Chapter 3

I have lost the dream of Doing,And the other dream of Done,The first spring in the pursuing,The first pride in the Begun,—First recoil from incompletion, in the face of what is won.E. B. Browning(The Lost Bower).

I have lost the dream of Doing,And the other dream of Done,The first spring in the pursuing,The first pride in the Begun,—First recoil from incompletion, in the face of what is won.

I have lost the dream of Doing,

And the other dream of Done,

The first spring in the pursuing,

The first pride in the Begun,—

First recoil from incompletion, in the face of what is won.

E. B. Browning(The Lost Bower).

It is the saddest of things that we lose our early enthusiasms.

The other (maiden) up arose[12]And her fair lockes, which formerly were boundUp in one knot, she low adowne did loose:Which, flowing long and thick her clothed around.And the ivorie in golden mantle gowned:So that fair spectacle from him was reft,Yet that, which reft it, no less faire was found:So, hid in lockes and waves from looker’s theft,Nought but her lovely face she for his looking left.Withall she laughèd, and she blushed withall,That blushing to her laughter gave more grace,And laughter to her blushing.Spenser(Faerie Queene 2, XII, 67).

The other (maiden) up arose[12]

And her fair lockes, which formerly were bound

Up in one knot, she low adowne did loose:

Which, flowing long and thick her clothed around.

And the ivorie in golden mantle gowned:

So that fair spectacle from him was reft,

Yet that, which reft it, no less faire was found:

So, hid in lockes and waves from looker’s theft,

Nought but her lovely face she for his looking left.

Withall she laughèd, and she blushed withall,That blushing to her laughter gave more grace,And laughter to her blushing.

Withall she laughèd, and she blushed withall,

That blushing to her laughter gave more grace,

And laughter to her blushing.

Spenser(Faerie Queene 2, XII, 67).

I love and honour Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. Nor can you excite me to the least uneasiness by saying, “He acted, and thou sittest still.” I see action to be good when the need is, and sitting still to be also good. One piece of the tree is cut for a weathercock, and one for the sleeper of a bridge; the virtue of the wood is apparent in both.

R. W. Emerson(Spiritual Laws).

You know what a sad and sombre decorum it is that outwardly reigns through the lands oppressed by Moslem sway. By a strange chance in these latter days, it happened that, alone of all the places in the land, this Bethlehem, the native village of our Lord, escaped the moral yoke of the Mussulmans, and heard again, after ages of dull oppression, the cheering clatter of social freedom, and the voices of laughing girls. When I was at Bethlehem, though long after the flight of the Mussulmans, the cloud of Moslem propriety had not yet come back to cast its cold shadow upon life. When you reach that gladsome village, pray heaven there still may be heard there the voice of free innocent girls. Distant at first, and then nearer and nearer the timid flock will gather round you with their large burning eyesgravely fixed against yours, so that they see into your brain; and if you imagine evil against them they will know of your ill-thought before it is yet well born, and will fly and be gone in the moment. But presently if you will only look virtuous enough to prevent alarm, and vicious enough to avoid looking silly, the blithe maidens will draw nearer and nearer to you; and soon there will be one, the bravest of the sisters, who will venture right up to your side, and touch the hem of your coat in playful defiance of the danger; and then the rest will follow the daring of their youthful leader, and gather close round you, and hold a shrill controversy on the wondrous formation that you call a hat, and the cunning of the hands that clothed you with cloth so fine; and then, growing more profound in their researches, they will pass from the study of your mere dress to a serious contemplation of your stately height, and your nut-brown hair, and the ruddy glow of your English cheeks. And if they catch a glimpse of your ungloved fingers, then again will they make the air ring with their sweet screams of delight and amazement, as they compare the fairness of your hand with the hues of your sunburnt face, or with their own warmer tints. Instantly the ringleader of the gentle rioters imagines a new sin; with tremulous boldness she touches, then grasps your hand, and smoothes it gently betwixt her own, and pries curiously into its make and colour, as though it were silk of Damascus or shawl of Cashmere. And when they see you, even then still sage and gentle, the joyous girls will suddenly, and screamingly, and all at once, explain to each other that you are surely quite harmless and innocent—a lion that makes no spring—a bear that never hugs; and upon this faith, one after the other, they will take your passive hand, and strive to explain it, and make it a theme and a controversy. But the one—the fairest and the sweetest of all—is yet the most timid; she shrinks from the daring deeds of her playmates, and seeks shelter behind their sleeves, and strives to screen her glowing consciousness from the eyes that look upon her. But her laughing sisters will have none of this cowardice; they vow that the fair oneshallbe theircomplice—shallshare their dangers—shalltouch the hand of the stranger; they seize her small wrist and draw her forward by force, and at last, whilst yet she strives to turn away, and to cover up her whole soul under the folds of downcast eyelids, they vanquish her utmost strength, they vanquish her utmost modesty and marry her hand to yours. The quick pulse springs from her fingers and throbs like a whisper upon your listening palm. For an instant her large timid eyes are upon you—in an instant they are shrouded again, and there comes a blush so burning, that the frightened girls stay their shrill laughter as though they had played too perilously and harmed their gentle sister. A moment, and all with a sudden intelligence turn away and fly like deer; yet soonagain like deer they wheel round, and return, and stand, and gaze upon the danger, until they grow brave once more.

