Chapter 5

Too late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loitered on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leaped,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.Christina Rossetti(The Prince’s Progress).

Too late for love, too late for joy,

Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long,

You trifled at the gate:

The enchanted dove upon her branch

Died without a mate;

The enchanted princess in her tower

Slept, died, behind the grate;

Her heart was starving all this while

You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leaped,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.

Ten years ago, five years ago,

One year ago,

Even then you had arrived in time,

Though somewhat slow;

Then you had known her living face

Which now you cannot know:

The frozen fountain would have leaped,

The buds gone on to blow,

The warm south wind would have awaked

To melt the snow.

Christina Rossetti(The Prince’s Progress).

Where waitest thou,Lady I am to love? Thou comest not!Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot;I looked for thee ere now!...Where art thou, sweet?I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams!Oh, gentle promised Angel of my dreams,Why do we never meet?Thou art as I,—Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;We cannot live apart; must meeting beNever before we die ...?Sir Edwin Arnold(À Ma Future).

Where waitest thou,Lady I am to love? Thou comest not!Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot;I looked for thee ere now!...

Where waitest thou,

Lady I am to love? Thou comest not!

Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot;

I looked for thee ere now!...

Where art thou, sweet?I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams!Oh, gentle promised Angel of my dreams,Why do we never meet?

Where art thou, sweet?

I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams!

Oh, gentle promised Angel of my dreams,

Why do we never meet?

Thou art as I,—Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;We cannot live apart; must meeting beNever before we die ...?

Thou art as I,—

Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;

We cannot live apart; must meeting be

Never before we die ...?

Sir Edwin Arnold(À Ma Future).

Mild is the parting year, and sweetThe odour of the falling spray;Life passes on more rudely fleet,And balmless is its closing day.I wait its close, I court its gloom,But mourn that never must there fallOr on my breast or on my tombThe tear that would have sooth’d it all.W. S. Landor.

Mild is the parting year, and sweetThe odour of the falling spray;Life passes on more rudely fleet,And balmless is its closing day.

Mild is the parting year, and sweet

The odour of the falling spray;

Life passes on more rudely fleet,

And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,But mourn that never must there fallOr on my breast or on my tombThe tear that would have sooth’d it all.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,

But mourn that never must there fall

Or on my breast or on my tomb

The tear that would have sooth’d it all.

W. S. Landor.

The devil has made the stuff of our life and God makes the hem.

Victor Hugo(By the King’s Command).

I think, I said, I can make it plain that there are at least six personalities distinctly to be recognized as taking part in a dialogue between John and Thomas.

Three Johns: The real John—known only to his Maker. John’s ideal John—never the real one, and often very unlike him. Thomas’s ideal John—never the real John, nor John’s John, but often very unlike either.

Three Thomases: The real Thomas. Thomas’s ideal Thomas. John’s ideal Thomas.

Only one of the three Johns is taxed; only one can be weighed on a platform balance; but the other two are just as important in the conversation. Let us suppose the real John to be old, dull, and ill-looking. But as the Higher Powers have not conferred on men the gift of seeing themselves in the true light, John very possibly conceives himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks from the point of view of this ideal. Thomas, again, believes him to be an artful rogue, we will say; therefore heis, so far as Thomas’s attitude in the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, though really simple and stupid. The same conditions apply to the three Thomases. It follows that, until a man can be found who knows himself as his Maker knows him, or who sees himself as others see him, there must be at least six persons engaged in every dialogue between two. Of these the least important, philosophically speaking, is the one that we have called the real person. No wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are six of them talking and listening all at the same time.

(A very unphilosophical application of the above remarks was made by a young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits near me at table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegetable little known to boarding-houses, was on its way to meviathis unlettered Johannes. He appropriated the three that remained in the basket, remarking that there was just one apiece for him. I convinced him that his practical inference was hasty and illogical, but in the meantime he had eaten the peaches.)

O. W. Holmes(Autocrat of the Breakfast Table).

When aweary of your mirth,From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,Grudge every minute as it passes by,Made the more mindful that the sweet days die—Remember me a little then, I pray,The idle singer of an empty day.W. Morris(The Earthly Paradise).

When aweary of your mirth,

From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,

And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,

Grudge every minute as it passes by,

Made the more mindful that the sweet days die—

Remember me a little then, I pray,

The idle singer of an empty day.

W. Morris(The Earthly Paradise).

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,Which was my sin, though it were done before?Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,And do run still, though still I do deplore?—When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonOthers to sin, and made my sins their door?Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shunA year or two, but wallowed in a score?—When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spunMy last thread, I shall perish on the shore;But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy SonShall shine, as He Shines now and heretofore;And having done that, Thou hast done:I fear no more.John Donne (1573-1631).

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

And do run still, though still I do deplore?—

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;

For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonOthers to sin, and made my sins their door?Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shunA year or two, but wallowed in a score?—When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won

Others to sin, and made my sins their door?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun

A year or two, but wallowed in a score?—

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;

For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spunMy last thread, I shall perish on the shore;But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy SonShall shine, as He Shines now and heretofore;And having done that, Thou hast done:I fear no more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son

Shall shine, as He Shines now and heretofore;

And having done that, Thou hast done:

I fear no more.

