Chapter 22

Mr. Yeats has, however, rescued the bean from its invidious position (The Lake Isle of Innisfree):—I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.Lady Middleton, a friend of old days in Adelaide and now in England, reminded me of these lines.

Mr. Yeats has, however, rescued the bean from its invidious position (The Lake Isle of Innisfree):—

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

Lady Middleton, a friend of old days in Adelaide and now in England, reminded me of these lines.

Yet in my hid soul must a voice replyWhich knows not which may seem the viler gain,To sleep for ever or be born again.The blank repose or drear eternity.A solitary thing it were to dieSo late begotten and so early slain,With sweet life withered to a passing painTill nothing anywhere should still be I.Yet if for evermore I must conveyThese weary senses thro’ an endless dayAnd gaze on God with these exhausted eyes,I fear that howsoe’er the seraphs playMy life shall not be theirs nor I as they,But homeless in the heart of Paradise.F. W. H. Myers(1843-1901) (Immortality).

Yet in my hid soul must a voice reply

Which knows not which may seem the viler gain,

To sleep for ever or be born again.

The blank repose or drear eternity.

A solitary thing it were to die

So late begotten and so early slain,

With sweet life withered to a passing pain

Till nothing anywhere should still be I.

Yet if for evermore I must convey

These weary senses thro’ an endless day

And gaze on God with these exhausted eyes,

I fear that howsoe’er the seraphs play

My life shall not be theirs nor I as they,

But homeless in the heart of Paradise.

F. W. H. Myers(1843-1901) (Immortality).

This is from Myers’Poems, 1870, and is one of a pair of sonnets. I do not quote the first in full because its meaning seems obscure, but the last six lines on the shortness of life as compared with eternity are as follow:Lo, all that age is as a speck of sandLost on the long beach where the tides are free,And no man metes it in his hollow handNor cares to ponder it, how small it be;At ebb it lies forgotten on the landAnd at full tide forgotten in the sea.In the second sonnet quoted above, Myers is not merely referring to the Biblical account of the future life in heaven as consisting in endless worship—which, if taken literally instead of symbolically, would certainly mean a “drear eternity.” The suggestion is that there must be some equivalent to work, thought, activity, progress, and definite aims to make eternal life preferable to annihilation. (I am reminded here of a curious statement made by the great Adam Smith, “What can be added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience!”) Myers ultimately came to the definite conclusion that the future life will be one of continued progress.His name, Myers, is purely English, not Jewish. This gifted man was not only a fine poet, but also an important essayist and a remarkable classical scholar. He, Hodgson, and others formed the small band of able men who threw everything else aside and devoted their lives to Psychical Research. Myers’ best poems appeared inThe Renewal of Youth and other Poems, 1882, and it was no doubt a loss to poetry that during the remaining eighteen years of his life he added little, if anything, more. However, he and Hodgson considered that the work to which they had devoted themselves was of the very highest importance.Human Personality and its Survival of Bodily Death, the important work in which Myers embodied his conclusions, was left incomplete at his death, but Hodgson, with Miss Alice Johnson’s assistance, completed and edited it.Myers was quite satisfied before his death, in 1901, that the evidence collected by the Society for Psychical Research had already established in itself the fact of survival after death. But the interesting fact is that during the nineteen years since he “passed over to the other side” he has apparently been the principal agent in adding greatly to that evidence. There is every reason to believe that Myers has personally been communicating and arranging and directing much of the evidence that has since been given.

Lo, all that age is as a speck of sandLost on the long beach where the tides are free,And no man metes it in his hollow handNor cares to ponder it, how small it be;At ebb it lies forgotten on the landAnd at full tide forgotten in the sea.

Lo, all that age is as a speck of sand

Lost on the long beach where the tides are free,

And no man metes it in his hollow hand

Nor cares to ponder it, how small it be;

At ebb it lies forgotten on the land

And at full tide forgotten in the sea.

In the second sonnet quoted above, Myers is not merely referring to the Biblical account of the future life in heaven as consisting in endless worship—which, if taken literally instead of symbolically, would certainly mean a “drear eternity.” The suggestion is that there must be some equivalent to work, thought, activity, progress, and definite aims to make eternal life preferable to annihilation. (I am reminded here of a curious statement made by the great Adam Smith, “What can be added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience!”) Myers ultimately came to the definite conclusion that the future life will be one of continued progress.

His name, Myers, is purely English, not Jewish. This gifted man was not only a fine poet, but also an important essayist and a remarkable classical scholar. He, Hodgson, and others formed the small band of able men who threw everything else aside and devoted their lives to Psychical Research. Myers’ best poems appeared inThe Renewal of Youth and other Poems, 1882, and it was no doubt a loss to poetry that during the remaining eighteen years of his life he added little, if anything, more. However, he and Hodgson considered that the work to which they had devoted themselves was of the very highest importance.Human Personality and its Survival of Bodily Death, the important work in which Myers embodied his conclusions, was left incomplete at his death, but Hodgson, with Miss Alice Johnson’s assistance, completed and edited it.