A. W. Kinglake(Eothen).

Let us hope that the present war will be a successful “Crusade” and that the Turks will disappear from the land which is sacred to the memory of our Lord.

Discedant nunc amores; maneat Amor.

(Loves, farewell; let Love, the sole, remain.)

Author not traced.

Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

Compare Shakespeare’s sonnet LXXI:No longer mourn for me when I am dead,... for I love you soThat I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.

Compare Shakespeare’s sonnet LXXI:

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,... for I love you soThat I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,

... for I love you so

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

I saw a son weep o’er a mother’s grave:“Ay, weep, poor boy—weep thy most bitter tearsThat thou shalt smile so soon. We bury Love,Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;Thatis the thing to weep for, not the dead.”Alexander Smith(A Boy’s Poem)

I saw a son weep o’er a mother’s grave:

“Ay, weep, poor boy—weep thy most bitter tears

That thou shalt smile so soon. We bury Love,

Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;

Thatis the thing to weep for, not the dead.”

Alexander Smith(A Boy’s Poem)

UNTIL DEATH

If thou canst love another, be it so.I would not reach out of my quiet graveTo bind thy heart, if it should choose to go.Love shall not be a slave....It would not make me sleep more peacefully,That thou wert waiting all thy life in woeFor my poor sake. What love thou hast for meBestow it ere I go....Forget me when I die. The violetsAbove my rest will blossom just as blueNor miss thy tears—E’en Nature’s self forgets—But while I live be true.F. A. Westbury.

If thou canst love another, be it so.I would not reach out of my quiet graveTo bind thy heart, if it should choose to go.Love shall not be a slave....

If thou canst love another, be it so.

I would not reach out of my quiet grave

To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go.

Love shall not be a slave....

It would not make me sleep more peacefully,That thou wert waiting all thy life in woeFor my poor sake. What love thou hast for meBestow it ere I go....

It would not make me sleep more peacefully,

That thou wert waiting all thy life in woe

For my poor sake. What love thou hast for me

Bestow it ere I go....

Forget me when I die. The violetsAbove my rest will blossom just as blueNor miss thy tears—E’en Nature’s self forgets—But while I live be true.

Forget me when I die. The violets

Above my rest will blossom just as blue

Nor miss thy tears—E’en Nature’s self forgets—

But while I live be true.

F. A. Westbury.

These verses are by a South Australian writer. “Forget me when I die” is an unpleasing sentiment; yet in “When I am dead, my dearest,” Christina Rossetti says:If thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.As regards the latter poem, the curious fact is that it is read as an exquisite piece ofmusic, and not for any poetic thought it contains. If ithasany coherent meaning, it is that the speaker is indifferent whether or not “her dearest” will remember her or she will remember him. Yet the haunting music of the lines has made it a favourite poem, and it finds a place in all the leading anthologies. Christina Rossetti is by no means a great poet. (Mr. Gosse’s estimate in theBritannicais exaggerated), but she had a wonderful gift of language and metre. Take, for example, the pretty lilt contained in the simplest words in “Maiden-Song”:Long ago and long ago,And long ago still,There dwelt three merry maidensUpon a distant hill.One was tall Meggan,And one was dainty May,But one was fair Margaret,More fair than I can say,Long ago and long ago.

These verses are by a South Australian writer. “Forget me when I die” is an unpleasing sentiment; yet in “When I am dead, my dearest,” Christina Rossetti says:

If thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.

If thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

As regards the latter poem, the curious fact is that it is read as an exquisite piece ofmusic, and not for any poetic thought it contains. If ithasany coherent meaning, it is that the speaker is indifferent whether or not “her dearest” will remember her or she will remember him. Yet the haunting music of the lines has made it a favourite poem, and it finds a place in all the leading anthologies. Christina Rossetti is by no means a great poet. (Mr. Gosse’s estimate in theBritannicais exaggerated), but she had a wonderful gift of language and metre. Take, for example, the pretty lilt contained in the simplest words in “Maiden-Song”:

Long ago and long ago,And long ago still,There dwelt three merry maidensUpon a distant hill.One was tall Meggan,And one was dainty May,But one was fair Margaret,More fair than I can say,Long ago and long ago.

Long ago and long ago,

And long ago still,

There dwelt three merry maidens

Upon a distant hill.

One was tall Meggan,

And one was dainty May,

But one was fair Margaret,

More fair than I can say,

Long ago and long ago.

And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,Am I not richer than of old?Safe in thy immortality,What change can reach the wealth I hold?What chance can mar the pearl and goldThy love hath left in trust for me?And while in life’s long afternoon,Where cool and long the shadows grow,I walk to meet the night that soonShall shape and shadow overflow,I cannot feel that thou art far,Since near at need the angels are;And when the sunset gates unbar,Shall I not see thee waiting stand,And, white against the evening star,The welcome of thy beckoning hand?John Greenleaf Whittier(Snow-Bound).

And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,

Am I not richer than of old?

Safe in thy immortality,

What change can reach the wealth I hold?

What chance can mar the pearl and gold

Thy love hath left in trust for me?