John Donne (1573-1631).

In line (1) the reference is to the old doctrine that the guilt of Adam and Eve’s “original sin” tainted all generations of man; (3) “run,” ran; (8) his sin—the example he has set—is the door which opened to others the way of sin.In this fine poem there arepuns. In the last verse one pun is on the words “Son” and “Sun,” Christ being the “Sun of righteousness who arises with healing in his wings” (Malachiiv, 2). Also in the fifth, eleventh, and seventeenth lines, the play is on the last word “done” and the poet’s name Donne, which was pronounceddun.[17](It was occasionally written Dun, Dunne, or Done: see Grierson’sPoems of John Donne, Vol. II, pp. lvii, lxxvii, lxxxvii, 8 and 12. Contrariwise, the adjective “dun,” dull-brown, was speltdonnein the poet’s time.) We are accustomed only to the jocular use of puns, but here there is a serious intention to give two meanings to one expression. Such a use of puns was one of the “quaint conceits” of that period of our literature, and it is found also in serious Persian poetry.

In this fine poem there arepuns. In the last verse one pun is on the words “Son” and “Sun,” Christ being the “Sun of righteousness who arises with healing in his wings” (Malachiiv, 2). Also in the fifth, eleventh, and seventeenth lines, the play is on the last word “done” and the poet’s name Donne, which was pronounceddun.[17](It was occasionally written Dun, Dunne, or Done: see Grierson’sPoems of John Donne, Vol. II, pp. lvii, lxxvii, lxxxvii, 8 and 12. Contrariwise, the adjective “dun,” dull-brown, was speltdonnein the poet’s time.) We are accustomed only to the jocular use of puns, but here there is a serious intention to give two meanings to one expression. Such a use of puns was one of the “quaint conceits” of that period of our literature, and it is found also in serious Persian poetry.

Very likely female pelicans like so to bleed under the selfish little beaks of their young ones: it is certain that women do. There must be some sort of pleasure, which we men don’t understand, which accompanies the pain of being scarified.

Thackeray(Pendennis).

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.

George Eliot(Felix Holt).

LET IT BE THERE.

Not there, not there!Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;—Little reck I of the bright, blue sky,And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,And the bending boughs, and the breezy air—Not there, good friends, not there!In the city churchyard, where the grassGroweth rank and black, and where never a rayOf that self-same sun doth find its wayThrough the heaped-up houses’ serried mass—Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry,Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—Good friends, let it bethere!I am old, my friends—I am very old—Fourscore and five—and bitter coldWere that air on the hill-side far away;Eighty full years, content, I trow,Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,And trod those dark streets day by day,Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,Each court and corner. Good sooth! to meThey are all comely and fair to see—They haveold faces—each one doth tellA tale of its own, that doth like me well,Sad or merry, as it may be,From the quaint old book of my history.And, friends, when this weary pain is past,Fain would I lay me to rest at lastIn their very midst; full sure am I,How dark soever be earth and sky,I shall sleep softly—I shall knowThat the things I loved so here belowAre about me still—so never careThat my last home looketh all bleak and bare—Good friends, let it bethere!Thomas Westwood(1814-1888).

Not there, not there!

Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;—

Little reck I of the bright, blue sky,

And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,

And the bending boughs, and the breezy air—

Not there, good friends, not there!

In the city churchyard, where the grassGroweth rank and black, and where never a rayOf that self-same sun doth find its wayThrough the heaped-up houses’ serried mass—Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry,Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—Good friends, let it bethere!

In the city churchyard, where the grass

Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray

Of that self-same sun doth find its way

Through the heaped-up houses’ serried mass—

Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,

And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—

Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry,

Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,

Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—

Good friends, let it bethere!

I am old, my friends—I am very old—Fourscore and five—and bitter coldWere that air on the hill-side far away;Eighty full years, content, I trow,Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,And trod those dark streets day by day,Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,Each court and corner. Good sooth! to meThey are all comely and fair to see—They haveold faces—each one doth tellA tale of its own, that doth like me well,Sad or merry, as it may be,From the quaint old book of my history.And, friends, when this weary pain is past,Fain would I lay me to rest at lastIn their very midst; full sure am I,How dark soever be earth and sky,I shall sleep softly—I shall knowThat the things I loved so here belowAre about me still—so never careThat my last home looketh all bleak and bare—Good friends, let it bethere!

I am old, my friends—I am very old—

Fourscore and five—and bitter cold

Were that air on the hill-side far away;

Eighty full years, content, I trow,

Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,

And trod those dark streets day by day,

Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,

Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,

Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me

They are all comely and fair to see—

They haveold faces—each one doth tell

A tale of its own, that doth like me well,

Sad or merry, as it may be,

From the quaint old book of my history.

