Chapter 4

To an Australian, a metaphor taken from alluvial gold-mining is interesting.

To an Australian, a metaphor taken from alluvial gold-mining is interesting.

(Dr. Slop has been uttering terrible curses against Obadiah) I declare, quoth my Uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself with so much bitterness.—He is the father of curses, replied Dr. Slop.—So am not I, replied my uncle.—But he is cursed and damned already to all eternity, replied Dr. Slop.

I am sorry for it, quoth my Uncle Toby.

Laurence Sterne(Tristram Shandy).

Faust.If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me.Good Angel.Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee.Bad Angel.Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee.Faust.Be I a devil, yet God may pity me.Marlowe(Doctor Faustus).

Faust.If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me.Good Angel.Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee.Bad Angel.Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee.Faust.Be I a devil, yet God may pity me.Marlowe(Doctor Faustus).

Faust.If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me.

Faust.If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me.

Good Angel.Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee.

Good Angel.Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee.

Bad Angel.Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee.

Bad Angel.Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee.

Faust.Be I a devil, yet God may pity me.

Faust.Be I a devil, yet God may pity me.

Marlowe(Doctor Faustus).

Marlowe(Doctor Faustus).

But fare-you-well, Auld Nickie-Ben!O, wad ye tak a thought and men’!Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—Still hae a stake:I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,Ev’n for your sake!Robert Burns(Address to the Deil).

But fare-you-well, Auld Nickie-Ben!O, wad ye tak a thought and men’!Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—Still hae a stake:I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,Ev’n for your sake!Robert Burns(Address to the Deil).

But fare-you-well, Auld Nickie-Ben!O, wad ye tak a thought and men’!Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—Still hae a stake:I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,Ev’n for your sake!

But fare-you-well, Auld Nickie-Ben!

O, wad ye tak a thought and men’!

Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—

Still hae a stake:

I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,

Ev’n for your sake!

Robert Burns(Address to the Deil).

Robert Burns(Address to the Deil).

“Shargar, what think ye? Gin the deil war to repent, wad God forgie him?”

“There’s no sayin’ what folk wad dae till ance they’re tried,” returned Shargar cautiously.

George MacDonald(Robert Falconer, ch. xii.)

There is a passage, I think in one of MacDonald’s novels, where the question is again put, “Gin the de’il war to repent?” The reply is to the effect, “Do not wish even him anything so dreadful. The agony of his repentance would be far worse than anything he can suffer in hell.”Scotus Erigena, a very able Irish theologian and philosopher of the 9th century, believed that Satan himself must ultimately be reclaimed, since otherwise God could not in the end conquer and extinguish sin. He cites Origen and others in support of his contention. These old and very serious discussions seem more remote than Plato, but the belief in a personal devil was not uncommon even in my young days.

There is a passage, I think in one of MacDonald’s novels, where the question is again put, “Gin the de’il war to repent?” The reply is to the effect, “Do not wish even him anything so dreadful. The agony of his repentance would be far worse than anything he can suffer in hell.”

Scotus Erigena, a very able Irish theologian and philosopher of the 9th century, believed that Satan himself must ultimately be reclaimed, since otherwise God could not in the end conquer and extinguish sin. He cites Origen and others in support of his contention. These old and very serious discussions seem more remote than Plato, but the belief in a personal devil was not uncommon even in my young days.

Hope, whose eyesCan sound the seas unsoundable, the skiesInaccessible of eyesight; that can seeWhat earth beholds not, hear what wind and seaHear not, and speak what all these crying in oneCan speak not to the sun.Swinburne(Thalassius).

Hope, whose eyesCan sound the seas unsoundable, the skiesInaccessible of eyesight; that can seeWhat earth beholds not, hear what wind and seaHear not, and speak what all these crying in oneCan speak not to the sun.Swinburne(Thalassius).

Hope, whose eyesCan sound the seas unsoundable, the skiesInaccessible of eyesight; that can seeWhat earth beholds not, hear what wind and seaHear not, and speak what all these crying in oneCan speak not to the sun.

Hope, whose eyes

Can sound the seas unsoundable, the skies

Inaccessible of eyesight; that can see

What earth beholds not, hear what wind and sea

Hear not, and speak what all these crying in one

Can speak not to the sun.

Swinburne(Thalassius).

Swinburne(Thalassius).

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,shineAnd hot upon the meads did cast his ray;The apple reddened from its paly green,And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;The pied chelándry sang the livelong day;goldfinch’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere.apparelThe sun was gleaming in the midst of day.Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,When from the sea arose in drear arrayA heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,The which full fast unto the woodland drew,Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-sideholm-oakWhich did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothingLong brimful of the miseries of need.Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man!graveHaste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.Cold as the clay which will grow on thy headAre Charity and Love among high elves;For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall,gloom, appalAnd the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy soundMoves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs;swingsAgain the lightning, and the thunder pours,And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;His chapournette was drenched with the rain,small round hatHis painted girdle met with mickle shame;He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same;told his beadsThe storm increases, and he drew aside,backwards,With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.i.e., cursedHis cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,With a gold button fastened near his chin,His autremete was edged with golden twine,robeAnd his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,Till the sun shineth high above our head,And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.”crucifix“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;This is no season alms and prayers to give.My porter never lets a beggar in;None touch my ring who not in honour live.”And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean;short surpliceA Limitor he was of order seen;Begging FriarAnd from the pathway-side then turnèd he,Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,“For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,And did thereout a groat of silver take:The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,“Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care,We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.“But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see.short cloak’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.”He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde.went on his wayVirgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure,gloryOr give the mighty will, or give the good man power!Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770).

In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,shineAnd hot upon the meads did cast his ray;The apple reddened from its paly green,And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;The pied chelándry sang the livelong day;goldfinch’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere.apparelThe sun was gleaming in the midst of day.Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,When from the sea arose in drear arrayA heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,The which full fast unto the woodland drew,Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-sideholm-oakWhich did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothingLong brimful of the miseries of need.Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man!graveHaste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.Cold as the clay which will grow on thy headAre Charity and Love among high elves;For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall,gloom, appalAnd the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy soundMoves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs;swingsAgain the lightning, and the thunder pours,And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;His chapournette was drenched with the rain,small round hatHis painted girdle met with mickle shame;He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same;told his beadsThe storm increases, and he drew aside,backwards,With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.i.e., cursedHis cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,With a gold button fastened near his chin,His autremete was edged with golden twine,robeAnd his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,Till the sun shineth high above our head,And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.”crucifix“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;This is no season alms and prayers to give.My porter never lets a beggar in;None touch my ring who not in honour live.”And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean;short surpliceA Limitor he was of order seen;Begging FriarAnd from the pathway-side then turnèd he,Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,“For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,And did thereout a groat of silver take:The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,“Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care,We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.“But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see.short cloak’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.”He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde.went on his wayVirgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure,gloryOr give the mighty will, or give the good man power!Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770).