And while in life’s long afternoon,

Where cool and long the shadows grow,

I walk to meet the night that soon

Shall shape and shadow overflow,

I cannot feel that thou art far,

Since near at need the angels are;

And when the sunset gates unbar,

Shall I not see thee waiting stand,

And, white against the evening star,

The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

John Greenleaf Whittier(Snow-Bound).

I have a dream—that some day I shall goAt break of dawn adown a rainy street,A grey old street, and I shall come in the endTo the little house I have known, and stand; and you,Mother of mine, who watch and wait for me.Will you not hear my footstep in the street,And, as of old, be ready at the door,To give me rest again?... I shall come home.H. D. Lowry.

I have a dream—that some day I shall go

At break of dawn adown a rainy street,

A grey old street, and I shall come in the end

To the little house I have known, and stand; and you,

Mother of mine, who watch and wait for me.

Will you not hear my footstep in the street,

And, as of old, be ready at the door,

To give me rest again?... I shall come home.

H. D. Lowry.

Surprised by joy—impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport—Oh! with whomBut Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—But how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss!—That thought’s returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind

I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom

But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—

But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;

That neither present time, nor years unborn

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

William Wordsworth

Written of the poet’s child Catherine, who died in 1812 at three years of age, and of whom Wordsworth had also written, “Loving she is, and tractable, though wild.”Forty years afterthe death of this child and her brother, who died about the same time, the poet spoke of them to Aubrey de Vere with the same acute sense of bereavement as if they had only recently died.

DEATH

It is not death, that sometime in a sighThis eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;That sometime these bright stars, that now replyIn sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprightBe lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;It is not death to know this,—but to knowThat pious thoughts, which visit at new gravesIn tender pilgrimage, will cease to goSo duly and so oft—and when grass wavesOver the passed-away, there may be thenNo resurrection in the minds of men.Thomas Hood.

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,

And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright

Be lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;

It is not death to know this,—but to know

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go

So duly and so oft—and when grass waves

Over the passed-away, there may be then

No resurrection in the minds of men.

Thomas Hood.

A little pain, a little fond regret,A little shame, and we are living yet,While love, that should outlive us, lieth dead.W. Morris.

A little pain, a little fond regret,A little shame, and we are living yet,While love, that should outlive us, lieth dead.

A little pain, a little fond regret,

A little shame, and we are living yet,

While love, that should outlive us, lieth dead.

W. Morris.

O never rudely will I blame his faithIn the might of stars and angels!...... For the stricken heart of LoveThis visible nature, and this common world,Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper importLurks in the legend told my infant yearsThan lies upon that truth, we live to learn,For fable is Love’s world, his home, his birth-place:Delightedly dwells he ’mong fays and talismans,And spirits; and delightedly believesDivinities, being himself divine.The intelligible forms of ancient poets,The fair humanities of old religion,The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,Or chasms and wat’ry depths; all these have vanished.They live no longer in the faith of reason!But still the heart doth need a language, stillDoth the old instinct bring back the old names,And to yon starry world they now are gone,Spirits or gods, that used to share this earthWith man as with their friend; and to the loverYonder they move, from yonder visible skyShoot influence down: and even at this day’Tis Jupiter who brings whate’er is great,And Venus who brings everything that’s fair.S. T. Coleridge(Wallenstein—The Piccolomini).

O never rudely will I blame his faith

In the might of stars and angels!...

... For the stricken heart of Love

This visible nature, and this common world,

Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import

Lurks in the legend told my infant years

Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn,

For fable is Love’s world, his home, his birth-place:

Delightedly dwells he ’mong fays and talismans,

And spirits; and delightedly believes

Divinities, being himself divine.

The intelligible forms of ancient poets,

The fair humanities of old religion,

The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,

That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,

Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,

Or chasms and wat’ry depths; all these have vanished.

They live no longer in the faith of reason!

But still the heart doth need a language, still

Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,

And to yon starry world they now are gone,

Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth

With man as with their friend; and to the lover

Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky

Shoot influence down: and even at this day

’Tis Jupiter who brings whate’er is great,

And Venus who brings everything that’s fair.

S. T. Coleridge(Wallenstein—The Piccolomini).

His faith.—Wallenstein, the great German soldier and statesman (1583-1634) believed in astrology.The “intelligible forms of ancient poets” and “fair humanities of old religion” are the gods and inferior divinities that please our fancy. Thus the Greeks peopled the heavens (not very distant heavens to them) with their gods who visited earth and mingled with men. There were also the lesser deities, as the Hours and the Graces; and also the Nymphs—the Nereïds, Naiads, Orcades and Dryads—who inhabited seas, springs, rivers, and trees respectively. The Nymphs would correspond somewhat to the elves, gnomes and fairies of Northern religions.Coleridge’s translation of “Wallenstein” (of which “The Piccolomini” is a portion) is considered a masterpiece. Schiller was fortunate in having a finer poet than himself to translate his drama. In the above passage Coleridge greatly improved on the original; the seven splendid lines beginning “The intelligible forms of ancient poets” are his and not Schiller’s; and, therefore, this passage may fairly be ascribed to him as author.

His faith.—Wallenstein, the great German soldier and statesman (1583-1634) believed in astrology.