And, friends, when this weary pain is past,

Fain would I lay me to rest at last

In their very midst; full sure am I,

How dark soever be earth and sky,

I shall sleep softly—I shall know

That the things I loved so here below

Are about me still—so never care

That my last home looketh all bleak and bare—

Good friends, let it bethere!

Thomas Westwood(1814-1888).

Every man hath his gift, one a cup of wine, another heart’s blood.

Hafiz.

Some poets sing of wine or sensuous enjoyment, but Hafiz pours out his heart’s blood in song. Presumably wine and blood are contrasted because of their similar appearance.

The devil could drive woman out of Paradise; but the devil himself cannot drive the Paradise out of a woman.

G. MacDonald(Robert Falconer).

THE PULLEY

When God at first made man,Having a glass of blessings standing by,“Let us,” said He, “pour on him all we can;Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,Contract into a span.”So strength first made a way,Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,Restin the bottom lay.“For if I should,” said He,“Bestow this jewel also on My creature,He would adore My gifts instead of Me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.“Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness;Let him be rich and weary, that at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to My breast.”George Herbert(1593-1633).

When God at first made man,Having a glass of blessings standing by,“Let us,” said He, “pour on him all we can;Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,Contract into a span.”

When God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by,

“Let us,” said He, “pour on him all we can;

Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,

Contract into a span.”

So strength first made a way,Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,Restin the bottom lay.

So strength first made a way,

Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;

When almost all was out, God made a stay,

Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,

Restin the bottom lay.

“For if I should,” said He,“Bestow this jewel also on My creature,He would adore My gifts instead of Me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.

“For if I should,” said He,

“Bestow this jewel also on My creature,

He would adore My gifts instead of Me,

And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:

So both should losers be.

“Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness;Let him be rich and weary, that at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to My breast.”

“Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;

Let him be rich and weary, that at least,

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

May toss him to My breast.”

George Herbert(1593-1633).

“The Pulley” because by the desire for rest after toil and tribulation Goddraws man upto Himself.

(Darwin’sOrigin of Specieswas published in November, 1859.) At the Oxford meeting of the British Association in 1860 Huxley had on Thursday, June 28, directly contradicted Professor Owen’s statement that a gorilla’s brain differed more from a man’s than it did from the brain of the lowest of the Quadrumana (apes, monkeys, and lemurs). He was thus marked out as the champion of evolution. On the Saturday, although the public were not admitted, the members crowded the room to suffocation, anxious to hear the brilliant controversialist, Bishop Wilberforce, take part in the debate. An unimportant paper was read bearing upon Darwinism, and a discussion followed. The Bishop, inspired by Owen, began his speech. He spoke in dulcet tones, persuasive manner, and with well-turned periods, but ridiculing Darwin badly and Huxley savagely. “In a light, scoffing tone, florid and fluent, he assured us there was nothing in the idea of evolution: rock-pigeons were what rock-pigeons had always been. Then, turning to Huxley, with a smiling insolence, he begged to know,was it through his grandfather or his grandmother that he claimed his descent from a monkey.”

As he said this, Huxley turned to his neighbour and said, “The Lord hath delivered him into mine hands!” On rising to speak, he first gave a forcible and eloquent reply to the scientific part of the Bishop’s argument. Then “he stood before us and spoke those tremendous words—words, which no one seems sure of now, nor, I think, could remember just after they were spoken, for their meaning took away our breath, though it left us in no doubt as to what it was. “He was not ashamed to have a monkey for his ancestor: but he would be ashamed to be connected with a man who used great gifts to obscure the truth.” No onedoubted his meaning, and the effect was tremendous. One lady fainted and had to be carried out; I, for one, jumped out of my seat.” (Macmillan’s, 1898.) There is no verbatim report of this incident, but the varying accounts agree in outline.

(Extracted from Life of Huxley.)

One object of this book is to bring back the memories of the seventy-eighties—and of overwhelming interest at the time was the alleged conflict between religion and science. Through Darwin’s great discovery and Herbert Spencer’s world-wide extension of the evolution theory, so much was found covered by law that men were blinded to the fact that the essential question of causality, lying behind all law, was still untouched.The important and thrilling incident referred to above took place in 1860, when I was two years old, but it was still an absorbing topic thirteen or fourteen years later, and is one of my most vivid recollections.Wilberforce (1805-1873) was a great Churchman and, indeed, has been said to be the greatest prelate of his age, although his nickname “Soapy Sam” led to a popular depreciation of his merits. (This epithet originally meant that he was evasive on certain questions, but it took a further meaning from his persuasive eloquence.) In this instance he meddled with a subject of which he was ignorant. Owen, who instigated him to make this attack on Darwin and Huxley had at first welcomed the theory of evolution, but quailed before the orthodox indignation against the necessary extension of that theory to the origin of man. Huxley (1825-1895) was thirty-five years of age when he thus showed himself a strong debater and a power in the scientific world.

The important and thrilling incident referred to above took place in 1860, when I was two years old, but it was still an absorbing topic thirteen or fourteen years later, and is one of my most vivid recollections.

