut with the dew,For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, when the drunken rollers comb,And the shouting seas drive by,And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,And the Southern Cross rides high!Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,That blaze in the velvet blue,They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, when the drunken rollers comb,

And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

That blaze in the velvet blue,

They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—We’re steaming all too slow,And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isleWhere the trumpet-orchids blow!You have heard the call of the off-shore windAnd the voice of the deep-sea rain:You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—

We’re steaming all too slow,

And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind

And the voice of the deep-sea rain:

You have heard the song—how long! how long!

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,And the deuce knows what we may do—But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And the deuce knows what we may do—

But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Rudyard Kipling.

A great sea-song; we are on board passing through scene after scene and feeling the very movement of the ship and its gear.

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!Thou soul that art the eternity of thoughtThat givest to forms and images a breathAnd everlasting motion, not in vainBy day or star-light thus from my first dawnOf childhood didst thou intertwine for meThe passions that build up our human soul;Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,But with high objects, with enduring things—With life and nature—purifying thusThe elements of feeling and of thought,And sanctifying, by such discipline,Both pain and fear, until we recognizeA grandeur in the beatings of the heart.Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. I).

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!

Thou soul that art the eternity of thought

That givest to forms and images a breath

And everlasting motion, not in vain

By day or star-light thus from my first dawn

Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me

The passions that build up our human soul;

Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,

But with high objects, with enduring things—

With life and nature—purifying thus

The elements of feeling and of thought,

And sanctifying, by such discipline,

Both pain and fear, until we recognize

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. I).

The Quakers have contracted themselves too much by leaving the works of God out of their system. Though I reverence their philanthropy, I can not help smiling at the conceit, that, if the taste of a Quaker could have been consulted at the creation, what a silent and drab-coloured creation it would have been! Not a flower would have blossomed its gaieties, nor a bird been permitted to sing.

Thomas Paine(The Age of Reason).

This quotation reminds me of an interesting passage in Professor Bateson’s Presidential Address to the British Association at Melbourne in 1914. Although it has not a very close connection with the quotation the reader will not object to my giving it a place here:—“Everyone must have a preliminary sympathy with the aims of eugenists both abroad and at home. Their efforts at the least are doing something to discover and spread truth as to the physiological structure of society. The spread of such organizations, however, almost of necessity suffers from a bias towards the accepted and the ordinary, and if they had power it would go hard with many ingredients of society that could be ill-spared. I notice an ominous passage in which even Galton, the founder of eugenics, feeling perhaps some twinge of his Quaker ancestry, remarks that ‘as the Bohemianism in the nature of our race is destined to perish, the sooner it goes, the happier for mankind.’ It is not the eugenists who will give us what Plato has called ‘divine releases from the common ways.’ If some fancier with the catholicity of Shakespeare would take us in hand, well and good; but I would not trust Shakespeares,meeting as a committee. Let us remember that Beethoven’s father was an habitual drunkard and that his mother died of consumption. From the genealogy of the patriarchs also we learn—what may very well be the truth—that the fathers of such as dwell in tents, and of all such as handle the harp or organ, and the instructor of every artificer in brass or iron—the founders, that is to say, of the arts and the sciences—came in direct descent from Cain, and not in the posterity of the irreproachable Seth, who is to us, as he probably was also in the narrow circle of his own contemporaries, what naturalists call anomen nudum.”Nomen nudumis a bare name without further particulars, but Donne, no doubt on the authority of Josephus (I. 2.3), attributes Astronomy to Seth (“The Progresse of the Soule”):—Wonder with meeWhy plowing, building, ruling and the rest,Or most of those Arts whence our lives are blest,By cursed Cain’s race invented be,And blest Seth vext us with Astronomie.Donne (1573-1631) is “vext” with Astronomy, presumably because at that time Kepler (1571-1630) and Galileo (1564-1642) were affirming the Copernican system and making other discoveries supposed to be dangerous to religion.