The “intelligible forms of ancient poets” and “fair humanities of old religion” are the gods and inferior divinities that please our fancy. Thus the Greeks peopled the heavens (not very distant heavens to them) with their gods who visited earth and mingled with men. There were also the lesser deities, as the Hours and the Graces; and also the Nymphs—the Nereïds, Naiads, Orcades and Dryads—who inhabited seas, springs, rivers, and trees respectively. The Nymphs would correspond somewhat to the elves, gnomes and fairies of Northern religions.

Coleridge’s translation of “Wallenstein” (of which “The Piccolomini” is a portion) is considered a masterpiece. Schiller was fortunate in having a finer poet than himself to translate his drama. In the above passage Coleridge greatly improved on the original; the seven splendid lines beginning “The intelligible forms of ancient poets” are his and not Schiller’s; and, therefore, this passage may fairly be ascribed to him as author.

By rose-hung river and light-foot rillThere are who rest not; who think longTill they discern as from a hillAt the sun’s hour of morning song.Known of souls only, and those souls free,The sacred spaces of the sea.A. C. Swinburne(Prelude—Songs before Sunrise).

By rose-hung river and light-foot rill

There are who rest not; who think long

Till they discern as from a hill

At the sun’s hour of morning song.

Known of souls only, and those souls free,

The sacred spaces of the sea.

A. C. Swinburne(Prelude—Songs before Sunrise).

The sea typifies the wider, nobler life of the soul.

Je prends mon bien où je le trouve.

(I take my property wherever I find it.)

Molière(1622-1673).

This famous saying is quoted in French literature as though Molière had said, “I admit plagiarism, but I so improve what I borrow from others that it becomes my own” (seeLarousse, under “Bien”).“Tho’ old the thought and oft expressed,’Tis his at last who says it best.”It is, however, an interesting question whether this was the true meaning intended by Molière.The story is told by Grimarest, the first biographer of the great dramatist. In 1671 Molière producedLes Fourberies de Scapin, in which he had inserted two scenes taken fromLe Pedant Joué, of Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655). (They are the amusing scenes where Geronte repeatedly says,Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère, “What the deuce was he doing in that Turkish galley?”) Grimarest says that Cyrano had used in these scenes what he had overheard from Molière, and that the latter, when taxed with the plagiarism, replied, “Jereprendsmon bien où je le trouve” (“Itake backmy property, wherever I find it”). That is to say, he definitelydeniedthe plagiarism.Voltaire, in a “Life of Molière,” makes a general assertion (not referring specially to this incident) that all Grimarest’s stories are false. This must, of course, be far too sweeping an assertion, and Grimarest is in fact quoted as an authority. Voltaire himself (1694-1778) uses the saying in the sense given by Grimarest (La Pucelle, Chant III.):Cette culotte est mienne; et je prendraiCe que fut mien où je le trouverai.(“These breeches are mine, and I shall take what was mine wherever I find it.”) Agnès Sorel had been captured dressed as a man and wearing the garment in question, which had been previously stolen from the speaker.It seems to me that Grimarest’s story must be accepted, that Molière claimed the scenes as originally his and denied plagiarism. There is no evidence to the contrary, and the saying is given its obvious meaning. (It is word for word as in the Digest,Ubi rem meam invenio, ibi vindico, “Where I find my own property, I appropriate it.”) But the question then arises, Why should so commonplace a statement have attained such notoriety?The explanation seems simple. Molière had many jealous and bitter enemies, who laid every charge they could against him. He was well known to have borrowed ideas, characters and scenes in all directions—and his enemies constantly and persistently attacked him on this ground. Then came his most glaring plagiarism from a comparatively recent play, written by a man whose dare-devil exploits had made him a perfect hero of romance. Molière’s story that Cyrano had previously stolen the scenes from him would not been have accepted for a moment. Cyrano had never been known to plagiarize, nor would it have been natural for a man of his character to do anything clandestine. Also Molière would have had nothing to support his statement—and Cyrano was not alive to contradict him. The conclusion, therefore, seems to be that the dramatist’s statement was received in Paris with such incredulity, indignation, and ridicule that it became a byword.But if this is so, why have the words been given an entirely fictitious meaning? The answer seems to lie in the fact that as Molière’s great genius became realized the desire arose to remove a blemish from his character. His is the greatest name in French literature, and almost anything would be excused in him. (We ourselves pass lightly over plagiarisms by Shakespeare.) Also, whether morally justified or not, Molière enriched the world’s literature by his borrowings. It was, therefore, no serious matter to Frenchmen that he should have borrowed from Cyrano, but it was a distinct blemish on his character that he should have denied the fact and also slandered a dead man. Ordinarily, in such a case, the story is ignored and forgotten, just as the one improper act of Sir Walter Scott, his borrowing from Coleridge of the “Christabel” metre, is usually ignored or slurred over. But the saying had become rooted in literature and this course was not practicable. However, there is little that enthusiasm cannot accomplish by some means or other, and the object in this instance has been achieved byreversing the meaningof Molière’s words. If this conjecture is correct, it is an illustration of what has occurred on a far greater scale in connection with the Greeks (see Index of Subjects).As regards the meaning now given to the saying, Seneca claimed the same right to borrow at will.Quidquid bene dictum est ab ullo, meum est(Ep. XVI). After advising his reader to consider the Epistle carefully and see what value it had for him, he says, “You need not be surprised if I am still free with other people’s property. But why do I say ‘other people’s property’? Whatever has been well said by anyone belongs to me.”[13]So also the late Samuel Butler said, “Appropriate things are meant to be appropriated.”