Wilberforce (1805-1873) was a great Churchman and, indeed, has been said to be the greatest prelate of his age, although his nickname “Soapy Sam” led to a popular depreciation of his merits. (This epithet originally meant that he was evasive on certain questions, but it took a further meaning from his persuasive eloquence.) In this instance he meddled with a subject of which he was ignorant. Owen, who instigated him to make this attack on Darwin and Huxley had at first welcomed the theory of evolution, but quailed before the orthodox indignation against the necessary extension of that theory to the origin of man. Huxley (1825-1895) was thirty-five years of age when he thus showed himself a strong debater and a power in the scientific world.

On tracing the line of life backwards, we see it approaching more and more to what we call the purely physical condition. We come at length to those organisms which I have compared to drops of oil suspended in a mixture of alcohol and water. We reach theprotogenesof Haeckel, in which we have “a type distinguishable from a fragment of albumen only by its finely granular character.” Can we pause here? We break a magnet and find two poles in each of its fragments. We continue the process of breaking; but however small the parts, each carries with it, though enfeebled, the polarity of the whole. And when we can break no longer, we prolong the intellectual vision to the polar molecules. Are we not urged to dosomethingsimilar in the case of life?... Believing, as I do, in the continuity of nature, I cannot stop abruptly where our microscopes cease to be of use. Here the vision of the mind authoritatively supplements the vision of the eye. By a necessity engendered and justified by science I cross the boundary of the experimental evidence, anddiscern in that Matterwhich we, in our ignorance of its latent powers, and notwithstanding our professed reverence for its Creator, have hitherto covered with opprobrium,the promise and potency of all terrestrial Life.

(Referring to the question of inquiring into the mystery of our origin). Here, however, I touch a theme too great for me to handle, but which will assuredly be handled by the loftiest minds,when you and I, like streaks of morning cloud, shall have melted into the infinite azure of the past.

John Tyndall.

The italics are mine.As in the preceding quotation the subject is the alleged conflict between religion and science, which occupied so large a space in our life and thought in the seventies and eighties. The above are the two passages from Tyndall’s presidential address at the Belfast meeting of the British Association in 1874, which caused an immense sensation. The Belfast Address, like Huxley’s smashing reply to Bishop Wilberforce, was useful in showing that all scientific questions must be considered with an open mind, free of theological bias, and also in adding testimony to the importance and value of Darwin’s investigation. Although fifteen years had passed sinceThe Origin of Specieswas published, this was still necessary. (At that very time Professor McCoy, afterwards Sir Frederick McCoy, F.R.S., when lecturing at the Melbourne University to his students, of whom I was one, was still making inane jokes about evolution and our monkey cousins.)But, while the world was in ferment over the question of man’s alleged kinship with the monkey, there came the further startling fact that the President of the British Association also proclaimed his belief inmaterialismand, inferentially, that there was no life after death. Englishmen had not before realized how widely materialism had spread through England and Europe. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that amajorityat least of the leading thinkers had become materialists.In travelling outside science into metaphysics, Tyndall betrayed a lamentable ignorance of the latter—a parallel case to that of Bishop Wilberforce when he attempted to meddle with science. Martineau, referring to the first quotation above, wrote: “There is no magic in the superlatively little to draw from the universe its last secret. Size is but relative, magnified or dwindled by a glass, variable with the organ of perception: to one being, the speck which only the microscope can show us may be a universe; to another, the solar system but a molecule; and in the passing from the latter to the former you reach no end of search or beginning of things. You merely substitute a miniature of nature for its life-size without at all showing whence the features arise.”

The italics are mine.

As in the preceding quotation the subject is the alleged conflict between religion and science, which occupied so large a space in our life and thought in the seventies and eighties. The above are the two passages from Tyndall’s presidential address at the Belfast meeting of the British Association in 1874, which caused an immense sensation. The Belfast Address, like Huxley’s smashing reply to Bishop Wilberforce, was useful in showing that all scientific questions must be considered with an open mind, free of theological bias, and also in adding testimony to the importance and value of Darwin’s investigation. Although fifteen years had passed sinceThe Origin of Specieswas published, this was still necessary. (At that very time Professor McCoy, afterwards Sir Frederick McCoy, F.R.S., when lecturing at the Melbourne University to his students, of whom I was one, was still making inane jokes about evolution and our monkey cousins.)

But, while the world was in ferment over the question of man’s alleged kinship with the monkey, there came the further startling fact that the President of the British Association also proclaimed his belief inmaterialismand, inferentially, that there was no life after death. Englishmen had not before realized how widely materialism had spread through England and Europe. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that amajorityat least of the leading thinkers had become materialists.

In travelling outside science into metaphysics, Tyndall betrayed a lamentable ignorance of the latter—a parallel case to that of Bishop Wilberforce when he attempted to meddle with science. Martineau, referring to the first quotation above, wrote: “There is no magic in the superlatively little to draw from the universe its last secret. Size is but relative, magnified or dwindled by a glass, variable with the organ of perception: to one being, the speck which only the microscope can show us may be a universe; to another, the solar system but a molecule; and in the passing from the latter to the former you reach no end of search or beginning of things. You merely substitute a miniature of nature for its life-size without at all showing whence the features arise.”