Myers was quite satisfied before his death, in 1901, that the evidence collected by the Society for Psychical Research had already established in itself the fact of survival after death. But the interesting fact is that during the nineteen years since he “passed over to the other side” he has apparently been the principal agent in adding greatly to that evidence. There is every reason to believe that Myers has personally been communicating and arranging and directing much of the evidence that has since been given.

It is not the essayist’s duty to inform, to build pathways through metaphysical morasses, to cancel abuses, any more than it is the duty of the poet to do these things. Incidentally he may do something in that way, just as the poet may, but it is not his duty, and should not be expected of him. Skylarks are primarily created to sing, although a whole choir of them may be baked in pies and brought to table; they were born to make music, although they may incidentally stay the pangs of vulgar hunger.... The essay should be pure literature as the poem is pure literature.

Alexander Smith(On the Writing of Essays).

Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous,To the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death;But the flower of their souls he shall not take away to shame us,Nor the lips lack song for ever that now lack breath;For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell,Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell.Swinburne(In Memory of Barry Cornwall).

Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous,

To the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death;

But the flower of their souls he shall not take away to shame us,

Nor the lips lack song for ever that now lack breath;

For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell,

Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell.

Swinburne(In Memory of Barry Cornwall).

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife,Pure truth, and perfect change of will;But sweet, sweet is this human life,So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;Your chilly stars I can forego,This warm kind world is all I know.You say there is no substance here,One great reality above:Back from that void I shrink in fear,And child-like hide myself in love:Show me what angels feel. Till then,I cling, a mere weak man, to men.You bid me lift my mean desiresFrom faltering lips and fitful veinsTo sexless souls, ideal quires,Unwearied voices, wordless strains:My mind with fonder welcome ownsOne dear dead friend’s remembered tones.Forsooth the present we must giveTo that which cannot pass away;All beauteous things for which we liveBy laws of time and space decay.But oh, the very reason whyI clasp them, is because they die.William (Johnson) Cory(1823-1892).

You promise heavens free from strife,

Pure truth, and perfect change of will;

But sweet, sweet is this human life,

So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;

Your chilly stars I can forego,

This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here,One great reality above:Back from that void I shrink in fear,And child-like hide myself in love:Show me what angels feel. Till then,I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You say there is no substance here,

One great reality above:

Back from that void I shrink in fear,

And child-like hide myself in love:

Show me what angels feel. Till then,

I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desiresFrom faltering lips and fitful veinsTo sexless souls, ideal quires,Unwearied voices, wordless strains:My mind with fonder welcome ownsOne dear dead friend’s remembered tones.

You bid me lift my mean desires

From faltering lips and fitful veins

To sexless souls, ideal quires,

Unwearied voices, wordless strains:

My mind with fonder welcome owns

One dear dead friend’s remembered tones.

Forsooth the present we must giveTo that which cannot pass away;All beauteous things for which we liveBy laws of time and space decay.But oh, the very reason whyI clasp them, is because they die.

Forsooth the present we must give

To that which cannot pass away;

All beauteous things for which we live

By laws of time and space decay.

But oh, the very reason why

I clasp them, is because they die.

William (Johnson) Cory(1823-1892).

Mimnermus was a fine Greek elegiac poet—about 630-600 B.C.

MORS ET VITA

We know not yet what life shall be,What shore beyond earth’s shore be set;What grief awaits us, or what glee,We know not yet.Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,Old friends, we say, beyond death’s seaShall meet and greet us, nor forgetThose days of yore, those years when weWere loved and true—but will death letOur eyes the longed-for vision see?We know not yet.Samuel Waddington.

We know not yet what life shall be,What shore beyond earth’s shore be set;What grief awaits us, or what glee,We know not yet.

We know not yet what life shall be,

What shore beyond earth’s shore be set;

What grief awaits us, or what glee,

We know not yet.

Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,Old friends, we say, beyond death’s seaShall meet and greet us, nor forget

Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,

Old friends, we say, beyond death’s sea

Shall meet and greet us, nor forget

Those days of yore, those years when weWere loved and true—but will death letOur eyes the longed-for vision see?We know not yet.

Those days of yore, those years when we

Were loved and true—but will death let

Our eyes the longed-for vision see?

We know not yet.

Samuel Waddington.

The evidence collected by the Society for Psychical Research indicates that friends do certainly meet. See the remarkably convincingEar of Dionysius, lately published, where Dr. Verrall and Professor Butcher are clearly having a great time together on the other side.