“Everyone must have a preliminary sympathy with the aims of eugenists both abroad and at home. Their efforts at the least are doing something to discover and spread truth as to the physiological structure of society. The spread of such organizations, however, almost of necessity suffers from a bias towards the accepted and the ordinary, and if they had power it would go hard with many ingredients of society that could be ill-spared. I notice an ominous passage in which even Galton, the founder of eugenics, feeling perhaps some twinge of his Quaker ancestry, remarks that ‘as the Bohemianism in the nature of our race is destined to perish, the sooner it goes, the happier for mankind.’ It is not the eugenists who will give us what Plato has called ‘divine releases from the common ways.’ If some fancier with the catholicity of Shakespeare would take us in hand, well and good; but I would not trust Shakespeares,meeting as a committee. Let us remember that Beethoven’s father was an habitual drunkard and that his mother died of consumption. From the genealogy of the patriarchs also we learn—what may very well be the truth—that the fathers of such as dwell in tents, and of all such as handle the harp or organ, and the instructor of every artificer in brass or iron—the founders, that is to say, of the arts and the sciences—came in direct descent from Cain, and not in the posterity of the irreproachable Seth, who is to us, as he probably was also in the narrow circle of his own contemporaries, what naturalists call anomen nudum.”

Nomen nudumis a bare name without further particulars, but Donne, no doubt on the authority of Josephus (I. 2.3), attributes Astronomy to Seth (“The Progresse of the Soule”):—

Wonder with meeWhy plowing, building, ruling and the rest,Or most of those Arts whence our lives are blest,By cursed Cain’s race invented be,And blest Seth vext us with Astronomie.

Wonder with mee

Why plowing, building, ruling and the rest,

Or most of those Arts whence our lives are blest,

By cursed Cain’s race invented be,

And blest Seth vext us with Astronomie.

Donne (1573-1631) is “vext” with Astronomy, presumably because at that time Kepler (1571-1630) and Galileo (1564-1642) were affirming the Copernican system and making other discoveries supposed to be dangerous to religion.

Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be theyWho kissed his wings which brought him yesterdayAnd thank his wings to-day that he is flown.D. G. Rossetti(Love’s Lovers).

Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be theyWho kissed his wings which brought him yesterdayAnd thank his wings to-day that he is flown.

Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be they

Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday

And thank his wings to-day that he is flown.

D. G. Rossetti(Love’s Lovers).

A SONNET

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:And one is of an old half-witted sheepWhich bleats articulate monotony,And indicates that two and one are three,That grass is green, lakes damp and mountains steep:And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain timesForth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:At other times—good Lord! I’d rather beQuite unacquainted with the A.B.C.Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.James Kenneth Stephen(1859-1893).

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;

It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,

Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,

Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:

And one is of an old half-witted sheep

Which bleats articulate monotony,

And indicates that two and one are three,

That grass is green, lakes damp and mountains steep:

And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times

Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,

The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:

At other times—good Lord! I’d rather be

Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C.

Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

James Kenneth Stephen(1859-1893).

“Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,” is Wordsworth’s fine sonnet on the subjugation of Switzerland.It is certainly extraordinary how the great poet at times dropped into the most prosaic language and commonplace verse. This, however, was only in his earlier poems and only in a few of those poems. His theory at that time was that poetic language should be natural, such as used by ordinary men, and not essentially different from prose. Actually, however, at the root of the matter was his want of any sense of humour. Only so can we account for his beginning a poem “Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,” or writing absurdly babyish verses. The one instance on record in which he did apparently exhibit a grotesque kind of humour was in a verse ofPeter Bell:—Is it a party in a parlour?Cramm’d just as they on earth were cramm’d—Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,But, as you by their faces see,All silent and all damn’d.But this he no doubt wrote quite seriously and without any idea that the verse was humorous. Shelley placed this verse at the head of his parody ofPeter Bell, and Wordsworth omitted it from the poem after 1819.

“Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,” is Wordsworth’s fine sonnet on the subjugation of Switzerland.