THE NEW GOSPEL

HAECKELIUS loquitur:The ages have passed and come with the beat of a measureless treadAnd piled up their palace-dome on the dust of the ageless dead,Since the atom of life first glowed in the breast of eternal time,And shaped for itself its abode in the womb of the shapeless slime;And the years matured its form with slow, unwearying toil.Moulded by sun and storm, and rich with the centuries’ spoil,Till the face of the earth was fair, and life grew up into mind,And breathed its earliest prayer to its god in the dawn or wind,And called itself by the name of man, the master and lord,Who conquers the strength of flame and tempers the spear and sword;For the world grows wiser by war, and death is the law of life,The lowermost rock in the scar is red with the stains of strife.Burst thro’ the bounds of sight, and measure the least of things,Plummet the infinite and make to thy fancy wings;From crystal, and coral, and weed, up to man in his noblest race,The weaker shall fail in his need, and the stronger shall hold his place!RENANUS loquitur:Ah! leave me yet a little while, to watchThe golden glory of the dying day,Till all the purple mountains gleam and catchThe last faint light that slowly steals away.Too soon the night is on us; aye, too soonWe know the cloud is born of blinding mist:The throne, whereon the gods sate crowned at noonWith ruby rays and liquid amethyst,Is but a vapour, dim and grey, a streakOf hollow rain that freezes in its fall,A dull, cold shape that settles on the peak,Icy and stifling as a dead man’s pall.The world’s old faith is fairest in its death,For death is fairer oftentimes than life;No vulgar passion quivers in the breath:The dead forget their weariness and strife.Say not that death is even as decay,A hideous charnel choked with rotting dust;The cold white lips are beautiful as sprayCast on an iceberg by the northern gust.The memories of the past are diadem’dAbout the brow and folded on the eyes;The weary lids beneath are bent and gemm’dWith charmèd dreams and mystic reveries.Once more she sits in her imperial chair,And kings and Cæsars kneel before her feet,And clouds of incense fill the heavy air,And shouts of homage echo thro’ the street.Or yet, again, she stretches forth the hand,And men are done to death at her desire;The smoke of burning cities dims the land,And limbs are torn or shrivelled in the fire.Once more the scene is shifted, and the gleamOf eastern suns about her brow is curled;Once more she roams a maiden by the stream,Despised of men, the Magdalen of the world.So scene on scene floats lightly, as a hazeThat comes and goes with sudden gust and lull:Limned with the sunset hues of other days,They are but dreams; yet dreams are beautiful.Archibald Henry Sayce(Academy, Dec. 5, 1885).

HAECKELIUS loquitur:

The ages have passed and come with the beat of a measureless tread

And piled up their palace-dome on the dust of the ageless dead,

Since the atom of life first glowed in the breast of eternal time,

And shaped for itself its abode in the womb of the shapeless slime;

And the years matured its form with slow, unwearying toil.

Moulded by sun and storm, and rich with the centuries’ spoil,

Till the face of the earth was fair, and life grew up into mind,

And breathed its earliest prayer to its god in the dawn or wind,

And called itself by the name of man, the master and lord,

Who conquers the strength of flame and tempers the spear and sword;

For the world grows wiser by war, and death is the law of life,

The lowermost rock in the scar is red with the stains of strife.

Burst thro’ the bounds of sight, and measure the least of things,

Plummet the infinite and make to thy fancy wings;

From crystal, and coral, and weed, up to man in his noblest race,

The weaker shall fail in his need, and the stronger shall hold his place!

RENANUS loquitur:Ah! leave me yet a little while, to watchThe golden glory of the dying day,Till all the purple mountains gleam and catchThe last faint light that slowly steals away.

RENANUS loquitur:

Ah! leave me yet a little while, to watch

The golden glory of the dying day,

Till all the purple mountains gleam and catch

The last faint light that slowly steals away.

Too soon the night is on us; aye, too soonWe know the cloud is born of blinding mist:The throne, whereon the gods sate crowned at noonWith ruby rays and liquid amethyst,

Too soon the night is on us; aye, too soon

We know the cloud is born of blinding mist:

The throne, whereon the gods sate crowned at noon

With ruby rays and liquid amethyst,

Is but a vapour, dim and grey, a streakOf hollow rain that freezes in its fall,A dull, cold shape that settles on the peak,Icy and stifling as a dead man’s pall.

Is but a vapour, dim and grey, a streak

Of hollow rain that freezes in its fall,

A dull, cold shape that settles on the peak,

Icy and stifling as a dead man’s pall.

The world’s old faith is fairest in its death,For death is fairer oftentimes than life;No vulgar passion quivers in the breath:The dead forget their weariness and strife.

The world’s old faith is fairest in its death,

For death is fairer oftentimes than life;

No vulgar passion quivers in the breath:

The dead forget their weariness and strife.

Say not that death is even as decay,A hideous charnel choked with rotting dust;The cold white lips are beautiful as sprayCast on an iceberg by the northern gust.