In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,shineAnd hot upon the meads did cast his ray;The apple reddened from its paly green,And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;The pied chelándry sang the livelong day;goldfinch’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere.apparel

In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,shine

And hot upon the meads did cast his ray;

The apple reddened from its paly green,

And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;

The pied chelándry sang the livelong day;goldfinch

’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,

And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere.apparel

The sun was gleaming in the midst of day.Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,When from the sea arose in drear arrayA heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,The which full fast unto the woodland drew,Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.

The sun was gleaming in the midst of day.

Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,

When from the sea arose in drear array

A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,

The which full fast unto the woodland drew,

Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,

And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.

Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-sideholm-oakWhich did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothingLong brimful of the miseries of need.Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-sideholm-oak

Which did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,

A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,

Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothing

Long brimful of the miseries of need.

Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?

He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man!graveHaste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.Cold as the clay which will grow on thy headAre Charity and Love among high elves;For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;

How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!

Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man!grave

Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.

Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head

Are Charity and Love among high elves;

For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall,gloom, appalAnd the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.

The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,

The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;

The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall,gloom, appal

And the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;

Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;

The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,

And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.

List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy soundMoves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs;swingsAgain the lightning, and the thunder pours,And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.

List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy sound

Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,

Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,

Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;

The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs;swings

Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,

And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.

Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;His chapournette was drenched with the rain,small round hatHis painted girdle met with mickle shame;He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same;told his beadsThe storm increases, and he drew aside,backwards,With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.i.e., cursed

Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,

The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;

His chapournette was drenched with the rain,small round hat

His painted girdle met with mickle shame;

He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same;told his beads

The storm increases, and he drew aside,backwards,

With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.i.e., cursed

His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,With a gold button fastened near his chin,His autremete was edged with golden twine,robeAnd his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,

With a gold button fastened near his chin,

His autremete was edged with golden twine,robe

And his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;

Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.

The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,

For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,Till the sun shineth high above our head,And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.”crucifix

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,

“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,

Till the sun shineth high above our head,

And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.

Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.

No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,

All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.”crucifix

“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;This is no season alms and prayers to give.My porter never lets a beggar in;None touch my ring who not in honour live.”And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;

This is no season alms and prayers to give.

My porter never lets a beggar in;

None touch my ring who not in honour live.”

And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,

And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;

The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean;short surpliceA Limitor he was of order seen;Begging FriarAnd from the pathway-side then turnèd he,Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.

Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,

Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;

Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.

His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean;short surplice

A Limitor he was of order seen;Begging Friar

And from the pathway-side then turnèd he,

Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,“For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,And did thereout a groat of silver take:The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,“Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care,We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,

“For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”

The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,

And did thereout a groat of silver take:

The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,

“Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care,

We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.

“But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see.short cloak’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.”He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde.went on his wayVirgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure,gloryOr give the mighty will, or give the good man power!

“But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.

Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;

Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see.short cloak

’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.”

He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde.went on his way

Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure,glory

Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770).

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770).

The sun would conventionally be said to be in Virgo in August.It is sad and strange to think of the amazing story of this child-genius, who lived in a world of romance but was driven by destitution to commit suicide atseventeenyears of age. The above was one of the “Rowley forgeries,” but, for the antique words which Chatterton used (often incorrectly) to imitate the language of the Fifteenth Century, modern words have been substituted where possible.

The sun would conventionally be said to be in Virgo in August.

It is sad and strange to think of the amazing story of this child-genius, who lived in a world of romance but was driven by destitution to commit suicide atseventeenyears of age. The above was one of the “Rowley forgeries,” but, for the antique words which Chatterton used (often incorrectly) to imitate the language of the Fifteenth Century, modern words have been substituted where possible.

I thought once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo bear a gift for mortals, old or young:And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.Those of my own life, who by turns had flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there,The silver answer rang.—“Not Death, but Love.”E. B. Browning(Sonnets from the Portuguese).

I thought once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo bear a gift for mortals, old or young:And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.Those of my own life, who by turns had flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there,The silver answer rang.—“Not Death, but Love.”E. B. Browning(Sonnets from the Portuguese).

I thought once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo bear a gift for mortals, old or young:And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.Those of my own life, who by turns had flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there,The silver answer rang.—“Not Death, but Love.”

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—

“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there,

The silver answer rang.—“Not Death, but Love.”

E. B. Browning(Sonnets from the Portuguese).

E. B. Browning(Sonnets from the Portuguese).

This is the first of the chain of sonnets, which Mrs. Browning called “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” They tell her own love-story, and were written in secret and without thought of publication. Robert Browning learnt of them only the year after the marriage, and then insisted on their being published. They include some of the finest sonnets in our language.To appreciate this and the other sonnets, it is necessary to know the beautiful story of the two poets. Mrs. Browning was six years older than her husband and a life-long invalid, expecting, as she says in this sonnet, Death rather than Love. Their marriage was supremely happy, and the great poet, when in England, used to visit the church in which they were married to express his thankfulness. He tells the love-story in the next quotation.In these sonnets Mrs. Browning laid bare her innermost feelings.Robert Browning, however, in several poems says the privacy of a poet’s life and feelings should not be bared to the public. Wordsworth had written in 1827:Scorn not the Sonnet.... With this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart.Browning in 1876 (thirty years after the “Sonnets from the Portuguese” were written) wrote in his poem calledHouse:“With this same keyShakespeare unlocked his heart”....Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!Swinburne comments on these lines: “No whit the less like Shakespeare, but undoubtedly the less like Browning.”

This is the first of the chain of sonnets, which Mrs. Browning called “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” They tell her own love-story, and were written in secret and without thought of publication. Robert Browning learnt of them only the year after the marriage, and then insisted on their being published. They include some of the finest sonnets in our language.

To appreciate this and the other sonnets, it is necessary to know the beautiful story of the two poets. Mrs. Browning was six years older than her husband and a life-long invalid, expecting, as she says in this sonnet, Death rather than Love. Their marriage was supremely happy, and the great poet, when in England, used to visit the church in which they were married to express his thankfulness. He tells the love-story in the next quotation.

In these sonnets Mrs. Browning laid bare her innermost feelings.

Robert Browning, however, in several poems says the privacy of a poet’s life and feelings should not be bared to the public. Wordsworth had written in 1827:

Scorn not the Sonnet.... With this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart.

Scorn not the Sonnet.... With this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart.