Art—which I may style the love of loving, rageOf knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of thingsFor truth’s sake, whole and sole,—nor any good, truth bringsThe knower, seer, feeler beside.R. Browning(Fifine at the Fair).

Art—which I may style the love of loving, rage

Of knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of things

For truth’s sake, whole and sole,—nor any good, truth brings

The knower, seer, feeler beside.

R. Browning(Fifine at the Fair).

De par le Roy dèfense à DieuDe faire miracle en ce lieu.(By order of the King, God is forbiddenTo work miracles in this place.)Anon.

De par le Roy dèfense à DieuDe faire miracle en ce lieu.

De par le Roy dèfense à Dieu

De faire miracle en ce lieu.

(By order of the King, God is forbiddenTo work miracles in this place.)

(By order of the King, God is forbidden

To work miracles in this place.)

Anon.

The teaching of Cornelius Jansen (1585-1638) led to an important evangelical movement in the Roman Catholic Church. When, however, the Jansenists became subjected to persecution, the usual result followed that numbers of them became fanatics. The more corrupt the French Court and Society became, the more frenzied became this fanaticism. In 1727 the Jansenist deacon, Pâris, a man of very holy life, was buried in the St. Médard churchyard, and shortly afterwards miracles were said to take place at his tomb. In consequence large crowds ofconvulsionnairesassembled there and very shocking scenes were enacted, men and women in hysterical and epileptic fits and ecstatic delirium, eating the earth of the grave and inflicting frightful tortures on themselves and each other. When in 1732 the Court interposed and closed the churchyard some wit wrote the above couplet on the gate.Mr. King in hisClassical and Foreign Quotationshas “De fairedes miracles,” but the above version seems correct (SeeLarousse.)

Mr. King in hisClassical and Foreign Quotationshas “De fairedes miracles,” but the above version seems correct (SeeLarousse.)

And Christians love in the turf to lie,Not in watery graves to be—Nay, the very fishes wouldsoonerdieOn the land than in the sea.Thomas Hood.

And Christians love in the turf to lie,Not in watery graves to be—Nay, the very fishes wouldsoonerdieOn the land than in the sea.

And Christians love in the turf to lie,

Not in watery graves to be—

Nay, the very fishes wouldsoonerdie

On the land than in the sea.

Thomas Hood.

There are two things that fill my soul with a holy reverence and an ever-growing wonder: the spectacle of the starry sky, that virtually annihilates us as physical beings; and the moral law which raises us to infinite dignity as intelligent agents.

Theoughtexpresses a kind of necessity, a kind of connection of actions with their grounds or reasons, such as is to be found nowhere else in the whole natural world. For of the natural world our understanding can know nothing except what is, what has been, or what will be. We cannot say that anything in it ought to be other than it actually was, is, or will be. In fact, so long as we are considering the course of nature, theoughthas no meaning whatever. We can as little inquire what ought to happen in nature as we can inquire what properties a circle ought to have.

Immanuel Kant.

The first quotation (from theKritik of Practical Reason) appears to be the same passage that is often rendered in such words as these: “Two things fill my soul with awe—the starry heavens in the still night, and the sense of duty in man.”

The whole earthThe beauty wore of promise—that which setsThe budding rose above the rose full-blown.W. Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. XI).

The whole earthThe beauty wore of promise—that which setsThe budding rose above the rose full-blown.

The whole earth

The beauty wore of promise—that which sets

The budding rose above the rose full-blown.

W. Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. XI).

(——) is one of those men who go far to shake my faith in a future state of existence; I mean, on account of the difficulty of knowing where to place him. I could not bear to roast him; he is not so bad as that comes to: but then, on the other hand, to have to sit down with such a fellow in the very lowest pothouse of heaven is utterly inconsistent with the belief of that place being a place of happiness for me.

S. T. Coleridge(Table Talk).

It isn’t raining rain to me,It’s raining daffodils.In every dimpled drop I seeWild flowers on the hills.The clouds of grey engulf the dayAnd overwhelm the town:It isn’t raining rain to me,It’s raining roses down.Robert Loveman.

It isn’t raining rain to me,

It’s raining daffodils.

In every dimpled drop I see

Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of grey engulf the day

And overwhelm the town:

It isn’t raining rain to me,

It’s raining roses down.

Robert Loveman.

Let us reflect that the highest path is pointed out by the pure Ideal of those, who look up to us, and who, if we tread less loftily, may never look so high again.

N. Hawthorne(Transformation).

One summer evening sitting by my window I watched for the first star to appear, knowing the position of the brightest in the southern sky. The dusk came on, grew deeper, but the star did not shine. By and by, other stars less bright appeared, so that it could not be the sunset which obscured the expected one. Finally, I considered that I must have mistaken its position, when suddenly a puff of air blew through the branch of a pear tree which overhung the window, a leaf moved, and there was the star behind the leaf.