Say not that death is even as decay,

A hideous charnel choked with rotting dust;

The cold white lips are beautiful as spray

Cast on an iceberg by the northern gust.

The memories of the past are diadem’dAbout the brow and folded on the eyes;The weary lids beneath are bent and gemm’dWith charmèd dreams and mystic reveries.

The memories of the past are diadem’d

About the brow and folded on the eyes;

The weary lids beneath are bent and gemm’d

With charmèd dreams and mystic reveries.

Once more she sits in her imperial chair,And kings and Cæsars kneel before her feet,And clouds of incense fill the heavy air,And shouts of homage echo thro’ the street.

Once more she sits in her imperial chair,

And kings and Cæsars kneel before her feet,

And clouds of incense fill the heavy air,

And shouts of homage echo thro’ the street.

Or yet, again, she stretches forth the hand,And men are done to death at her desire;The smoke of burning cities dims the land,And limbs are torn or shrivelled in the fire.

Or yet, again, she stretches forth the hand,

And men are done to death at her desire;

The smoke of burning cities dims the land,

And limbs are torn or shrivelled in the fire.

Once more the scene is shifted, and the gleamOf eastern suns about her brow is curled;Once more she roams a maiden by the stream,Despised of men, the Magdalen of the world.

Once more the scene is shifted, and the gleam

Of eastern suns about her brow is curled;

Once more she roams a maiden by the stream,

Despised of men, the Magdalen of the world.

So scene on scene floats lightly, as a hazeThat comes and goes with sudden gust and lull:Limned with the sunset hues of other days,They are but dreams; yet dreams are beautiful.

So scene on scene floats lightly, as a haze

That comes and goes with sudden gust and lull:

Limned with the sunset hues of other days,

They are but dreams; yet dreams are beautiful.

Archibald Henry Sayce(Academy, Dec. 5, 1885).

As in the two preceding quotations, the subject is the supposed conflict of religion and science. Haeckel (born 1834, recently dead) was the most ruthless of all the biologists in accounting for evolution and all progress by a struggle for existence. Renan (1823-1892), the French writer, whose love of Christianity survived his belief in it, speaks of the passing away of the old faith as “the golden glory of the dying day,” and says that in its death it will be more beautiful than in its life, when it led to passion, persecution and war. The penultimate verse refers to the time when temporal power was removed from the church, and she reverted to the humility, and also the beauty, of primitive Christianity when it came in its morning glory from the East.The fact that these fine verses are by the great philologist and archæologist, Professor Sayce, who has not publicly appeared in the rôle of a poet, adds greatly to their interest. The few verses he has published have mostly appeared over the initials “A.H.S.” in the oldAcademy(the present periodical is a different concern), and he was not known to the public as the author.Anything about Professor Sayce must be interesting to the reader, and I, therefore, need not apologize for mentioning the following incidents, which, I imagine, are known only among his friends. In 1870, during the Franco-German War, Mr. Sayce was ordered to be shot at Nantes as a German spy, and only escaped “by the skin of his teeth.” It was just before Gambetta had flown in his balloon out of Paris, and there was no recognized Government in the country. Nantes was full of fugitives, and bands of Uhlans were in the neighbourhood. Mr. Sayce was arrested when walking round the old citadel examining its walls—not realizing that it was occupied by French troops. Fortunately, some ladies of the garrison came in during his examination to see the interesting young prisoner and, after Mr. Saycehad been placed against the wall and a soldier told off to shoot him, they prevailed upon the Commandant to give him a second examination, which ended in his acquittal.Mr. Sayce was also among the Carlists in the Carlist war of 1873, and was present at some of the so-called battles which, he says, were dangerous only to the onlookers. He also once had a pitched battle with Bedouins in Syria.Professor Sayce (he became Professor in 1876) has also the proud distinction of being the only person known to have survived the bite of the Egyptian cerastes asp, which is supposed to have killed Cleopatra. He accidentally trod on the reptile in the desert some three or four miles north of Assouan and was bitten in the leg. Luckily, he happened to be just outside the dahabieh in which he was travelling with three Oxford friends, one of them the late Master of Balliol. The cook had a small pair of red-hot tongs, with which he had been preparing lunch, and Professor Sayce was able to burn the bitten leg down to the bone within two minutes after the accident; thus saving his life at the expense of a few weeks’ lameness.

The fact that these fine verses are by the great philologist and archæologist, Professor Sayce, who has not publicly appeared in the rôle of a poet, adds greatly to their interest. The few verses he has published have mostly appeared over the initials “A.H.S.” in the oldAcademy(the present periodical is a different concern), and he was not known to the public as the author.