Scorn not the Sonnet.... With this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart.

Scorn not the Sonnet.... With this key

Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

Browning in 1876 (thirty years after the “Sonnets from the Portuguese” were written) wrote in his poem calledHouse:

“With this same keyShakespeare unlocked his heart”....Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

“With this same keyShakespeare unlocked his heart”....Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

“With this same keyShakespeare unlocked his heart”....Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

“With this same key

Shakespeare unlocked his heart”....

Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

Swinburne comments on these lines: “No whit the less like Shakespeare, but undoubtedly the less like Browning.”

... Come back with me to the first of all,Let us lean and love it over again,Let us now forget and now recall,Break the rosary in a pearly rain,And gather what we let fall!...Hither we walked then, side by side,Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,And still I questioned or replied,While my heart, convulsed to really speak,Lay choking in its pride.Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,And pity and praise the chapel sweet,And care about the fresco’s loss,And wish for our souls a like retreat,And wonder at the moss.We stoop and look in through the grate,See the little porch and rustic door,Read duly the dead builder’s date;Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,Take the path again—but wait!Oh moment, one and infinite!The water slips o’er stock and stone;The West is tender, hardly bright:How grey at once is the evening grown—One star, its chrysolite!We two stood there with never a third,But each by each, as each knew well:The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,The lights and the shades made up a spellTill the trouble grew and stirred.Oh, the little more, and how much it is!And the little less, and what worlds away!How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,And life be a proof of this!...A moment after, and hands unseenWere hanging the night around us fast;But we knew that a bar was broken betweenLife and life: we were mixed at lastIn spite of the mortal screen....How the world is made for each of us!How all we perceive and know in itTends to some moment’s product thus,When a soul declares itself—to wit,By its fruit, the thing it does!...I am named and known by that moment’s feat;There took my station and degree;So grew my own small life complete,As nature obtained her best of me—One born to love you, sweet!And to watch you sink by the fire-side nowBack again, as you mutely sitMusing by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Yonder, my heart knows how!R. Browning(By the Fireside).

... Come back with me to the first of all,Let us lean and love it over again,Let us now forget and now recall,Break the rosary in a pearly rain,And gather what we let fall!...Hither we walked then, side by side,Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,And still I questioned or replied,While my heart, convulsed to really speak,Lay choking in its pride.Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,And pity and praise the chapel sweet,And care about the fresco’s loss,And wish for our souls a like retreat,And wonder at the moss.We stoop and look in through the grate,See the little porch and rustic door,Read duly the dead builder’s date;Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,Take the path again—but wait!Oh moment, one and infinite!The water slips o’er stock and stone;The West is tender, hardly bright:How grey at once is the evening grown—One star, its chrysolite!We two stood there with never a third,But each by each, as each knew well:The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,The lights and the shades made up a spellTill the trouble grew and stirred.Oh, the little more, and how much it is!And the little less, and what worlds away!How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,And life be a proof of this!...A moment after, and hands unseenWere hanging the night around us fast;But we knew that a bar was broken betweenLife and life: we were mixed at lastIn spite of the mortal screen....How the world is made for each of us!How all we perceive and know in itTends to some moment’s product thus,When a soul declares itself—to wit,By its fruit, the thing it does!...I am named and known by that moment’s feat;There took my station and degree;So grew my own small life complete,As nature obtained her best of me—One born to love you, sweet!And to watch you sink by the fire-side nowBack again, as you mutely sitMusing by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Yonder, my heart knows how!R. Browning(By the Fireside).

... Come back with me to the first of all,Let us lean and love it over again,Let us now forget and now recall,Break the rosary in a pearly rain,And gather what we let fall!...

... Come back with me to the first of all,

Let us lean and love it over again,

Let us now forget and now recall,

Break the rosary in a pearly rain,

And gather what we let fall!...

Hither we walked then, side by side,Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,And still I questioned or replied,While my heart, convulsed to really speak,Lay choking in its pride.

Hither we walked then, side by side,

Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,

And still I questioned or replied,

While my heart, convulsed to really speak,

Lay choking in its pride.

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,And pity and praise the chapel sweet,And care about the fresco’s loss,And wish for our souls a like retreat,And wonder at the moss.

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,

And pity and praise the chapel sweet,

And care about the fresco’s loss,

And wish for our souls a like retreat,

And wonder at the moss.

We stoop and look in through the grate,See the little porch and rustic door,Read duly the dead builder’s date;Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,Take the path again—but wait!

We stoop and look in through the grate,

See the little porch and rustic door,

Read duly the dead builder’s date;

Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,

Take the path again—but wait!

Oh moment, one and infinite!The water slips o’er stock and stone;The West is tender, hardly bright:How grey at once is the evening grown—One star, its chrysolite!

Oh moment, one and infinite!

The water slips o’er stock and stone;

The West is tender, hardly bright:

How grey at once is the evening grown—

One star, its chrysolite!

We two stood there with never a third,But each by each, as each knew well:The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,The lights and the shades made up a spellTill the trouble grew and stirred.

We two stood there with never a third,

But each by each, as each knew well:

The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,

The lights and the shades made up a spell

Till the trouble grew and stirred.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!And the little less, and what worlds away!How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,And life be a proof of this!...

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!

And the little less, and what worlds away!

How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,

Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,

And life be a proof of this!...

A moment after, and hands unseenWere hanging the night around us fast;But we knew that a bar was broken betweenLife and life: we were mixed at lastIn spite of the mortal screen....

A moment after, and hands unseen

Were hanging the night around us fast;

But we knew that a bar was broken between

Life and life: we were mixed at last

In spite of the mortal screen....

How the world is made for each of us!How all we perceive and know in itTends to some moment’s product thus,When a soul declares itself—to wit,By its fruit, the thing it does!...

How the world is made for each of us!

How all we perceive and know in it

Tends to some moment’s product thus,

When a soul declares itself—to wit,

By its fruit, the thing it does!...

I am named and known by that moment’s feat;There took my station and degree;So grew my own small life complete,As nature obtained her best of me—One born to love you, sweet!

I am named and known by that moment’s feat;

There took my station and degree;

So grew my own small life complete,

As nature obtained her best of me—

One born to love you, sweet!

And to watch you sink by the fire-side nowBack again, as you mutely sitMusing by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Yonder, my heart knows how!

And to watch you sink by the fire-side now

Back again, as you mutely sit

Musing by fire-light, that great brow

And the spirit-small hand propping it,

Yonder, my heart knows how!

R. Browning(By the Fireside).

R. Browning(By the Fireside).

The last verse, describing Mrs. Browning, makes it clear that the poet is speaking of his own love-story, although the scene is imaginary. The last two verses are to be read literally, as an expression of the poet’s firm belief, and not as poetical exaggeration.