It is certainly extraordinary how the great poet at times dropped into the most prosaic language and commonplace verse. This, however, was only in his earlier poems and only in a few of those poems. His theory at that time was that poetic language should be natural, such as used by ordinary men, and not essentially different from prose. Actually, however, at the root of the matter was his want of any sense of humour. Only so can we account for his beginning a poem “Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,” or writing absurdly babyish verses. The one instance on record in which he did apparently exhibit a grotesque kind of humour was in a verse ofPeter Bell:—

Is it a party in a parlour?Cramm’d just as they on earth were cramm’d—Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,But, as you by their faces see,All silent and all damn’d.

Is it a party in a parlour?

Cramm’d just as they on earth were cramm’d—

Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,

But, as you by their faces see,

All silent and all damn’d.

But this he no doubt wrote quite seriously and without any idea that the verse was humorous. Shelley placed this verse at the head of his parody ofPeter Bell, and Wordsworth omitted it from the poem after 1819.

And, were I not, as a man may say, cautiousHow I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,I could favour you with sundry touchesOf the paint-smutches with which the DuchessHeightened the mellowness of her cheek’s yellowness(To get on faster) until at last herCheek grew to be one master-plasterOf mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse;In short, she grew from scalp to udderJust the object to make you shudder.R. Browning(The Flight of the Duchess).

And, were I not, as a man may say, cautious

How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,

I could favour you with sundry touches

Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess

Heightened the mellowness of her cheek’s yellowness

(To get on faster) until at last her

Cheek grew to be one master-plaster

Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse;

In short, she grew from scalp to udder

Just the object to make you shudder.

R. Browning(The Flight of the Duchess).

Day is dying! Float, O Song,Down the westward river,Requiem chanting to the Day—Day, the mighty Giver.Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,Melted rubies sendingThrough the river and the sky,Earth and heaven blending;All the long-drawn earthy banksUp to cloud-land lifting:Slow between them drifts the swan,’Twixt two heavens drifting.Wings half open, like a flow’rInly deeper flushing,Neck and breast as virgin’s pure—Virgin proudly blushing.Day is dying! Float, O swan,Down the ruby river;Follow, song, in requiemTo the mighty Giver.George Eliot(The Spanish Gypsy).

Day is dying! Float, O Song,Down the westward river,Requiem chanting to the Day—Day, the mighty Giver.

Day is dying! Float, O Song,

Down the westward river,

Requiem chanting to the Day—

Day, the mighty Giver.

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,Melted rubies sendingThrough the river and the sky,Earth and heaven blending;

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,

Melted rubies sending

Through the river and the sky,

Earth and heaven blending;

All the long-drawn earthy banksUp to cloud-land lifting:Slow between them drifts the swan,’Twixt two heavens drifting.

All the long-drawn earthy banks

Up to cloud-land lifting:

Slow between them drifts the swan,

’Twixt two heavens drifting.

Wings half open, like a flow’rInly deeper flushing,Neck and breast as virgin’s pure—Virgin proudly blushing.

Wings half open, like a flow’r

Inly deeper flushing,

Neck and breast as virgin’s pure—

Virgin proudly blushing.

Day is dying! Float, O swan,Down the ruby river;Follow, song, in requiemTo the mighty Giver.

Day is dying! Float, O swan,

Down the ruby river;

Follow, song, in requiem

To the mighty Giver.

George Eliot(The Spanish Gypsy).

Nature, and nature’s laws, lay hid in night:God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.Pope

Nature, and nature’s laws, lay hid in night:God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.

Nature, and nature’s laws, lay hid in night:

God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.

Pope

Whatever crazy sorrow saith,No life that breathes with human breathHas ever truly longed for death.’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,Oh, life, not death, for which we pant;More life, and fuller, that we want.Tennyson(The Two Voices).

Whatever crazy sorrow saith,No life that breathes with human breathHas ever truly longed for death.

Whatever crazy sorrow saith,

No life that breathes with human breath

Has ever truly longed for death.

’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,Oh, life, not death, for which we pant;More life, and fuller, that we want.

’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,

Oh, life, not death, for which we pant;

More life, and fuller, that we want.

Tennyson(The Two Voices).