At present the endeavour to make discoveries is like gazing at the sky up through the boughs of an oak. Here a beautiful star shines clearly; here a constellation is hidden by a branch; a universe by a leaf. Some mental instrument or organon is required to enable us to distinguish between the leaf which may be removed and a real void; when to cease to look in one direction, and to work in another.... There are infinities to be known, but they are hidden by a leaf.

Richard Jefferies(The Story of My Heart).

Over the winter glaciersI see the summer glow,And through the wild-piled snowdriftThe warm rosebuds below.R. W. Emerson(The World-Soul).

Over the winter glaciersI see the summer glow,And through the wild-piled snowdriftThe warm rosebuds below.

Over the winter glaciers

I see the summer glow,

And through the wild-piled snowdrift

The warm rosebuds below.

R. W. Emerson(The World-Soul).

Emerson is always an optimist.

Place thyself, oh, lovely fair!Where a thousand mirrors are;Though a thousand faces shine,’Tis but one—and that is thine.Then the Painter’s skill allow,Who could frame so fair a brow.What are lustrous eyes of flame,What are cheeks, the rose that shame,What are glances wild and free,Speech, and shape, and voice—but He?Moasi(L. S. Costello’s translation).

Place thyself, oh, lovely fair!

Where a thousand mirrors are;

Though a thousand faces shine,

’Tis but one—and that is thine.

Then the Painter’s skill allow,

Who could frame so fair a brow.

What are lustrous eyes of flame,

What are cheeks, the rose that shame,

What are glances wild and free,

Speech, and shape, and voice—but He?

Moasi(L. S. Costello’s translation).

And here the Singer for his ArtNot all in vain may plead‘The song that nerves a nation’s heartIs in itself a deed.’Tennyson(Charge of the Heavy Brigade).

And here the Singer for his ArtNot all in vain may plead‘The song that nerves a nation’s heartIs in itself a deed.’

And here the Singer for his Art

Not all in vain may plead

‘The song that nerves a nation’s heart

Is in itself a deed.’

Tennyson(Charge of the Heavy Brigade).

I knew a very wise man that believed that, if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.

Fletcherof Saltoun (Letter to Montrose and others).

What would the wise man have said of “It’s a long, long way to Tipperary”?

FIRST LOVE

O my earliest love, who, ere I number’dTen sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—Fly to her and say, I love her still?Say my life’s a desert drear and arid,To its one green spot I aye recur:Never, never—although three times married—Have I cared a jot for aught but her.No, mine-own! though early forced to leave you,Still my heart was there where first we met;In those “Lodgings with an ample sea-view,”Which were, forty years ago, “To let.”There I saw her first, our landlord’s oldestLittle daughter. On a thing so fairThou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdestEverything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne’er.There she sat—so near me, yet remoterThan a star—a blue-eyed bashful imp:On her lap she held a happy bloater,’Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.And I loved her, and our troth we plightedOn the morrow by the shingly shore:In a fortnight to be disunitedBy a bitter fate for evermore.O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!To be young once more, and bite my thumbAt the world and all its cares with you, I’dGive no inconsiderable sum.Hand in hand we tramp’d the golden seaweed,Soon as o’er the gray cliff peep’d the dawn:Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we’dCrunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,That bright being who was always gay?Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!Yes—I see her darning corduroys,Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-thingsFor a howling herd of hungry boysIn a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!But at intervals she thinks, I know,Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,Spent together forty years ago.O my earliest love, still unforgotten,With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!Never, somehow, could I seem to cottonTo another as I did to you!C. S. Calverley.

O my earliest love, who, ere I number’dTen sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—Fly to her and say, I love her still?

O my earliest love, who, ere I number’d

Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!

Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—

Fly to her and say, I love her still?

Say my life’s a desert drear and arid,To its one green spot I aye recur:Never, never—although three times married—Have I cared a jot for aught but her.

Say my life’s a desert drear and arid,

To its one green spot I aye recur:

Never, never—although three times married—

Have I cared a jot for aught but her.

No, mine-own! though early forced to leave you,Still my heart was there where first we met;In those “Lodgings with an ample sea-view,”Which were, forty years ago, “To let.”

No, mine-own! though early forced to leave you,

Still my heart was there where first we met;

In those “Lodgings with an ample sea-view,”

Which were, forty years ago, “To let.”

There I saw her first, our landlord’s oldestLittle daughter. On a thing so fairThou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdestEverything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne’er.

There I saw her first, our landlord’s oldest

Little daughter. On a thing so fair

Thou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdest

Everything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne’er.