The last verse, describing Mrs. Browning, makes it clear that the poet is speaking of his own love-story, although the scene is imaginary. The last two verses are to be read literally, as an expression of the poet’s firm belief, and not as poetical exaggeration.

You must not say that this cannot be, or that that is contrary to nature. You do not know what Nature is, or what she can do; and nobody knows. Wise men are afraid to say that there is anything contrary to nature, except what is contrary to mathematical truth, as that two and two cannot make five. There are dozens and hundreds of things in the world which we shouldcertainly have said were contrary to nature, if we did not see them going on under our eyes all day long. If people had never seen little seeds grow into great plants and trees, of quite different shapes from themselves, and these trees again produce fresh seeds, they would have said, “The thing cannot be”.... Suppose that no human being had ever seen or heard of an elephant. And suppose that you described him to people, and said, “This is the shape, and plan, and anatomy of the beast ... and this is the section of his skull, more like a mushroom than a reasonable skull of a reasonable or unreasonable beast; yet he is the wisest of all beasts, and can do everything save read, write, and cast accounts.” People would surely have said, “Nonsense; your elephant is contrary to nature,” and have thought you were telling stories—as the French thought of Le Vaillant when he came back to Paris and said that he had shot a giraffe; and as the King of the Cannibal Islands thought of the English sailor, when he said that in his country water turned to marble, and rain fell as feathers. The truth is that folks’ fancy that such and such things cannot be, simply because they have not seen them, is worth no more than a savage’s fancy that there cannot be such a thing as a locomotive, because he never saw one running wild in the forest.

Charles Kingsley (1819-1875)(Water-Babies).

This passage interested us greatly in the old days, and also another passage drawing a not very satisfactory analogy between the transformation of insects and our probable transformation at death. I do not know whether the elephant’s brain warrants Kingsley’s deduction.This book, published in 1863,[16]had a considerable effect in doing away with the barbarous employment of young children in mines, factories, brickfields, etc. It called attention particularly to the chimney-sweep boys of four or five years of age who had to climb up the narrow chimneys, and who were simply slaves, neglected and ill-treated by their drunken masters. We are apt to forget how recently we emerged from barbarism in many directions, and that we are only now becoming civilized in other respects, as, for instance, with regard to the poor, suffering, and ignorant.

This passage interested us greatly in the old days, and also another passage drawing a not very satisfactory analogy between the transformation of insects and our probable transformation at death. I do not know whether the elephant’s brain warrants Kingsley’s deduction.

This book, published in 1863,[16]had a considerable effect in doing away with the barbarous employment of young children in mines, factories, brickfields, etc. It called attention particularly to the chimney-sweep boys of four or five years of age who had to climb up the narrow chimneys, and who were simply slaves, neglected and ill-treated by their drunken masters. We are apt to forget how recently we emerged from barbarism in many directions, and that we are only now becoming civilized in other respects, as, for instance, with regard to the poor, suffering, and ignorant.

The worst way to improve the worldIs to condemn it.P. J. Bailey(Festus).

The worst way to improve the worldIs to condemn it.P. J. Bailey(Festus).

The worst way to improve the worldIs to condemn it.

The worst way to improve the world

Is to condemn it.

P. J. Bailey(Festus).

P. J. Bailey(Festus).

THE DARK GLASS

Not I myself know all my love for thee:How should I reach so far, who cannot weighTo-morrow’s dower by gage of yesterday?Shall birth and death, and all dark names that beAs doors and windows bared to some loud sea,Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relayAnd ultimate outpost of eternity?Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all?One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,—One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest callAnd veriest touch of powers primordialThat any hour-girt life may understand.D. G. Rossetti.

Not I myself know all my love for thee:How should I reach so far, who cannot weighTo-morrow’s dower by gage of yesterday?Shall birth and death, and all dark names that beAs doors and windows bared to some loud sea,Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relayAnd ultimate outpost of eternity?Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all?One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,—One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest callAnd veriest touch of powers primordialThat any hour-girt life may understand.D. G. Rossetti.

Not I myself know all my love for thee:How should I reach so far, who cannot weighTo-morrow’s dower by gage of yesterday?Shall birth and death, and all dark names that beAs doors and windows bared to some loud sea,Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relayAnd ultimate outpost of eternity?

Not I myself know all my love for thee:

How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh

To-morrow’s dower by gage of yesterday?

Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be

As doors and windows bared to some loud sea,

Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;

And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relay

And ultimate outpost of eternity?

Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all?One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,—One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest callAnd veriest touch of powers primordialThat any hour-girt life may understand.

Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all?

One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,—

One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.

Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call

And veriest touch of powers primordial

That any hour-girt life may understand.

D. G. Rossetti.

D. G. Rossetti.

The gods are on the side of the strongest.

Tacitus(Hist.4, 17).

De Rabutin, Comte de Bussy, said in 1677, “God is on the side of the heaviest battalions.” Voltaire again said, in 1770, that there are far more fools than wise men, “and they say that God always favours the heaviest battalions” (Letter to Le Riche). Gibbon wrote, “The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators” (Ch. LXVIII). (I owe part of this note toKing’s Classical and Foreign Quotations.)

De Rabutin, Comte de Bussy, said in 1677, “God is on the side of the heaviest battalions.” Voltaire again said, in 1770, that there are far more fools than wise men, “and they say that God always favours the heaviest battalions” (Letter to Le Riche). Gibbon wrote, “The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators” (Ch. LXVIII). (I owe part of this note toKing’s Classical and Foreign Quotations.)

THE OCTOPUS

ByALGERNONSINBURN

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,Whence camest to dazzle our eyes,With thy bosom bespangled and banded,With the hues of the seas and the skies?Is thy name European or Asian,Oh mystical monster marine,Part molluscous and partly crustacean,Betwixt and between?Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?Hast thou eaten and drunk to excessOf the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets—Of the sea-weed—thy mustard and cress?Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,Remote from reproof or restraint?Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,Sinburnian or Saint?Lithe limbs curling free as a creeper,That creeps in a desolate place,To enrol and envelop the sleeperIn a silent and stealthy embrace;Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,Our juices to drain and to drink,Or to whelm as in waves of Cocytus,Indelible ink!Oh, breast that ’twere rapture to writhe on!Oh, arms ’twere delicious to feelClinging close with the crush of the Python,When she maketh her murderous meal!In thy eight-fold embraces enfoldenLet our empty existence escape;Give us death that is glorious and golden,Crushed all out of shape!Ah, thy red limbs lascivious and luscious,With death in their amorous kiss!Cling round us and clasp us and crush us,With bitings of agonized bliss!We are sick with the poison of pleasure,Dispense us the potion of pain;Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure,And bite us again!A. C. Hilton (1851-1877)