It is, perhaps, true that no one at any time longs for death; and that our desire is for “more lifeand fuller.” But men have for various reasons longedto die, though they may not have longed fordeath. There are those to whom the remainder of life will be one torment of pain to themselves and a continuous mental distress to their friends; and there have been men of firm religious belief who desired to pass into a noblerlifebeyond the grave. Again, Richard Hodgson definitely assured me in 1897 that hewished to die. He was absolutely satisfied with the evidence of survival after death, which he had had in connection with the Society for Psychical Research; and his desire was to “pass over” and be with the friends with whom for years he had been in communication. Hodgson was incapable of saying anything insincere.

Remember what Simonides said—that he never repented that he had held his tongue, but often that he had spoken.

Plutarch(Morals).

Not the truth of which a man is or believes himself to be possessed, but the earnest efforts which he has made to attain truth, make the worth of the man. For it is not through the possession of, but through the search for truth, that he develops those powers in which alone consists his ever-growing perfection. Possession makes the mind stagnant, indolent, proud.

If God held in His right hand all truth, and in His left the ever-living desire for truth—although with the condition that I should remain in error for ever—and if He said to me “Choose,” I should humbly bow before His left hand, and say “Father, give; pure truth is for Thee alone.”

Lessing(1729-1781)Wolfenbüttel Fragments

When Lessing wrote this famous passage he was contending that criticism should be absolutely free in regard to religious, as to all other, subjects. “The argument on which he chiefly relies is that the Bible cannot be considered necessary to a belief in Christianity, since Christianity was a living and conquering power before the New Testament in its present form was recognised by the church. The true evidence for what is essential in Christianity, he contends, is its adaptation to the wants of human nature; hence the religious spirit is undisturbed by the speculations of the boldest thinkers.” (Encyclopaedia Britannica).

The light of every soul burns upward. Let us allow for atmospheric disturbance.

G. Meredith(Diana of the Crossways).

Human life may be painted according to two methods. There is the stage method. According to that, each character is duly marshalled at first, and ticketed; we know with an immutable certainty that, at the right crises, each one will reappear and act his part, and, when the curtain falls, all will stand before it bowing. There is a sense of satisfaction in this—and of completeness. But there is another method—the method of the life we all lead. Here nothing can be prophesied. There is a strange coming and going of feet. Men appear, act and re-act upon each other, and pass away. When the crisis comes, the man who would fit it does not return. When the curtain falls, no one is ready. When the footlights are brightest they are blown out; and what the name of the play is no one knows. If there sits a spectator who knows, he sits so high that the players in the gaslight cannot hear his breathing.

Olive Schreiner(The Story of an African Farm).

This is from the preface to the second edition. This book must be unique, for surely no other girl in her teens has written a book so brilliant in itself and indicating such originality and genius. It is a great loss to literature that the writer became entirely absorbed in South African politics and controversy.

I never knew any man in my life who could not bear another’s misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.

Alexander Pope.

NIGHT AND DEATH

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knewThee from report divine, and heard thy name,Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,This glorious canopy of light and blue?Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew,Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,Hesperus with the host of heaven came,And lo! creation widened in man’s view.Who could have thought such darkness lay concealedWithin thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife?If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?J. Blanco White(1775-1841).

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew

Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,

This glorious canopy of light and blue?

Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus with the host of heaven came,

And lo! creation widened in man’s view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,

Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!

Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife?

If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

J. Blanco White(1775-1841).

(See preface.) This sonnet, apart from its great excellence, is a remarkable literary curiosity. By this one poem alone Blanco White achieved a lasting reputation as a poet. The point is that this ishis only poem. He certainly had previously written a sonnet of little merit on survival after death, but “Night and Death” was apparently an inspired transfiguration of his earlier effort. It is a startling instance of inspiration coming to a man once only in his life—and then coming in its very highest form. There are other poets, whose work is generally of poor quality, but who have each produced one surprisingly good poem which alone keeps their memory alive. An instance of this is Christopher Smart (1722-1771), who wrote several volumes of verse but only one fine poem, the “Song of David.” Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) is also known only by his “Burial of Sir John Moore,” but his other poems, though forgotten, are said to have had some merit.The sonnet is also interesting for another reason. White’s family had settled in Spain for two generations, his grandfather having changed his name to Blanco. His mother was Spanish, he was educated in Spain, and became a Spanish priest, and he did not leave for England until 1810, when thirty-five years of age. Yet White’s beautiful thought could hardly be expressed in finer language. There is, however, one defect in the words “fly and leaf and insect.” (William Sharp courageously altered “fly” into “flower.”)Coleridge thought this “the finest and most grandly conceived sonnet in our language.” Leigh Hunt said that in point of thought it “stands supreme, perhaps, above all in any language: nor can we ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a reverence.”