There she sat—so near me, yet remoterThan a star—a blue-eyed bashful imp:On her lap she held a happy bloater,’Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

There she sat—so near me, yet remoter

Than a star—a blue-eyed bashful imp:

On her lap she held a happy bloater,

’Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

And I loved her, and our troth we plightedOn the morrow by the shingly shore:In a fortnight to be disunitedBy a bitter fate for evermore.

And I loved her, and our troth we plighted

On the morrow by the shingly shore:

In a fortnight to be disunited

By a bitter fate for evermore.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!To be young once more, and bite my thumbAt the world and all its cares with you, I’dGive no inconsiderable sum.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!

To be young once more, and bite my thumb

At the world and all its cares with you, I’d

Give no inconsiderable sum.

Hand in hand we tramp’d the golden seaweed,Soon as o’er the gray cliff peep’d the dawn:Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we’dCrunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—

Hand in hand we tramp’d the golden seaweed,

Soon as o’er the gray cliff peep’d the dawn:

Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we’d

Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,That bright being who was always gay?

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,

That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?

Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,

That bright being who was always gay?

Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!Yes—I see her darning corduroys,Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-thingsFor a howling herd of hungry boys

Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!

Yes—I see her darning corduroys,

Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things

For a howling herd of hungry boys

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!But at intervals she thinks, I know,Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,Spent together forty years ago.

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!

But at intervals she thinks, I know,

Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,

Spent together forty years ago.

O my earliest love, still unforgotten,With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!Never, somehow, could I seem to cottonTo another as I did to you!

O my earliest love, still unforgotten,

With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!

Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton

To another as I did to you!

C. S. Calverley.

ON A FLY DRINKING OUT OF A CUP OF ALE

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,Drink with me, and drink as I;Freely welcome to my cup,Couldst thou sip and sip it up.Make the most of life you may,Life is short and wears away.Both alike, both thine and mine,Hasten quick to their decline;Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,Though repeated to three-score:Three-score summers, when they’re gone,Will appear as short as one.William Oldys(1696-1761).

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,Drink with me, and drink as I;Freely welcome to my cup,Couldst thou sip and sip it up.Make the most of life you may,Life is short and wears away.

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,

Drink with me, and drink as I;

Freely welcome to my cup,

Couldst thou sip and sip it up.

Make the most of life you may,

Life is short and wears away.

Both alike, both thine and mine,Hasten quick to their decline;Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,Though repeated to three-score:Three-score summers, when they’re gone,Will appear as short as one.

Both alike, both thine and mine,

Hasten quick to their decline;

Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,

Though repeated to three-score:

Three-score summers, when they’re gone,

Will appear as short as one.

William Oldys(1696-1761).

This was first published in 1732 as “The Fly—An Anachreontick” and Mr. Gosse in theEncyc. Britt.gave the first six lines as an example of an Anacreontic. He attributed the poem to Oldys, but the authorship is doubtful. (SeeNotes and Queries, 3rd Ser., I, 21). Vincent Bourne in a copy of hisPoematia, 1734, in my possession, has written outand signedthe two verses, entitling them “A Song,” the last line of each verse being repeated as a refrain. From this it might appear that he claimed the authorship. In 1743 he published a Latin version of the poem. Vincent Bourne, a beautiful Latinist, was much loved by his pupils, Charles Lamb and Cowper, who each translated into English some of his fine Latin verses.

The Earth goeth on the Earth, glistening like gold,The Earth goeth to the Earth, sooner than it wold,The Earth builds on the Earth castles and towers—The Earth says to the Earth, all shall be ours.Epitaph, 17th Century.

The Earth goeth on the Earth, glistening like gold,The Earth goeth to the Earth, sooner than it wold,The Earth builds on the Earth castles and towers—The Earth says to the Earth, all shall be ours.

The Earth goeth on the Earth, glistening like gold,

The Earth goeth to the Earth, sooner than it wold,

The Earth builds on the Earth castles and towers—

The Earth says to the Earth, all shall be ours.

Epitaph, 17th Century.

An inscription on a tomb in Melrose Abbey, but said to be a version of lines by a Fourteenth Century poet, William Billing.

She never found fault with you, never impliedYour wrong by her right; and yet men at her sideGrew nobler, girls purer....None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;They knelt more to God than they used—that was all.E. B. Browning(My Kate).

She never found fault with you, never implied

Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side

Grew nobler, girls purer....

None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;

They knelt more to God than they used—that was all.

E. B. Browning(My Kate).

It takes very little water to make a perfect pool for a tiny fish, where it will find its world and paradise all in one, and never have a presentiment of the dry bank. The fretted summer shade, and stillness, and the gentle breathing of some loved life near—it would be paradise to us all, if eager thought, the strong angel with the implacable brow, had not long since closed the gates.

George Eliot(Romola).