Anything about Professor Sayce must be interesting to the reader, and I, therefore, need not apologize for mentioning the following incidents, which, I imagine, are known only among his friends. In 1870, during the Franco-German War, Mr. Sayce was ordered to be shot at Nantes as a German spy, and only escaped “by the skin of his teeth.” It was just before Gambetta had flown in his balloon out of Paris, and there was no recognized Government in the country. Nantes was full of fugitives, and bands of Uhlans were in the neighbourhood. Mr. Sayce was arrested when walking round the old citadel examining its walls—not realizing that it was occupied by French troops. Fortunately, some ladies of the garrison came in during his examination to see the interesting young prisoner and, after Mr. Saycehad been placed against the wall and a soldier told off to shoot him, they prevailed upon the Commandant to give him a second examination, which ended in his acquittal.

Mr. Sayce was also among the Carlists in the Carlist war of 1873, and was present at some of the so-called battles which, he says, were dangerous only to the onlookers. He also once had a pitched battle with Bedouins in Syria.

Professor Sayce (he became Professor in 1876) has also the proud distinction of being the only person known to have survived the bite of the Egyptian cerastes asp, which is supposed to have killed Cleopatra. He accidentally trod on the reptile in the desert some three or four miles north of Assouan and was bitten in the leg. Luckily, he happened to be just outside the dahabieh in which he was travelling with three Oxford friends, one of them the late Master of Balliol. The cook had a small pair of red-hot tongs, with which he had been preparing lunch, and Professor Sayce was able to burn the bitten leg down to the bone within two minutes after the accident; thus saving his life at the expense of a few weeks’ lameness.

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.Its tinkling tells me that a time is nearPrecious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:Seared is, of course, my heart—but unsubduedIs, and shall be, my appetite for food.I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen;But on one statement I may safely venture:That few of our most highly gifted menHave more appreciation of the trencher.I go. One pound of British beef, and thenWhat Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher”;That, “home-returning,” I may “soothly say,”“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”C. S. Calverley(Beer).

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—

A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.

Its tinkling tells me that a time is near

Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.

O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,

Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:

Seared is, of course, my heart—but unsubdued

Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen;But on one statement I may safely venture:That few of our most highly gifted menHave more appreciation of the trencher.I go. One pound of British beef, and thenWhat Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher”;That, “home-returning,” I may “soothly say,”“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen;

But on one statement I may safely venture:

That few of our most highly gifted men

Have more appreciation of the trencher.

I go. One pound of British beef, and then

What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher”;

That, “home-returning,” I may “soothly say,”

“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”

C. S. Calverley(Beer).

These are the two last verses of a parody on Byron. In each of the last three lines there is a literary reference. The first, of course, is to the happy-go-lucky Dick Swiveller of Dickens’sOld Curiosity Shop.The next reference is to the amusing story about Sir Walter Scott that became known about the time Calverley was writing (1862). Scott, in his description of Melrose Abbey by moonlight (“Lay of the Last Minstrel”) says:If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey....Yet there can be no doubt thathe himself had never seenthe Abbey by moonlight! He further tells his readers that they canHome returning, soothlyswearWas never scene so sad and fair.They, having seen it, can “soothly” (i.e.,truthfully) swear to its beauty, which was more than he himself could!Calverley’s last line is from Sydney Smith’s “Recipe for a Salad”:Oh, herbaceous treat!’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul,And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl;Serenely full the epicure would say,“Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day.”This again is an adaptation of Dryden’s “Imitation of Horace” (Book III, Ode 29):Happy the man, and happy he alone,He who can call to-day his own;He who, secure within, can say,To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d to-day.

The next reference is to the amusing story about Sir Walter Scott that became known about the time Calverley was writing (1862). Scott, in his description of Melrose Abbey by moonlight (“Lay of the Last Minstrel”) says:

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey....

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey....

Yet there can be no doubt thathe himself had never seenthe Abbey by moonlight! He further tells his readers that they can

Home returning, soothlyswearWas never scene so sad and fair.

Home returning, soothlyswear

Was never scene so sad and fair.

They, having seen it, can “soothly” (i.e.,truthfully) swear to its beauty, which was more than he himself could!

Calverley’s last line is from Sydney Smith’s “Recipe for a Salad”:

Oh, herbaceous treat!’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul,And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl;Serenely full the epicure would say,“Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day.”

Oh, herbaceous treat!

’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;

Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul,

And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl;

Serenely full the epicure would say,

“Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day.”

This again is an adaptation of Dryden’s “Imitation of Horace” (Book III, Ode 29):

Happy the man, and happy he alone,He who can call to-day his own;He who, secure within, can say,To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d to-day.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call to-day his own;

He who, secure within, can say,

To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d to-day.

We may live without poetry, music and art;We may live without conscience, and live without heart:We may live without friends; we may live without books;But civilized man can not live without cooks.He may live without books—what is knowledge but grieving?He may live without hope—what is hope but deceiving?He may live without love—what is passion but pining?But where is the man that can live without dining?Earl of Lytton, “Owen Meredith”(1831-1891) (Lucile).

We may live without poetry, music and art;We may live without conscience, and live without heart:We may live without friends; we may live without books;But civilized man can not live without cooks.

We may live without poetry, music and art;

We may live without conscience, and live without heart:

We may live without friends; we may live without books;

But civilized man can not live without cooks.