The sonnet is also interesting for another reason. White’s family had settled in Spain for two generations, his grandfather having changed his name to Blanco. His mother was Spanish, he was educated in Spain, and became a Spanish priest, and he did not leave for England until 1810, when thirty-five years of age. Yet White’s beautiful thought could hardly be expressed in finer language. There is, however, one defect in the words “fly and leaf and insect.” (William Sharp courageously altered “fly” into “flower.”)

Coleridge thought this “the finest and most grandly conceived sonnet in our language.” Leigh Hunt said that in point of thought it “stands supreme, perhaps, above all in any language: nor can we ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a reverence.”

I sleep, I eat and drink, I read and meditate, I walk in my neighbour’s pleasant fields and see the varieties of natural beauties, and delight in all that in which God delights—that is, in virtueand wisdom, in the whole creation, and in God Himself. And he, that hath so many causes of joy, and so great, is very much in love with sorrow and peevishness, who loses all these pleasures, and chooses to sit down upon his little handful of thorns.

Jeremy Taylor.

In my Progress travelling Northward,Taking farewell of the Southward,To Banbury came I, O prophane-One!Where I saw a Puritane-OneHanging of his Cat on Monday,For killing of a Mouse on Sunday.R. Brathwaite(1638) (Drunken Barnaby).

In my Progress travelling Northward,Taking farewell of the Southward,To Banbury came I, O prophane-One!Where I saw a Puritane-OneHanging of his Cat on Monday,For killing of a Mouse on Sunday.

In my Progress travelling Northward,

Taking farewell of the Southward,

To Banbury came I, O prophane-One!

Where I saw a Puritane-One

Hanging of his Cat on Monday,

For killing of a Mouse on Sunday.

R. Brathwaite(1638) (Drunken Barnaby).

O the Spring will come,And once again the wind be in the West,Breathing the odour of the sea; and life,Life that was ugly, and work that grew a curse,Be God’s best gifts again, and in your heartYou’ll find once more the dreams you thought were dead.H. D. Lowry(In Covent Garden).

O the Spring will come,

And once again the wind be in the West,

Breathing the odour of the sea; and life,

Life that was ugly, and work that grew a curse,

Be God’s best gifts again, and in your heart

You’ll find once more the dreams you thought were dead.

H. D. Lowry(In Covent Garden).

Of such as he was, there be few on Earth;Of such as he is, there are many in Heaven;And Life is all the sweeter that he lived,And all he loved more sacred for his sake:And Death is all the brighter that he died,And Heaven is all the happier that he’s there.Gerald Massey(In Memoriam).

Of such as he was, there be few on Earth;

Of such as he is, there are many in Heaven;

And Life is all the sweeter that he lived,

And all he loved more sacred for his sake:

And Death is all the brighter that he died,

And Heaven is all the happier that he’s there.

Gerald Massey(In Memoriam).

ONLY SEVEN

(A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth.)

I marvelled why a simple childThat lightly draws its breathShould utter groans so very wild,And look as pale as Death.Adopting a parental tone,I asked her why she cried;The damsel answered, with a groan,“I’ve got a pain inside.“I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven.”Said I, “What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?”She answered, “Only seven!”“And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?” quoth I.“Oh! please sir, mother gave me four,Buttheywere in a pie!”“If that’s the case,” I stammered out,“Of course you’ve had eleven.”The maiden answered, with a pout,“I ain’t had more nor seven!”I wondered hugely what she meant,And said, “I’m bad at riddles,But I know where little girls are sentFor telling tarrididdles.“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,“You’ll never go to heaven.”But all in vain; each time I try,That little idiot makes reply,“I ain’t had more nor seven”!