All true Work is religion; and whatsoever religion is not Work may go and dwell among the Brahmins, Antinomians, Spinning Dervishes, or where it will; with me it shall have no harbour.

Carlyle(Reward).

Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: ‘Here is a story bookThy Father has written for thee.’‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,‘Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God.’And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvellous tale.Longfellow(Agassiz).

Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: ‘Here is a story bookThy Father has written for thee.’

Nature, the old nurse, took

The child upon her knee,

Saying: ‘Here is a story book

Thy Father has written for thee.’

‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,‘Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God.’

‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,

‘Into regions yet untrod;

And read what is still unread

In the manuscripts of God.’

And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.

And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old nurse,

Who sang to him night and day

The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvellous tale.

And whenever the way seemed long,

Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvellous tale.

Longfellow(Agassiz).

Deep, deep are loving eyes,Flowed with naptha fiery sweet;And the point is paradiseWhere their glances meet.R. W. Emerson(The Daemonic and the Celestial Love).

Deep, deep are loving eyes,Flowed with naptha fiery sweet;And the point is paradiseWhere their glances meet.

Deep, deep are loving eyes,

Flowed with naptha fiery sweet;

And the point is paradise

Where their glances meet.

R. W. Emerson(The Daemonic and the Celestial Love).

... As I lie here, hours of the dead night,Dying in state and by such slow degrees,I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,And stretch my feet forth, straight as stone can point,And let the bed-clothes, for a mortcloth, dropInto great laps and folds of sculptor’s work.R. Browning(The Bishop orders his Tomb).

... As I lie here, hours of the dead night,

Dying in state and by such slow degrees,

I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,

And stretch my feet forth, straight as stone can point,

And let the bed-clothes, for a mortcloth, drop

Into great laps and folds of sculptor’s work.

R. Browning(The Bishop orders his Tomb).

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,Led the lorn traveller up the path,Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,Upon the parlour steps collected,Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,—“Our master knows you—you’re expected.”W. M. Praed(The Vicar).

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,

Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;

And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour steps collected,

Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,—

“Our master knows you—you’re expected.”

W. M. Praed(The Vicar).

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot.Tennyson(The Lady of Shalott).

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-haired page in crimson clad,

Goes by to towered Camelot.

Tennyson(The Lady of Shalott).

The above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 167).

(Phantasy or imagination may be true and clear or may be disordered and unsound) ... The phantastical part of men (if it be not disordered) is a representer of the best, most comely and bewtifull images or appearances of thinges to the soule and according to their very truth.... Of this sort of Phantasie are all good Poets, notable Captaines stratagematique, all cunning artificers and Engineers, all Legislators, Politiciens and Counsellours of estate, in whose exercises the inventive part is most employed and is to the sound and true judgement of man most needful.

George Puttenham(The Arte of English Poesie, 1589).

Just as a poet, besides imagination, must have intellect or judgment as a basis, so the higher imaginative faculty comes to the aid of intellect in other departments of life. As Maudsley says, “it performs the initial and essential functions in every branch of human development” (Body and Will). Ehrlich, seeking a substance that would destroy germs without injuring the human tissues, plods through endless tedious processes, and on his 606th experiment, discovers salvarsan, a cure for syphilis. Here the higher faculty has had little to do—but when, on the fall of an apple, Newton’s mind saw in a flash how the world was balanced, intellect soared aloft on the wings of imagination.

As well Poets as Poesie are despised, and the name become, of honourable infamous, subject to scorne and derision, and rather a reproach than a prayse to any that useth it: for commonly whoso is studious in the Arte or shewes himselfe excellent in it, they call him in disdayne aphantasticall: and a light-headed or phantasticall man (by conversion) they call a Poet.... Of such among the Nobilitie or gentrie as be very well seene in many laudable sciences, and especially in Poesie, it is so come to passe that they have no courage to write and if they have, yet are they loath to be a-known of their skill. So as I know very many notable Gentlemen in the Court that have written commendably and suppressed it agayne, or else suffred it to be publisht without their owne names to it: as if it were a discredit for a gentleman to seeme learned, and to shew himselfe amorous of any good Arte.

George Puttenham(The Arte of English Poesie, 1589).