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,Whence camest to dazzle our eyes,With thy bosom bespangled and banded,With the hues of the seas and the skies?Is thy name European or Asian,Oh mystical monster marine,Part molluscous and partly crustacean,Betwixt and between?Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?Hast thou eaten and drunk to excessOf the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets—Of the sea-weed—thy mustard and cress?Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,Remote from reproof or restraint?Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,Sinburnian or Saint?Lithe limbs curling free as a creeper,That creeps in a desolate place,To enrol and envelop the sleeperIn a silent and stealthy embrace;Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,Our juices to drain and to drink,Or to whelm as in waves of Cocytus,Indelible ink!Oh, breast that ’twere rapture to writhe on!Oh, arms ’twere delicious to feelClinging close with the crush of the Python,When she maketh her murderous meal!In thy eight-fold embraces enfoldenLet our empty existence escape;Give us death that is glorious and golden,Crushed all out of shape!Ah, thy red limbs lascivious and luscious,With death in their amorous kiss!Cling round us and clasp us and crush us,With bitings of agonized bliss!We are sick with the poison of pleasure,Dispense us the potion of pain;Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure,And bite us again!A. C. Hilton (1851-1877)

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,Whence camest to dazzle our eyes,With thy bosom bespangled and banded,With the hues of the seas and the skies?Is thy name European or Asian,Oh mystical monster marine,Part molluscous and partly crustacean,Betwixt and between?

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,

Whence camest to dazzle our eyes,

With thy bosom bespangled and banded,

With the hues of the seas and the skies?

Is thy name European or Asian,

Oh mystical monster marine,

Part molluscous and partly crustacean,

Betwixt and between?

Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?Hast thou eaten and drunk to excessOf the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets—Of the sea-weed—thy mustard and cress?Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,Remote from reproof or restraint?Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,Sinburnian or Saint?

Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?

Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess

Of the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets—

Of the sea-weed—thy mustard and cress?

Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,

Remote from reproof or restraint?

Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,

Sinburnian or Saint?

Lithe limbs curling free as a creeper,That creeps in a desolate place,To enrol and envelop the sleeperIn a silent and stealthy embrace;Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,Our juices to drain and to drink,Or to whelm as in waves of Cocytus,Indelible ink!

Lithe limbs curling free as a creeper,

That creeps in a desolate place,

To enrol and envelop the sleeper

In a silent and stealthy embrace;

Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,

Our juices to drain and to drink,

Or to whelm as in waves of Cocytus,

Indelible ink!

Oh, breast that ’twere rapture to writhe on!Oh, arms ’twere delicious to feelClinging close with the crush of the Python,When she maketh her murderous meal!In thy eight-fold embraces enfoldenLet our empty existence escape;Give us death that is glorious and golden,Crushed all out of shape!

Oh, breast that ’twere rapture to writhe on!

Oh, arms ’twere delicious to feel

Clinging close with the crush of the Python,

When she maketh her murderous meal!

In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden

Let our empty existence escape;

Give us death that is glorious and golden,

Crushed all out of shape!

Ah, thy red limbs lascivious and luscious,With death in their amorous kiss!Cling round us and clasp us and crush us,With bitings of agonized bliss!We are sick with the poison of pleasure,Dispense us the potion of pain;Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure,And bite us again!

Ah, thy red limbs lascivious and luscious,

With death in their amorous kiss!

Cling round us and clasp us and crush us,

With bitings of agonized bliss!

We are sick with the poison of pleasure,

Dispense us the potion of pain;

Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure,

And bite us again!

A. C. Hilton (1851-1877)

A. C. Hilton (1851-1877)

This extraordinarily clever parody of Swinburne’s “Dolores” was written by Arthur Clement Hilton, when he was an undergraduate at St. John’s, Cambridge. It appeared inThe Light Green, a clever but short-lived magazine published in Cambridge in the early seventies as a rival toThe Dark Blue, published in London by Oxford men. Hilton was the main contributor toThe Light Green. He died when only twenty-six years of age. This brilliant young author is not included inThe Dictionary of National Biography.“The Octopus” is one of the best of English parodies. I had not seen it for forty years, until I recently found it in Adam and White’sParodies and Imitations(1912). In that book, although the authors presumably hadThe Light Greento print from, the punctuation is inferior to that in my copy, and the word “Dispose” instead of “Dispense” in the third last line must be a misprint.

This extraordinarily clever parody of Swinburne’s “Dolores” was written by Arthur Clement Hilton, when he was an undergraduate at St. John’s, Cambridge. It appeared inThe Light Green, a clever but short-lived magazine published in Cambridge in the early seventies as a rival toThe Dark Blue, published in London by Oxford men. Hilton was the main contributor toThe Light Green. He died when only twenty-six years of age. This brilliant young author is not included inThe Dictionary of National Biography.

“The Octopus” is one of the best of English parodies. I had not seen it for forty years, until I recently found it in Adam and White’sParodies and Imitations(1912). In that book, although the authors presumably hadThe Light Greento print from, the punctuation is inferior to that in my copy, and the word “Dispose” instead of “Dispense” in the third last line must be a misprint.

He seemed to me to be one of those men who have not very extended minds, but who know what they know very well—shallow streams, and clear because they are shallow.

S. T. Coleridge(Table Talk).

To know what you prefer, instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.

R. L. Stevenson(Virginibus Puerisque).

Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner.

(To know all is forgive all.)

French Proverb.

This proverb is said to have originated from a sentence in Mme. de Staël’sCorinne, Tout comprendre rend très-indulgent, “Understanding everything makes one very forgiving.”

This proverb is said to have originated from a sentence in Mme. de Staël’sCorinne, Tout comprendre rend très-indulgent, “Understanding everything makes one very forgiving.”

The true life of the human community is planted deep in the private affections of its members; in the greatness of its individual minds; in the pure severities of its domestic conscience; in the noble and transforming thoughts that fertilize its sacred nooks. Who can observe, without astonishment, the durable action of men truly great on the history of the world, and the evanescence of vast military revolutions, once threatening all things with destruction? How often is it the fate of the former to be invisible for an age, and then live for ever; of the latter, to sweep a generation from the earth, and then vanish with slight trace?

James Martineau(The Outer and the Inner Temple).

Wars seem to leave little trace except where they result in the immigration and settlement of a tribe or nation. Otherwise they appear to cancel one another. The present war will probably destroy the only trace of the Franco-Prussian war, and, with respect to Turkey, Poland, and other countries, will no doubt cancel the effects of many tremendous conflicts of past centuries.