I marvelled why a simple childThat lightly draws its breathShould utter groans so very wild,And look as pale as Death.

I marvelled why a simple child

That lightly draws its breath

Should utter groans so very wild,

And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,I asked her why she cried;The damsel answered, with a groan,“I’ve got a pain inside.

Adopting a parental tone,

I asked her why she cried;

The damsel answered, with a groan,

“I’ve got a pain inside.

“I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven.”Said I, “What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?”She answered, “Only seven!”

“I thought it would have sent me mad

Last night about eleven.”

Said I, “What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?”

She answered, “Only seven!”

“And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?” quoth I.“Oh! please sir, mother gave me four,Buttheywere in a pie!”

“And are you sure you took no more,

My little maid?” quoth I.

“Oh! please sir, mother gave me four,

Buttheywere in a pie!”

“If that’s the case,” I stammered out,“Of course you’ve had eleven.”The maiden answered, with a pout,“I ain’t had more nor seven!”

“If that’s the case,” I stammered out,

“Of course you’ve had eleven.”

The maiden answered, with a pout,

“I ain’t had more nor seven!”

I wondered hugely what she meant,And said, “I’m bad at riddles,But I know where little girls are sentFor telling tarrididdles.

I wondered hugely what she meant,

And said, “I’m bad at riddles,

But I know where little girls are sent

For telling tarrididdles.

“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,“You’ll never go to heaven.”But all in vain; each time I try,That little idiot makes reply,“I ain’t had more nor seven”!

“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,

“You’ll never go to heaven.”

But all in vain; each time I try,

That little idiot makes reply,

“I ain’t had more nor seven”!

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I’d better call my song,“Lines afterAche-inside.”Henry Sambrooke Leigh.

To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I’d better call my song,“Lines afterAche-inside.”

To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I’d better call my song,

“Lines afterAche-inside.”

Henry Sambrooke Leigh.

It seems wicked to travesty Wordsworth’s tender little poem, but Leigh’s verses amused us greatly when they appeared. Mark Akenside (1721-1770) is a poet now almost forgotten.

The hour, which might have been, yet might not be,Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and boreYet whereof life was barren,—on what shoreBides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?D. G. Rossetti(Stillborn Love).

The hour, which might have been, yet might not be,Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and boreYet whereof life was barren,—on what shoreBides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?

The hour, which might have been, yet might not be,

Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore

Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore

Bides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?

D. G. Rossetti(Stillborn Love).

Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in those far-off days which live in us, and transform our perception into love.

George Eliot(Mill on the Floss).

The firmaments of daisies since to meHave had those mornings in their opening eyes;The bunched cowslip’s pale transparencyCarries that sunshine of sweet memories,And wild-rose branches take their finest scentFrom those blest hours of infantine content.George Eliot(Brother and Sister).

The firmaments of daisies since to me

Have had those mornings in their opening eyes;

The bunched cowslip’s pale transparency

Carries that sunshine of sweet memories,

And wild-rose branches take their finest scent

From those blest hours of infantine content.

George Eliot(Brother and Sister).

It will be observed that the thought is the same in both passages.

Get thee behind the man I am now,You man that I used to be.R. Browning(Martin Relph).

Get thee behind the man I am now,You man that I used to be.

Get thee behind the man I am now,

You man that I used to be.