We do not always remember in what disheartening conditions the great Elizabethan literature was produced—the inferior position of the writer, his wretched remuneration and his dependence on patrons. It is strange to think that it was considered beneath the dignity of a gentleman to write poetry or to acknowledge its authorship—or apparently to show proficiency in other arts or sciences. Such men as Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh were exceptions. The curious fact is that Puttenham himself (assuming, as is probable, that he was the author) issued this important book anonymously. He had, however, acknowledged hisPartheniadesten years before.As Arber points out, the above passage, and another reference by Puttenham to the same subject, indicate that, at least in the earlier Elizabethan period, much talent must have been lost and much literature never reached the printing press. The same feeling that then existed is seen again in Locke’s time (see p. 180), and, if we consider a moment, we shall find thatit has persisted to some extent to the present day. Think how miserably inadequate is the attention paid to poetry in our educational system, the methods employed being, indeed, calculated to make thestudentloathethe subject. (When I was young (“Ah, woful When”[49]) we had as a school text-book Palgrave’s Golden Treasury—a divine gift to us in those days. As we had a sympathetic teacher, we read itas poetry, and the consequence was that I and other boys knew the book practically by heart from cover to cover.)It is surprising that Englishmen neglect the one great talent which they possess. What distinguishes them above all other nations is their superiority in the higher imaginative faculties.[50]This is shown in such a national characteristic as the love of travel and adventure, which has created the British Empire, and isprovedconcretely by the fact that England has produced the greatest wealth of poetry which the world has ever seen. This great treasure, which should be employed for encouraging the highest of all faculties, is allowed to lie idle. The fact seems to be overlooked that the study of poetry is not only of enormous intrinsic value in knowledge, and culture, but that it is the finest of all mental training. By analysis and paraphrase it gives knowledge of language, appreciation of style, practice in literary expression, and, above all things, precision of thought. In my opinion, poetry should form an essential part of education, beginning in childhood and continuing throughout the Arts course. It may be found that there are intelligent persons who are incapable of appreciating poetry, and the subject may, therefore, not be made a compulsory one. But my conviction is that, where men imagine themselves to be thus deficient, it is the result of a bad system of education. There is great truth in Stevenson’s fine essay, “The Lantern-Bearers.”

As Arber points out, the above passage, and another reference by Puttenham to the same subject, indicate that, at least in the earlier Elizabethan period, much talent must have been lost and much literature never reached the printing press. The same feeling that then existed is seen again in Locke’s time (see p. 180), and, if we consider a moment, we shall find thatit has persisted to some extent to the present day. Think how miserably inadequate is the attention paid to poetry in our educational system, the methods employed being, indeed, calculated to make thestudentloathethe subject. (When I was young (“Ah, woful When”[49]) we had as a school text-book Palgrave’s Golden Treasury—a divine gift to us in those days. As we had a sympathetic teacher, we read itas poetry, and the consequence was that I and other boys knew the book practically by heart from cover to cover.)

It is surprising that Englishmen neglect the one great talent which they possess. What distinguishes them above all other nations is their superiority in the higher imaginative faculties.[50]This is shown in such a national characteristic as the love of travel and adventure, which has created the British Empire, and isprovedconcretely by the fact that England has produced the greatest wealth of poetry which the world has ever seen. This great treasure, which should be employed for encouraging the highest of all faculties, is allowed to lie idle. The fact seems to be overlooked that the study of poetry is not only of enormous intrinsic value in knowledge, and culture, but that it is the finest of all mental training. By analysis and paraphrase it gives knowledge of language, appreciation of style, practice in literary expression, and, above all things, precision of thought. In my opinion, poetry should form an essential part of education, beginning in childhood and continuing throughout the Arts course. It may be found that there are intelligent persons who are incapable of appreciating poetry, and the subject may, therefore, not be made a compulsory one. But my conviction is that, where men imagine themselves to be thus deficient, it is the result of a bad system of education. There is great truth in Stevenson’s fine essay, “The Lantern-Bearers.”

Go, wing thy flight from star to star,From world to luminous world, as farAs the universe spreads its flaming wall:Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,And multiply each through endless years,One minute of Heaven is worth them all.Thomas Moore(Lalla Rookh).

Go, wing thy flight from star to star,

From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall:

Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,

And multiply each through endless years,

One minute of Heaven is worth them all.

Thomas Moore(Lalla Rookh).

A Celtic flight of imagination.

And on we roll—the year goes byAs year by year must ever go,And castles built of bits of skyMust fall and lose their wondrous glow;But Hope with his wings is not yet old,While every year like a summer dayEnds and begins with grey and gold,Begins and ends with gold and grey.Richard Hodgson.

And on we roll—the year goes byAs year by year must ever go,And castles built of bits of skyMust fall and lose their wondrous glow;

And on we roll—the year goes by

As year by year must ever go,

And castles built of bits of sky

Must fall and lose their wondrous glow;

But Hope with his wings is not yet old,While every year like a summer dayEnds and begins with grey and gold,Begins and ends with gold and grey.

But Hope with his wings is not yet old,

While every year like a summer day

Ends and begins with grey and gold,

Begins and ends with gold and grey.

Richard Hodgson.

When none need broken meat,How can our cake be sweet?When none want flannel and coals,How shall we save our souls?Oh dear! oh dear!The Christian virtues will disappear.Charlotte Stetson.