“Tho’ old the thought and oft expressed,’Tis his at last who says it best.”

“Tho’ old the thought and oft expressed,

’Tis his at last who says it best.”

It is, however, an interesting question whether this was the true meaning intended by Molière.

The story is told by Grimarest, the first biographer of the great dramatist. In 1671 Molière producedLes Fourberies de Scapin, in which he had inserted two scenes taken fromLe Pedant Joué, of Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655). (They are the amusing scenes where Geronte repeatedly says,Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère, “What the deuce was he doing in that Turkish galley?”) Grimarest says that Cyrano had used in these scenes what he had overheard from Molière, and that the latter, when taxed with the plagiarism, replied, “Jereprendsmon bien où je le trouve” (“Itake backmy property, wherever I find it”). That is to say, he definitelydeniedthe plagiarism.

Voltaire, in a “Life of Molière,” makes a general assertion (not referring specially to this incident) that all Grimarest’s stories are false. This must, of course, be far too sweeping an assertion, and Grimarest is in fact quoted as an authority. Voltaire himself (1694-1778) uses the saying in the sense given by Grimarest (La Pucelle, Chant III.):

Cette culotte est mienne; et je prendraiCe que fut mien où je le trouverai.

Cette culotte est mienne; et je prendrai

Ce que fut mien où je le trouverai.

(“These breeches are mine, and I shall take what was mine wherever I find it.”) Agnès Sorel had been captured dressed as a man and wearing the garment in question, which had been previously stolen from the speaker.

It seems to me that Grimarest’s story must be accepted, that Molière claimed the scenes as originally his and denied plagiarism. There is no evidence to the contrary, and the saying is given its obvious meaning. (It is word for word as in the Digest,Ubi rem meam invenio, ibi vindico, “Where I find my own property, I appropriate it.”) But the question then arises, Why should so commonplace a statement have attained such notoriety?

The explanation seems simple. Molière had many jealous and bitter enemies, who laid every charge they could against him. He was well known to have borrowed ideas, characters and scenes in all directions—and his enemies constantly and persistently attacked him on this ground. Then came his most glaring plagiarism from a comparatively recent play, written by a man whose dare-devil exploits had made him a perfect hero of romance. Molière’s story that Cyrano had previously stolen the scenes from him would not been have accepted for a moment. Cyrano had never been known to plagiarize, nor would it have been natural for a man of his character to do anything clandestine. Also Molière would have had nothing to support his statement—and Cyrano was not alive to contradict him. The conclusion, therefore, seems to be that the dramatist’s statement was received in Paris with such incredulity, indignation, and ridicule that it became a byword.

But if this is so, why have the words been given an entirely fictitious meaning? The answer seems to lie in the fact that as Molière’s great genius became realized the desire arose to remove a blemish from his character. His is the greatest name in French literature, and almost anything would be excused in him. (We ourselves pass lightly over plagiarisms by Shakespeare.) Also, whether morally justified or not, Molière enriched the world’s literature by his borrowings. It was, therefore, no serious matter to Frenchmen that he should have borrowed from Cyrano, but it was a distinct blemish on his character that he should have denied the fact and also slandered a dead man. Ordinarily, in such a case, the story is ignored and forgotten, just as the one improper act of Sir Walter Scott, his borrowing from Coleridge of the “Christabel” metre, is usually ignored or slurred over. But the saying had become rooted in literature and this course was not practicable. However, there is little that enthusiasm cannot accomplish by some means or other, and the object in this instance has been achieved byreversing the meaningof Molière’s words. If this conjecture is correct, it is an illustration of what has occurred on a far greater scale in connection with the Greeks (see Index of Subjects).

As regards the meaning now given to the saying, Seneca claimed the same right to borrow at will.Quidquid bene dictum est ab ullo, meum est(Ep. XVI). After advising his reader to consider the Epistle carefully and see what value it had for him, he says, “You need not be surprised if I am still free with other people’s property. But why do I say ‘other people’s property’? Whatever has been well said by anyone belongs to me.”[13]

So also the late Samuel Butler said, “Appropriate things are meant to be appropriated.”

Our finest hope is finest memory,As they who love in age think youth is blestBecause it has a life to fill with love.George Eliot(A Minor Poet).

Our finest hope is finest memory,As they who love in age think youth is blestBecause it has a life to fill with love.

Our finest hope is finest memory,

As they who love in age think youth is blest

Because it has a life to fill with love.

George Eliot(A Minor Poet).

The disposition to judge every enterprise by its event, and believe in no wisdom that is not endorsed by success, is apt to grow upon us with years, till we sympathize with nothing for which we cannot take out a policy of assurance.

James Martineau(Hours of Thought I, 87).

If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination. Once begin upon this downward path, you never know where you are to stop. Many a man has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he thought little of at the time.

De Quincey(Murder, as one of the Fine Arts).