R. Browning(Martin Relph).

For my own part, I could not look but with wonder and respect on the Chinese. Their forefathers watched the stars before mine had begun to keep pigs. Gunpowder and printing, which the other day we imitated, and a school of manners which we never had the delicacy so much as to desire to imitate, were theirs in a long-past antiquity. They walk the earth with us, but it seems they must be of different clay. They hear the clock strike thesame hour, yet surely of a different epoch. They travel by steam conveyance, yet with such baggage of old Asiatic thoughts and superstitions as might check the locomotive in its course. Whatever is thought within the circuit of the Great Wall; what the wry-eyed, spectacled schoolmaster teaches in the hamlets round Pekin; religions so old that our language looks a halfling boy alongside; philosophy so wise that our best philosophers find things therein to wonder at; all this travelled alongside of me for thousands of miles over plain and mountain. Heaven knows if we had one common thought or fancy all that way, or whether our eyes, which yet were formed upon the same design, beheld the same world out of the railway windows. And when either of us turned his thoughts to home and childhood, what a strange dissimilarity must there not have been in these pictures of the mind—when I beheld that old, gray, castled city, high throned above the firth, with the flag of Britain flying, and the red-coat sentry pacing over all; and the man in the next car to me would conjure up some junks and a pagoda and a fort of porcelain, and call it, with the same affection, home.

R. L. Stevenson(Across the Plains).

I always wanted to make a clean breast of it;And now it is made—why, my heart’s blood, that went trickle,Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets,Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,And genially floats me about the giblets.R. Browning(The Flight of the Duchess).

I always wanted to make a clean breast of it;

And now it is made—why, my heart’s blood, that went trickle,

Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets,

Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,

And genially floats me about the giblets.

R. Browning(The Flight of the Duchess).

A man should never be ashamed to own that he has been in the wrong, which is but saying that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday.

Alexander Pope.

We have all of us considerable regard for our past self, and are not fond of casting reflections on that respected individual by a total negation of his opinions.

George Eliot(Scenes from Clerical Life).

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main;And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes; comes in the light;In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!A. H. Clough.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,

The labour and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main;

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main;

And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes; comes in the light;In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes; comes in the light;

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!

But westward, look, the land is bright!

A. H. Clough.

The gravest fish is an oyster,The gravest bird is an owl,The gravest beast is a donkey,And the gravest man is a fool.Scotch Proverb.

The gravest fish is an oyster,The gravest bird is an owl,The gravest beast is a donkey,And the gravest man is a fool.

The gravest fish is an oyster,

The gravest bird is an owl,

The gravest beast is a donkey,

And the gravest man is a fool.

Scotch Proverb.

... FearNo petty customs nor appearances;But think what others only dreamed about;And say what others did but think; and doWhat others did but say; and glory inWhat others dared but do.Philip J. Bailey(My Lady).

... FearNo petty customs nor appearances;But think what others only dreamed about;And say what others did but think; and doWhat others did but say; and glory inWhat others dared but do.

... Fear

No petty customs nor appearances;

But think what others only dreamed about;

And say what others did but think; and do

What others did but say; and glory in

What others dared but do.

Philip J. Bailey(My Lady).

The Cynic in society becomes the Pessimist in religion. The large embrace of sympathy, which fails him as interpreter of human life, will no less be wanting when he reads the meaning of the universe. The harmony of the great whole escapes him in hishunt for little discords here and there. He is blind to the august balance of nature, in his preoccupation with some creaking show of defect. He misses the comprehensive march of advancing purpose, because while he himself is in it, he has found some halting member that seems to lag behind. He picks holes in the universal order; he winds through its tracks as a detective, and makes scandals of all that is not to his mind; trusts nothing that he cannot see: and he sees chiefly the exceptional, the dubious, the harsh. The glory of the midnight heavens affects him not, for thinking of a shattered planet or the uninhabitable moon. He makes more of the flood which sweeps the crop away, than of the perpetual river that feeds it year by year. For him the purple bloom upon the hills, peering through the young green woods, does but dress up a stony desert with deceitful beauty; and in the new birth of summer, he cannot yield himself to the exuberance of glad existence for wonder why insects tease and nettles sting. Nothing is so fair, nothing so imposing, as to beguile him into faith and hope.... In selfish minds the same temper resorts to the pettiest reasons for the most desolating thoughts: “If God were good, why should I be born with a club-foot? If the world were justly governed how could my merits be so long overlooked?”

J. Martineau(Hours of Thought, I, 97).

Reverting to this subject later, Martineau says (Hours of Thought II., 354) “Wherever he moves, he empties the space around him of its purest elements; with his low thought he roofs it over from the heavenly light and the sweet air; and then complains of the world as a close-breathed and stifling place.”