Wars seem to leave little trace except where they result in the immigration and settlement of a tribe or nation. Otherwise they appear to cancel one another. The present war will probably destroy the only trace of the Franco-Prussian war, and, with respect to Turkey, Poland, and other countries, will no doubt cancel the effects of many tremendous conflicts of past centuries.

A century ago men were following, with bated breath, the march of Napoleon, and waiting with feverish impatience for the latest news of the wars. And all the while, in their own homes, babies were being born. But who could think aboutbabies? Everybody was thinking aboutbattles. In one year, lying midway between Trafalgar and Waterloo, there stole into the world a host of heroes! During that one year, 1809, Mr. Gladstone was born in Liverpool; Alfred Tennyson was born at the Somersby rectory and Oliver Wendell Holmes made his first appearance in Massachusetts. On the very self-same day of that self-same year Charles Darwin made his debut at Shrewsbury, and Abraham Lincoln drew his first breath in old Kentucky. Music was enriched by the advent of Frederic Chopin at Warsaw, and of Felix Mendelssohn at Hamburg. Within the same year, too, Samuel Morley was born in Homerton, Edward Fitzgerald in Woodbridge, Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Durham, and Frances Kemble in London. But nobody thought of babies. Everybody was thinking of battles. Yet, viewing that age in the truer perspective which the distance of a hundred years enables us to command, we may well ask ourselves, “Which of the battles of 1809 mattered more than the babies of 1809?” ...

We fancy that God can only manage His world by big battalions abroad, when all the while He is doing it by beautiful babies at home. When a wrong wants righting, or a truth wants preaching, or a continent wants opening, God sends a baby into the world to do it. That is why, long, long ago, a babe was born in Bethlehem.

Frank W. Boreham(Mountains in the Mist).

REINFORCEMENTS

When little boys with merry noiseIn the meadows shout and run;And little girls, sweet woman buds,Brightly open in the sun;I may not of the world despair,Our God despaireth not, I see;For blithesomer in Eden’s airThese lads and maidens could not be.Why were they born, if Hope must die?Wherefore this health, if Truth should fail?And why such Joy, if MiseryBe conquering us and must prevail?Arouse! our spirit may not droop!These young ones fresh from Heaven are;Our God hath sent another troop,And means to carry on the war.Thomas Toke Lynch(1818-1871).

When little boys with merry noiseIn the meadows shout and run;And little girls, sweet woman buds,Brightly open in the sun;I may not of the world despair,Our God despaireth not, I see;For blithesomer in Eden’s airThese lads and maidens could not be.Why were they born, if Hope must die?Wherefore this health, if Truth should fail?And why such Joy, if MiseryBe conquering us and must prevail?Arouse! our spirit may not droop!These young ones fresh from Heaven are;Our God hath sent another troop,And means to carry on the war.Thomas Toke Lynch(1818-1871).

When little boys with merry noiseIn the meadows shout and run;And little girls, sweet woman buds,Brightly open in the sun;I may not of the world despair,Our God despaireth not, I see;For blithesomer in Eden’s airThese lads and maidens could not be.

When little boys with merry noise

In the meadows shout and run;

And little girls, sweet woman buds,

Brightly open in the sun;

I may not of the world despair,

Our God despaireth not, I see;

For blithesomer in Eden’s air

These lads and maidens could not be.

Why were they born, if Hope must die?Wherefore this health, if Truth should fail?And why such Joy, if MiseryBe conquering us and must prevail?Arouse! our spirit may not droop!These young ones fresh from Heaven are;Our God hath sent another troop,And means to carry on the war.

Why were they born, if Hope must die?

Wherefore this health, if Truth should fail?

And why such Joy, if Misery

Be conquering us and must prevail?

Arouse! our spirit may not droop!

These young ones fresh from Heaven are;

Our God hath sent another troop,

And means to carry on the war.

Thomas Toke Lynch(1818-1871).

Thomas Toke Lynch(1818-1871).

O wind, a word with you before you pass;What did you to the Rose that on the grassBroken she lies and pale, who loved you so?

O wind, a word with you before you pass;What did you to the Rose that on the grassBroken she lies and pale, who loved you so?

O wind, a word with you before you pass;What did you to the Rose that on the grassBroken she lies and pale, who loved you so?

O wind, a word with you before you pass;

What did you to the Rose that on the grass

Broken she lies and pale, who loved you so?

THE WIND

Roses must live and love, and winds must blow.Philip Bourke Marston(The Rose and the Wind).

Roses must live and love, and winds must blow.Philip Bourke Marston(The Rose and the Wind).

Roses must live and love, and winds must blow.

Roses must live and love, and winds must blow.

Philip Bourke Marston(The Rose and the Wind).

Philip Bourke Marston(The Rose and the Wind).

WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?

What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?Are there great calms, and find ye silence there?Like soft-shut lilies all your faces glowWith some strange peace our faces never know,With some great faith our faces never dare:Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap?Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?Day shows us not such comfort anywhere:Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,Day, that shows man so great and God so small.That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;O is the Darkness too a lying glassOr, undistracted, do ye find truth there?What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?R. le Gallienne.

What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?Are there great calms, and find ye silence there?Like soft-shut lilies all your faces glowWith some strange peace our faces never know,With some great faith our faces never dare:Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap?Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?Day shows us not such comfort anywhere:Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,Day, that shows man so great and God so small.That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;O is the Darkness too a lying glassOr, undistracted, do ye find truth there?What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?R. le Gallienne.

What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?Are there great calms, and find ye silence there?Like soft-shut lilies all your faces glowWith some strange peace our faces never know,With some great faith our faces never dare:Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?

Are there great calms, and find ye silence there?

Like soft-shut lilies all your faces glow

With some strange peace our faces never know,

With some great faith our faces never dare:

Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap?Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?Day shows us not such comfort anywhere:Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?

Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?

Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap?

Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?

Day shows us not such comfort anywhere:

Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,Day, that shows man so great and God so small.That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;O is the Darkness too a lying glassOr, undistracted, do ye find truth there?What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?

Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,

Day, that shows man so great and God so small.

That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;

O is the Darkness too a lying glass

Or, undistracted, do ye find truth there?

What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?

R. le Gallienne.

R. le Gallienne.

These lines were written ofthe blind, but become even more beautiful and true if applied to a different subject,the dead.

These lines were written ofthe blind, but become even more beautiful and true if applied to a different subject,the dead.