For when the mellow autumn flushedThe thickets, where the chestnut fell,And in the vales the maple blushed,Another came who knew her well,Who sat with her below the pineAnd with her through the meadow moved,And underneath the purpling vineShe sang to him the song I loved.N. G. Shepherd.

For when the mellow autumn flushedThe thickets, where the chestnut fell,And in the vales the maple blushed,Another came who knew her well,

For when the mellow autumn flushed

The thickets, where the chestnut fell,

And in the vales the maple blushed,

Another came who knew her well,

Who sat with her below the pineAnd with her through the meadow moved,And underneath the purpling vineShe sang to him the song I loved.

Who sat with her below the pine

And with her through the meadow moved,

And underneath the purpling vine

She sang to him the song I loved.

N. G. Shepherd.

Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me, sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, “You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to me!”

Dickens(David Copperfield).

(After looking at his watch) “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told you butter would not suit the works!” he added, looking angrily at the March Hare.

“It was thebestbutter,” the March Hare replied.

Lewis Carroll(Alice in Wonderland).

“They were learning to draw,” the Dormouse went on, “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—”

“Why with an M?” said Alice.

“Why not?” said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

Lewis Carroll(Alice in Wonderland).

Perhaps, as two negatives make one affirmative, it may be thought that two layers of moonshine might coalesce into one pancake; and two Barmecide banquets might be the square root of one poached egg.

Author not traced.

In a Dublin lunatic asylum, one of the inmates peremptorily ordered a visitor to take off his hat. Deferentially obeying the order, the visitor asked why he should remove his hat. The lunatic replied: “Do you not know, sir, that I am the Crown Prince of Prussia?” Having duly made his apologies, the visitor proceeded on his round; but, coming upon the same lunatic, was met with the same demand. Again obeying the order, he repeated the question: “May I ask why you wish me to take off my hat?” The lunatic replied: “Are you not aware, sir, that I am the Prince of Wales?” “But,” said the visitor, “you told me just now you were the Crown Prince of Prussia.” The lunatic, after scratching his head and deliberating for a moment, replied: “Ah, but that was by a different mother.”

(Another Irish lunatic always lost himself and insisted on looking for himself under the bed.)

Author not traced.

These are true stories but localized—another injustice to Ireland!

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.

(Much Ado About Nothing.)

Pointz.Come, your reason, Jack,—your reason.

Falstaff.Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

(1 Henry IV, ii, 4.)

Reasonneeds to be given its old pronunciation, “raison” (or raisin) in order to understand Falstaff’s pun.

Still I cannot believe in clairvoyance—because the thing is impossible.

Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855(Table Talk).

Rogers mentions some remarkable facts about the clairvoyant, Alexis, and ends with this convincing argument. Apart from clairvoyance (of which I know nothing), Rogers would no doubt have made a similar reply if some prophet had foretold that men would one day communicate with each other by wireless telegraphy; and the same effective argument is to-day opposed by many to the evidence that the dead communicate with the living.I might follow the eight preceding quotations (which illustrate “the art of reasoning”) with the well-known story of Charles Lamb, who, when blamed for coming late to the office, excused himself on the ground that he always left early. (He also said, “A man could not have too little to do and too much time to do it in.”) There is also the reply of Lord Rothschild, when the cabman told him that his son paid better fares than he did, “Yes, but He has a rich father, and I haven’t.”

I might follow the eight preceding quotations (which illustrate “the art of reasoning”) with the well-known story of Charles Lamb, who, when blamed for coming late to the office, excused himself on the ground that he always left early. (He also said, “A man could not have too little to do and too much time to do it in.”) There is also the reply of Lord Rothschild, when the cabman told him that his son paid better fares than he did, “Yes, but He has a rich father, and I haven’t.”

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I shall not find Thee quick and kind,Nor know Thee till I die.Enough for me in dreams to seeAnd touch Thy garments’ hem:Thy feet have trod so near to GodI may not follow them.Through wantonness if men professThey weary of Thy parts,E’en let them die at blasphemyAnd perish with their arts;But we that love, but we that proveThine excellence august,While we adore discover moreThee perfect, wise, and just.Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirredBeyond his belly-need,What is is Thine of fair designIn thought and craft and deed;Each stroke aright of toil and fight,That was and that shall be,And hope too high, wherefore we die,Has birth and worth in Thee.Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in feeTo gild his dross thereby,And knowledge sure that he endureA child until he die—For to make plain that man’s disdainIs but new Beauty’s birth—For to possess in lonelinessThe joy of all the earth.As thou didst teach all lovers speechAnd Life all mystery,So shalt Thou rule by every schoolTill love and longing die,Who wast or yet the Lights were setA whisper in the Void,Who shalt be sung through planets youngWhen this is clean destroyed.Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,Across the pressing dark,The children wise of outer skiesLook hitherward and markA light that shifts, a glare that driftsRekindling thus and thus,Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borneStrange tales to them of us.Time hath no tide but must abideThe servant of Thy will;Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhymeThe ranging stars stand still—Regent of spheres that lock our fearsOur hopes invisible,Oh! ’twas certés at Thy decreesWe fashioned Heaven and Hell!Pure Wisdom hath no certain pathThat lacks thy morning-eyne,And captains bold by Thee controlledMost like to God’s design;Thou art the Voice to kingly boysTo lift them through the fight.And Comfortress of Unsuccess,To give the dead good-night.A veil to draw ’twixt God, His law,And Man’s infirmity,A shadow kind to dumb and blindThe shambles where we die;A rule to trick th’ arithmeticToo base of leaguing odds—The spur of trust, the curb of lust,Thou handmaid of the Gods!O Charity, all patientlyAbiding wrack and scaith!O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheatsYet drops no jot of faith!Devil and brute Thou dost transmuteTo higher, lordlier show,Who art in sooth that lovely TruthThe careless angels know!Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I may not find Thee quick and kind,Nor know Thee till I die.Yet may I look with heart unshookOn blow brought home or missed—Yet may I hear with equal earThe clarions down the List;Yet set my lance above mischanceAnd ride the barrière—Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,My Lady is not there!Rudyard Kipling.