When none need broken meat,How can our cake be sweet?When none want flannel and coals,How shall we save our souls?Oh dear! oh dear!The Christian virtues will disappear.

When none need broken meat,

How can our cake be sweet?

When none want flannel and coals,

How shall we save our souls?

Oh dear! oh dear!

The Christian virtues will disappear.

Charlotte Stetson.

Since we parted yester eve,I do love thee, love, believeTwelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,One dream deeper, one night stronger,One sun surer—thus much moreThan I loved thee, love, before.Owen Meredith (Earl of Lytton)(Love Fancies).

Since we parted yester eve,I do love thee, love, believeTwelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,One dream deeper, one night stronger,One sun surer—thus much moreThan I loved thee, love, before.

Since we parted yester eve,

I do love thee, love, believe

Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,

One dream deeper, one night stronger,

One sun surer—thus much more

Than I loved thee, love, before.

Owen Meredith (Earl of Lytton)(Love Fancies).

The Dahlia you brought to our IsleYour praises for ever shall speak’Mid gardens as sweet as your smileAnd colours as bright as your cheek.Lord Holland.

The Dahlia you brought to our IsleYour praises for ever shall speak’Mid gardens as sweet as your smileAnd colours as bright as your cheek.

The Dahlia you brought to our Isle

Your praises for ever shall speak

’Mid gardens as sweet as your smile

And colours as bright as your cheek.

Lord Holland.

A pretty compliment to his wife who in 1814 had introduced the dahlia into England from Spain. Previous attempts had failed (Liechtenstein’sHolland House).

C’est imiter quelqu’un que de planter des choux.

A. de Musset.

Quoted by Austin Dobson:—... And you, whom we all so admire,Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!One word in your ear: There were Critics before.Andthe man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Quoted by Austin Dobson:—

... And you, whom we all so admire,Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!One word in your ear: There were Critics before.Andthe man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

... And you, whom we all so admire,

Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!

One word in your ear: There were Critics before.

Andthe man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

... The great book of actual life, sad, diffuse, contradictory, yet always full of depth and significance.

George Sand(The Miller of Angibault).

Life is mostly froth and bubble;Two things stand like stone:—Kindness in another’s trouble,Courage in your own.Adam Lindsay Gordon(1833-1870) (Ye Weary Wayfarer).

Life is mostly froth and bubble;Two things stand like stone:—Kindness in another’s trouble,Courage in your own.

Life is mostly froth and bubble;

Two things stand like stone:—

Kindness in another’s trouble,

Courage in your own.

Adam Lindsay Gordon(1833-1870) (Ye Weary Wayfarer).

A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER

A noiseless, patient spider,I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.And you, O my Soul, where you stand,Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.Walt Whitman(Leaves of Grass).

A noiseless, patient spider,

I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;

Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;

Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;

Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

Walt Whitman(Leaves of Grass).

The Future, that bright land which swimsIn western glory, isles and streams and bays,Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze.George Eliot(Jubal).

The Future, that bright land which swimsIn western glory, isles and streams and bays,Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze.

The Future, that bright land which swims

In western glory, isles and streams and bays,

Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze.

George Eliot(Jubal).

Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.

(The modest Nymph saw her God and blushed.)

The conscious water saw its God and blushed.

Richard Crashaw(1616-1650).

Referring to the miracle of Cana. Both Latin and English epigrams are by Crashaw. In the former the water is personified by its Nymph.

Called on the W. Molesworths. He is threatened with total blindness, and his excellent wife is learning to work in the dark in preparation for a darkened chamber. What things wives are! What a spirit of joyous suffering, confidence, and love was incarnated in Eve! ’Tis a pity they should eat apples.

Caroline Fox’s Journals.

... Earth and ocean,Space, and the isles of life or light that gemThe sapphire floods of interstellar air,This firmament pavilioned upon chaos,With all its cressets of immortal fire.Shelley(Hellas).

... Earth and ocean,Space, and the isles of life or light that gemThe sapphire floods of interstellar air,This firmament pavilioned upon chaos,With all its cressets of immortal fire.

... Earth and ocean,

Space, and the isles of life or light that gem

The sapphire floods of interstellar air,

This firmament pavilioned upon chaos,

With all its cressets of immortal fire.

Shelley(Hellas).

Vox, et praeterea nihil.

[Words (literally voice) and nothing more.]

Proverb.

Plutarch, in his Apophthegm, Lacon. Incert. XIII, says that a man after plucking a nightingale and finding little flesh on it, said φωνὰ τύ τις ἐσσὶ, καὶ οὐδὲν ἄλλο, “Thou art voice and nothing more” (King’s Classical and Foreign Quotations). No doubt this was the origin of the saying. It was applied to the nightingale, and to Echo—and then used in Hamlet’s sense, “Words, words, words.”

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