Continuing the work of creation,i.e., co-operating as instruments of Providence in bringing order out of disorder ... is only a part of the mission of mankind, and the time will come again when its due rank will be assigned to contemplation and the calm culture of reverence and love. Then poetry will resume her equality with prose.... But that time is not yet, and the crowning glory of Wordsworth is that he has borne witness to it and kept alive its traditions in an age, which, but for him, would have lost sight of it entirely.

J. S. Mill.

In that utilitarian period the figure of the great poet stands out in sheer sublimity. Apart from the depressing atmosphere of the time, one needs to remember how serenely he continued to deliver his high message in spite of the most deadly want of appreciation. At thirty he received £10 from his poems and nothing more until he was sixty-five! The quotation is from a letter in Caroline Fox’sJournals.

In that utilitarian period the figure of the great poet stands out in sheer sublimity. Apart from the depressing atmosphere of the time, one needs to remember how serenely he continued to deliver his high message in spite of the most deadly want of appreciation. At thirty he received £10 from his poems and nothing more until he was sixty-five! The quotation is from a letter in Caroline Fox’sJournals.

My sarcastic friend says, with the utmost gravity, that no man with less than a thousand pounds a year can afford to have private opinions upon certain important subjects. He admits that he has known it done upon eight hundred a year; but only by very prudent people with small families.

Sir A. Helps(Companions of my Solitude).

’Tis an old theme, this Divine Love, and it cannot be exhausted. Men have not outlived it, angels cannot outlearn it. It swayed the ancient world by many a fair god and goddess; its light has been cast over ages of Christian controversy and warfare; it is still the guiding Star of the Sea to each voyager after the noblerfaith. The youth leaves the old shore of belief, only because love has left it. His starved affections will no longer accept stone, though pulverized flour-like and artfully kneaded, for bread. Their white sails fill the purple and the sombre seas, and they hail each other to ask for the summer-land, where faith climbs to beauty, and the lost bowers of childhood’s trust may be found again.

Moncure Daniel Conway(1832-1907).

This fine writer was a Unitarian minister, but afterwards became a “Free-thinker.”

This fine writer was a Unitarian minister, but afterwards became a “Free-thinker.”

There are in this loud stunning tideOf human care and crime,With whom the melodies abideOf th’ everlasting chime;Who carry music in their heartThrough dusky lane and wrangling mart.Plying their daily task with busier feet,Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.John Keble(The Christian Year, “St. Matthew.”)

There are in this loud stunning tideOf human care and crime,With whom the melodies abideOf th’ everlasting chime;Who carry music in their heartThrough dusky lane and wrangling mart.Plying their daily task with busier feet,Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.John Keble(The Christian Year, “St. Matthew.”)

There are in this loud stunning tideOf human care and crime,With whom the melodies abideOf th’ everlasting chime;Who carry music in their heartThrough dusky lane and wrangling mart.Plying their daily task with busier feet,Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

There are in this loud stunning tide

Of human care and crime,

With whom the melodies abide

Of th’ everlasting chime;

Who carry music in their heart

Through dusky lane and wrangling mart.

Plying their daily task with busier feet,

Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

John Keble(The Christian Year, “St. Matthew.”)

John Keble(The Christian Year, “St. Matthew.”)

THE DARK COMPANION

There is an orb that mocked the lore of sagesLong time with mystery of strange unrest;The steadfast law that rounds the starry agesGave doubtful token of supreme behest;But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,Concluded some far influence unseen—Some kindred sphere through viewless others ranging,Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between;And knowing it alone through perturbationAnd vague disquiet of another star,They named it, till the day of revelation,“The Dark Companion”—darkly guessed afar.But when, through new perfection of appliance,Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,The mystic mover was revealed to science,No Dark Companion, but—a speck of light:No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory:No fell disturber, but a bright compeer:The shining complement that crowned the story:The golden link that made the meaning clear.Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us,Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways,Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us,Disquieting all the tenor of our days—Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embracesOvertake remotest change of clime and skies—Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous tracesAre scattered shreds of riven enterprise—Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing,The clearer day shall change our faith to sight,Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing,No Dark Companion, but a thing of light:No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order:No alien heart of discord and caprice:A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border:A kindred element of law and peace.So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling,The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth,Are by thy magnet-communing compellingOur spirits farther from the scope of earth.So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving,’Tis that thou lead’st us by a path unknown,Our seeming deviations all subservingThe perfect orbit round the central throne....The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me.The loved who live—ah, God! how few they are!I looked above; and Heaven in mercy found meThis parable of comfort in a star.J. Brunton Stephens(Convict Once and other Poems).

There is an orb that mocked the lore of sagesLong time with mystery of strange unrest;The steadfast law that rounds the starry agesGave doubtful token of supreme behest;But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,Concluded some far influence unseen—Some kindred sphere through viewless others ranging,Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between;And knowing it alone through perturbationAnd vague disquiet of another star,They named it, till the day of revelation,“The Dark Companion”—darkly guessed afar.But when, through new perfection of appliance,Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,The mystic mover was revealed to science,No Dark Companion, but—a speck of light:No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory:No fell disturber, but a bright compeer:The shining complement that crowned the story:The golden link that made the meaning clear.Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us,Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways,Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us,Disquieting all the tenor of our days—Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embracesOvertake remotest change of clime and skies—Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous tracesAre scattered shreds of riven enterprise—Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing,The clearer day shall change our faith to sight,Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing,No Dark Companion, but a thing of light:No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order:No alien heart of discord and caprice:A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border:A kindred element of law and peace.So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling,The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth,Are by thy magnet-communing compellingOur spirits farther from the scope of earth.So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving,’Tis that thou lead’st us by a path unknown,Our seeming deviations all subservingThe perfect orbit round the central throne....The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me.The loved who live—ah, God! how few they are!I looked above; and Heaven in mercy found meThis parable of comfort in a star.J. Brunton Stephens(Convict Once and other Poems).

There is an orb that mocked the lore of sagesLong time with mystery of strange unrest;The steadfast law that rounds the starry agesGave doubtful token of supreme behest;

There is an orb that mocked the lore of sages

Long time with mystery of strange unrest;

The steadfast law that rounds the starry ages

Gave doubtful token of supreme behest;

But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,Concluded some far influence unseen—Some kindred sphere through viewless others ranging,Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between;

But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,

Concluded some far influence unseen—

Some kindred sphere through viewless others ranging,

Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between;

And knowing it alone through perturbationAnd vague disquiet of another star,They named it, till the day of revelation,“The Dark Companion”—darkly guessed afar.

And knowing it alone through perturbation

And vague disquiet of another star,

They named it, till the day of revelation,

“The Dark Companion”—darkly guessed afar.