Thy face is far from this our war,

Our call and counter-cry,

I shall not find Thee quick and kind,

Nor know Thee till I die.

Enough for me in dreams to see

And touch Thy garments’ hem:

Thy feet have trod so near to God

I may not follow them.

Through wantonness if men professThey weary of Thy parts,E’en let them die at blasphemyAnd perish with their arts;But we that love, but we that proveThine excellence august,While we adore discover moreThee perfect, wise, and just.

Through wantonness if men profess

They weary of Thy parts,

E’en let them die at blasphemy

And perish with their arts;

But we that love, but we that prove

Thine excellence august,

While we adore discover more

Thee perfect, wise, and just.

Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirredBeyond his belly-need,What is is Thine of fair designIn thought and craft and deed;Each stroke aright of toil and fight,That was and that shall be,And hope too high, wherefore we die,Has birth and worth in Thee.

Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred

Beyond his belly-need,

What is is Thine of fair design

In thought and craft and deed;

Each stroke aright of toil and fight,

That was and that shall be,

And hope too high, wherefore we die,

Has birth and worth in Thee.

Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in feeTo gild his dross thereby,And knowledge sure that he endureA child until he die—For to make plain that man’s disdainIs but new Beauty’s birth—For to possess in lonelinessThe joy of all the earth.

Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee

To gild his dross thereby,

And knowledge sure that he endure

A child until he die—

For to make plain that man’s disdain

Is but new Beauty’s birth—

For to possess in loneliness

The joy of all the earth.

As thou didst teach all lovers speechAnd Life all mystery,So shalt Thou rule by every schoolTill love and longing die,Who wast or yet the Lights were setA whisper in the Void,Who shalt be sung through planets youngWhen this is clean destroyed.

As thou didst teach all lovers speech

And Life all mystery,

So shalt Thou rule by every school

Till love and longing die,

Who wast or yet the Lights were set

A whisper in the Void,

Who shalt be sung through planets young

When this is clean destroyed.

Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,Across the pressing dark,The children wise of outer skiesLook hitherward and markA light that shifts, a glare that driftsRekindling thus and thus,Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borneStrange tales to them of us.

Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,

Across the pressing dark,

The children wise of outer skies

Look hitherward and mark

A light that shifts, a glare that drifts

Rekindling thus and thus,

Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne

Strange tales to them of us.

Time hath no tide but must abideThe servant of Thy will;Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhymeThe ranging stars stand still—Regent of spheres that lock our fearsOur hopes invisible,Oh! ’twas certés at Thy decreesWe fashioned Heaven and Hell!

Time hath no tide but must abide

The servant of Thy will;

Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme

The ranging stars stand still—

Regent of spheres that lock our fears

Our hopes invisible,

Oh! ’twas certés at Thy decrees

We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

Pure Wisdom hath no certain pathThat lacks thy morning-eyne,And captains bold by Thee controlledMost like to God’s design;Thou art the Voice to kingly boysTo lift them through the fight.And Comfortress of Unsuccess,To give the dead good-night.

Pure Wisdom hath no certain path

That lacks thy morning-eyne,

And captains bold by Thee controlled

Most like to God’s design;

Thou art the Voice to kingly boys

To lift them through the fight.

And Comfortress of Unsuccess,

To give the dead good-night.

A veil to draw ’twixt God, His law,And Man’s infirmity,A shadow kind to dumb and blindThe shambles where we die;A rule to trick th’ arithmeticToo base of leaguing odds—The spur of trust, the curb of lust,Thou handmaid of the Gods!

A veil to draw ’twixt God, His law,

And Man’s infirmity,

A shadow kind to dumb and blind

The shambles where we die;

A rule to trick th’ arithmetic

Too base of leaguing odds—

The spur of trust, the curb of lust,

Thou handmaid of the Gods!

O Charity, all patientlyAbiding wrack and scaith!O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheatsYet drops no jot of faith!Devil and brute Thou dost transmuteTo higher, lordlier show,Who art in sooth that lovely TruthThe careless angels know!

O Charity, all patiently

Abiding wrack and scaith!

O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats

Yet drops no jot of faith!

Devil and brute Thou dost transmute

To higher, lordlier show,

Who art in sooth that lovely Truth

The careless angels know!

Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I may not find Thee quick and kind,Nor know Thee till I die.

Thy face is far from this our war,

Our call and counter-cry,

I may not find Thee quick and kind,

Nor know Thee till I die.