Cynicism is intellectual dandyism without the coxcomb’s feathers; and it seems to me that cynics are only happy in making the world as barren to others as they have made it for themselves.

George Meredith(The Egoist).

And there’s none of them, but would as soonCriticize the Almighty as not,And see that the angels kept tuneAnd watch that the sun and the moonDid not squander the light they have got.W. C. Smith(Borland Hall).

And there’s none of them, but would as soonCriticize the Almighty as not,And see that the angels kept tuneAnd watch that the sun and the moonDid not squander the light they have got.

And there’s none of them, but would as soon

Criticize the Almighty as not,

And see that the angels kept tune

And watch that the sun and the moon

Did not squander the light they have got.

W. C. Smith(Borland Hall).

Love, that is first and last of all things made,The light that has the living world for shade,The spirit that for temporal veil has onThe souls of all men woven in unison,One fiery raiment with all lives inwroughtAnd lights of sunny and starry deed and thought ...Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime;Love, that is blood within the veins of time....Love, that sounds loud or light in all men’s ears,Whence all men’s eyes take fire from sparks of tears,That binds on all men’s feet or chains or wings;Love, that is root and fruit of terrene things;Love, that the whole world’s waters shall not drown,The whole world’s fiery forces not burn down;Love, that what time his own hands guard his headThe whole world’s wrath and strength shall not strike dead;Love, that if once his own hands make his graveThe whole world’s pity and sorrow shall not save ...Love that is fire within thee and light above,And lives by grace of nothing but of love.Swinburne(Tristram of Lyonesse).

Love, that is first and last of all things made,

The light that has the living world for shade,

The spirit that for temporal veil has on

The souls of all men woven in unison,

One fiery raiment with all lives inwrought

And lights of sunny and starry deed and thought ...

Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime;

Love, that is blood within the veins of time....

Love, that sounds loud or light in all men’s ears,

Whence all men’s eyes take fire from sparks of tears,

That binds on all men’s feet or chains or wings;

Love, that is root and fruit of terrene things;

Love, that the whole world’s waters shall not drown,

The whole world’s fiery forces not burn down;

Love, that what time his own hands guard his head

The whole world’s wrath and strength shall not strike dead;

Love, that if once his own hands make his grave

The whole world’s pity and sorrow shall not save ...

Love that is fire within thee and light above,

And lives by grace of nothing but of love.

Swinburne(Tristram of Lyonesse).

My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting, its roses.E. A. Poe(For Annie).

My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting, its roses.

My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting, its roses.

E. A. Poe(For Annie).

Now, for myself, when once the wick is crushed,I ask not where the light is, which is not,Nor where the music, when the harp is hushed,Nor where the memory, which is clean forgot.W. C. Smith(Borland Hall).

Now, for myself, when once the wick is crushed,I ask not where the light is, which is not,Nor where the music, when the harp is hushed,Nor where the memory, which is clean forgot.

Now, for myself, when once the wick is crushed,

I ask not where the light is, which is not,

Nor where the music, when the harp is hushed,

Nor where the memory, which is clean forgot.

W. C. Smith(Borland Hall).

Goethe says somewhere there is something in every man for which, if we only knew it, we would hate him. I would prefer to say that there is something in every man for which, if we only knew it, we wouldlovehim.

R. Hodgson(Letter).

For us no shadow on life’s solemn dialGoes back to give us peace;There is no resting-place in the stern trialUntil the heart-throbs cease;We cannot hold Time fast, and bid him bless us,And not for us the sun,When shades fall fast, and doubts and woes oppress us,Stands still in Gibeon.E. H. Sears.

For us no shadow on life’s solemn dial

Goes back to give us peace;

There is no resting-place in the stern trial

Until the heart-throbs cease;

We cannot hold Time fast, and bid him bless us,

And not for us the sun,

When shades fall fast, and doubts and woes oppress us,

Stands still in Gibeon.

E. H. Sears.

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