But when, through new perfection of appliance,Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,The mystic mover was revealed to science,No Dark Companion, but—a speck of light:

But when, through new perfection of appliance,

Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,

The mystic mover was revealed to science,

No Dark Companion, but—a speck of light:

No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory:No fell disturber, but a bright compeer:The shining complement that crowned the story:The golden link that made the meaning clear.

No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory:

No fell disturber, but a bright compeer:

The shining complement that crowned the story:

The golden link that made the meaning clear.

Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us,Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways,Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us,Disquieting all the tenor of our days—

Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us,

Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways,

Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us,

Disquieting all the tenor of our days—

Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embracesOvertake remotest change of clime and skies—Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous tracesAre scattered shreds of riven enterprise—

Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embraces

Overtake remotest change of clime and skies—

Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous traces

Are scattered shreds of riven enterprise—

Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing,The clearer day shall change our faith to sight,Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing,No Dark Companion, but a thing of light:

Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing,

The clearer day shall change our faith to sight,

Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing,

No Dark Companion, but a thing of light:

No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order:No alien heart of discord and caprice:A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border:A kindred element of law and peace.

No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order:

No alien heart of discord and caprice:

A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border:

A kindred element of law and peace.

So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling,The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth,Are by thy magnet-communing compellingOur spirits farther from the scope of earth.

So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling,

The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth,

Are by thy magnet-communing compelling

Our spirits farther from the scope of earth.

So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving,’Tis that thou lead’st us by a path unknown,Our seeming deviations all subservingThe perfect orbit round the central throne.

So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving,

’Tis that thou lead’st us by a path unknown,

Our seeming deviations all subserving

The perfect orbit round the central throne.

...

...

The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me.The loved who live—ah, God! how few they are!I looked above; and Heaven in mercy found meThis parable of comfort in a star.

The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me.

The loved who live—ah, God! how few they are!

I looked above; and Heaven in mercy found me

This parable of comfort in a star.

J. Brunton Stephens(Convict Once and other Poems).

J. Brunton Stephens(Convict Once and other Poems).

The “Dark Companion” is no doubt the star known as the “Companion of Sirius.” Certain peculiarities in the motion of Sirius led Bessel in 1844 to the belief that it had an obscure companion, with which it was in revolution. The position of the companion having been ascertained by calculation, it was at last found in 1862. It is equal in mass to our sun but is obscured by the brilliancy of Sirius, which is the brightest of the fixed stars. Brunton Stephens’ poem was published in Melbourne in 1873.

The “Dark Companion” is no doubt the star known as the “Companion of Sirius.” Certain peculiarities in the motion of Sirius led Bessel in 1844 to the belief that it had an obscure companion, with which it was in revolution. The position of the companion having been ascertained by calculation, it was at last found in 1862. It is equal in mass to our sun but is obscured by the brilliancy of Sirius, which is the brightest of the fixed stars. Brunton Stephens’ poem was published in Melbourne in 1873.

SEQUEL TO “MY QUEEN”

“When and where shall I earliest meet her,” etc.Yes, but the years run circling fleeter,Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;She cometh never, or comes too late.Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—Ought I to linger? the far end nears;Ever ahead have I looked, and sought herOn the bright sky-line of the gathering years.Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.Here on the ridge of my upward travel,Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,Sadly I turn, and would fain unravelThe entangled maze of a search that fails.When and where have I seen and passed her?What are the words I forgot to say?Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?Should we have loved, had I stayed that day?Was it her face that I saw, and started,Gliding away in a train that crossed?Was it her form that I once, faint-hearted,Followed awhile in a crowd and lost?Was it there she lived, when the train went sweepingUnder the moon through the landscape hushed?Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.Listen and linger—She yet may find meIn the last faint flush of the waning light—Never a step on the path behind me;I must journey alone, to the lonely night.But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,A fading figure, with eyes that wait,Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,“He cometh never, or comes too late?”Sir Alfred Lyall.

“When and where shall I earliest meet her,” etc.Yes, but the years run circling fleeter,Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;She cometh never, or comes too late.Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—Ought I to linger? the far end nears;Ever ahead have I looked, and sought herOn the bright sky-line of the gathering years.Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.Here on the ridge of my upward travel,Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,Sadly I turn, and would fain unravelThe entangled maze of a search that fails.When and where have I seen and passed her?What are the words I forgot to say?Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?Should we have loved, had I stayed that day?Was it her face that I saw, and started,Gliding away in a train that crossed?Was it her form that I once, faint-hearted,Followed awhile in a crowd and lost?Was it there she lived, when the train went sweepingUnder the moon through the landscape hushed?Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.Listen and linger—She yet may find meIn the last faint flush of the waning light—Never a step on the path behind me;I must journey alone, to the lonely night.But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,A fading figure, with eyes that wait,Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,“He cometh never, or comes too late?”Sir Alfred Lyall.

“When and where shall I earliest meet her,” etc.

“When and where shall I earliest meet her,” etc.

Yes, but the years run circling fleeter,Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;She cometh never, or comes too late.

Yes, but the years run circling fleeter,

Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—

Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;

She cometh never, or comes too late.

Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—Ought I to linger? the far end nears;Ever ahead have I looked, and sought herOn the bright sky-line of the gathering years.

Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—

Ought I to linger? the far end nears;

Ever ahead have I looked, and sought her

On the bright sky-line of the gathering years.

Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.

Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,

As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,

Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,

Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.

Here on the ridge of my upward travel,Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,Sadly I turn, and would fain unravelThe entangled maze of a search that fails.

Here on the ridge of my upward travel,

Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,

Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel

The entangled maze of a search that fails.

When and where have I seen and passed her?What are the words I forgot to say?Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?Should we have loved, had I stayed that day?

When and where have I seen and passed her?

What are the words I forgot to say?

Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?

Should we have loved, had I stayed that day?

Was it her face that I saw, and started,Gliding away in a train that crossed?Was it her form that I once, faint-hearted,Followed awhile in a crowd and lost?

Was it her face that I saw, and started,

Gliding away in a train that crossed?

Was it her form that I once, faint-hearted,

Followed awhile in a crowd and lost?

Was it there she lived, when the train went sweepingUnder the moon through the landscape hushed?Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.

Was it there she lived, when the train went sweeping

Under the moon through the landscape hushed?

Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,

Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.

Listen and linger—She yet may find meIn the last faint flush of the waning light—Never a step on the path behind me;I must journey alone, to the lonely night.

Listen and linger—She yet may find me

In the last faint flush of the waning light—

Never a step on the path behind me;

I must journey alone, to the lonely night.

But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,A fading figure, with eyes that wait,Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,“He cometh never, or comes too late?”

But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,

A fading figure, with eyes that wait,

Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,

“He cometh never, or comes too late?”

Sir Alfred Lyall.

Sir Alfred Lyall.

Back to IndexNext