Yet may I look with heart unshookOn blow brought home or missed—Yet may I hear with equal earThe clarions down the List;Yet set my lance above mischanceAnd ride the barrière—Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,My Lady is not there!

Yet may I look with heart unshook

On blow brought home or missed—

Yet may I hear with equal ear

The clarions down the List;

Yet set my lance above mischance

And ride the barrière—

Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,

My Lady is not there!

Rudyard Kipling.

All attempts to define poetic imagination, to determine its scope or prescribe its limits, leave us cold and unsatisfied, for the simple reason that its variety and range are unlimited. The aesthetic, moral and spiritual faculties are all in essence identical, so that no definition of the aesthetic can exclude the spiritual, and art and poetry spring from the same root as religion. They all have what Wordsworth calls the “Spirit of Paradise.”[14]Imagination[15]in its larger sense includes all those higher faculties of man, all that lifts him above his material existence. The “True Romance” in this fine poem is imagination in this complete sense. By our lower perceptive faculties we see the world of Nature in its material form; by our higher powers we apprehend its aesthetic, moral and spiritual beauty. (Man with his consciousness, will, reason, and also his higher imaginative faculties, is as much part ofNatureas any star or clod, crystal or gas, fly or flower.) Hence imagination gives us the vision of glory in earth and sky, the sense of wonder and worship, the emotions of sympathy and love; it teaches us duty and self sacrifice; it awakens in us a sense of the mystery of birth, life and death, directing our thoughts from the finite and material world to the infinite realm of the spiritual.Verse 4, lines 5, 6.Our faculties develop, and we realize, for example, the beauty of Nature which was not apparent to the Greeks of Plato’s time (see p. 379;see also p. 283).Verse 9, l. 5, 6.Imagination teaches us heroism. In the italicized verses, “our war” is, of course, the strife of our material existence: we can face with courage the mischances of life, seeing that “My Lady Romance,” the soul which is our higher nature, must persist through life and after death. (“Barrière,” barrier.)

Verse 4, lines 5, 6.Our faculties develop, and we realize, for example, the beauty of Nature which was not apparent to the Greeks of Plato’s time (see p. 379;see also p. 283).Verse 9, l. 5, 6.Imagination teaches us heroism. In the italicized verses, “our war” is, of course, the strife of our material existence: we can face with courage the mischances of life, seeing that “My Lady Romance,” the soul which is our higher nature, must persist through life and after death. (“Barrière,” barrier.)

We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid misdoing and shabby achievement.

George Eliot(Middlemarch).

The stars make no noise.

Irish Proverb.

WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY SIGHT

Who fancied what a pretty sightThis rock would be if edged aroundWith living snow-drops? circlet bright!How glorious to this orchard ground!Who loved the little rock, and setUpon its head this coronet?Was it the humour of a child?Or rather of some gentle maid,Whose brows, the day that she was styledThe Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?Of man mature, or matron sage?Or old man toying with his age?I asked—’twas whispered, “The deviceTo each and all might well belong:It is the Spirit of ParadiseThat prompts such work, a Spirit strongThat gives to all the self-same bentWhere life is wise and innocent.”Wordsworth.

Who fancied what a pretty sight

This rock would be if edged around

With living snow-drops? circlet bright!

How glorious to this orchard ground!

Who loved the little rock, and set

Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?Or rather of some gentle maid,Whose brows, the day that she was styledThe Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?Of man mature, or matron sage?Or old man toying with his age?

Was it the humour of a child?

Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled

The Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?

Of man mature, or matron sage?

Or old man toying with his age?

I asked—’twas whispered, “The deviceTo each and all might well belong:It is the Spirit of ParadiseThat prompts such work, a Spirit strongThat gives to all the self-same bentWhere life is wise and innocent.”

I asked—’twas whispered, “The device

To each and all might well belong:

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.”

Wordsworth.

They who believe in the influences of the stars over the fates of men are, in feeling at least, nearer the truth than they who regard the heavenly bodies as related to them merely by a common obedience to an external law. All that man sees has to do with man. Worlds cannot be without an intermundane relationship. The community of the centre of all creation suggests an inter-radiating connection and dependence of the parts. Else a grander idea is conceivable than that which is already embodied. The blank, which is only a forgotten life lying behind the consciousness, and the misty splendour, which is an undeveloped life lying before it, may be full of mysterious revelations of other connections with the worlds around us than those of science and poetry. No shining belt or gleaming moon, no red and green glory in a self-encircling twin-star, but has a relation with the hidden things of a man’s soul, and, it may be, with the secret history of his body as well. They are portions of the living house within which he abides.

G. MacDonald(Phantastes).

O weary time, O life,Consumed in endless, useless strifeTo wash from out the hopeless clayOf heavy day and heavy daySome specks of golden love, to keepOur hearts from madness ere we sleep!W. Morris(The Earthly Paradise).

O weary time, O life,Consumed in endless, useless strifeTo wash from out the hopeless clayOf heavy day and heavy daySome specks of golden love, to keepOur hearts from madness ere we sleep!

O weary time, O life,

Consumed in endless, useless strife

To wash from out the hopeless clay

Of heavy day and heavy day

Some specks of golden love, to keep

Our hearts from madness ere we sleep!

W. Morris(The Earthly Paradise).

Back to Index Next