He may live without books—what is knowledge but grieving?He may live without hope—what is hope but deceiving?He may live without love—what is passion but pining?But where is the man that can live without dining?

He may live without books—what is knowledge but grieving?

He may live without hope—what is hope but deceiving?

He may live without love—what is passion but pining?

But where is the man that can live without dining?

Earl of Lytton, “Owen Meredith”(1831-1891) (Lucile).

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,“Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed—Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed.”Lewis Carroll(The Walrus and the Carpenter).

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,“Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed—Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed.”

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,

“Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed—

Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed.”

Lewis Carroll(The Walrus and the Carpenter).

That all-softening, overpowering knell,The tocsin of the soul—the dinner bell.Byron(Don Juan).

That all-softening, overpowering knell,The tocsin of the soul—the dinner bell.

That all-softening, overpowering knell,

The tocsin of the soul—the dinner bell.

Byron(Don Juan).

First of the first,Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as nowPerfect in whiteness: stoop thou down, my child..My rose, I gather for the breast of God..And surely not so very much apart,Need I place thee, my warrior-priest..In thought, word and deed,How throughout all thy warfare thou wast pure,I find it easy to believe: and ifAt any fateful moment of the strangeAdventure, the strong passion of that strait,Fear and surprise may have revealed too much,—As when a thundrous midnight, with black airThat burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell,Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathedShut unsuspected flower that hoards and hidesImmensity of sweetness,—so, perchance,Might the surprise and fear release too muchThe perfect beauty of the body and soulThou savedst in thy passion for God’s sake,He who is Pity. Was the trial sore?Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time!Why comes temptation but for man to meetAnd master and make crouch beneath his feet,And so be pedestaled in triumph?R. Browning(The Ring and the Book, X).

First of the first,

Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as now

Perfect in whiteness: stoop thou down, my child..

My rose, I gather for the breast of God..

And surely not so very much apart,

Need I place thee, my warrior-priest..

In thought, word and deed,

How throughout all thy warfare thou wast pure,

I find it easy to believe: and if

At any fateful moment of the strange

Adventure, the strong passion of that strait,

Fear and surprise may have revealed too much,—

As when a thundrous midnight, with black air

That burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell,

Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed

Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides

Immensity of sweetness,—so, perchance,

Might the surprise and fear release too much

The perfect beauty of the body and soul

Thou savedst in thy passion for God’s sake,

He who is Pity. Was the trial sore?

Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time!

Why comes temptation but for man to meet

And master and make crouch beneath his feet,

And so be pedestaled in triumph?

R. Browning(The Ring and the Book, X).

A young handsome priest, who had led a gay life, was moved by pure motives to rescue a beautiful young wife from a dreadful husband, and he travelled with her for three days to Rome. The husband was following with an armed band, the priest was risking disgrace, and the girl was risking death. The mutual danger would in itself tend to draw the fugitives too closely together; but also the girl had shown herself doubly lovable, for the strain and stress had revealed in her a very beautiful nature—just as a midnight thunder-storm opens and draws rich scent fromSome sheathedShut unsuspected flower that hoards and hidesImmensity of sweetness.Coleridge has a similar illustration, “Quarrels of anger ending in tears are favourable to love in its spring tide, as plants are found to grow very rapidly after a thunderstorm with rain”—(Allsop’sLetters, etc., of Coleridge). Coleridge died in 1834, and “The Ring and the Book” was published in 1868-9: it is curious that both poets should have been impressed with a fact that appears to have been only recently recognized. In the seventies Lemström proved that plants thrive under electricity; but I think it is only a few years ago that in some agricultural experiments in Germany it was found that electricity was of no benefit to the cropswithout rain or other moisture.The quotation is from the fine judgment which the Pope delivers.

Some sheathedShut unsuspected flower that hoards and hidesImmensity of sweetness.

Some sheathed

Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides

Immensity of sweetness.

Coleridge has a similar illustration, “Quarrels of anger ending in tears are favourable to love in its spring tide, as plants are found to grow very rapidly after a thunderstorm with rain”—(Allsop’sLetters, etc., of Coleridge). Coleridge died in 1834, and “The Ring and the Book” was published in 1868-9: it is curious that both poets should have been impressed with a fact that appears to have been only recently recognized. In the seventies Lemström proved that plants thrive under electricity; but I think it is only a few years ago that in some agricultural experiments in Germany it was found that electricity was of no benefit to the cropswithout rain or other moisture.

The quotation is from the fine judgment which the Pope delivers.

He had been eight years upon a project for extracting sun-beams out of cucumbers, which were to be put in phials hermetically sealed and let out to warm the air in raw, inclement summers.

Swift(Gulliver’s Travels).

A child of our grandmother Eve, a female, or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.

(Love’s Labour Lost, I, 1.)

The whole World was made for man, but the twelfth part of man for woman: Man is the whole World, and the Breath of God; Woman the rib and crooked piece of man.

Sir Thomas Browne(1605-1682) (Religio Medici).

Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!Edmund Waller(1606-1687) (On a Girdle).

Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!

Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round!

Edmund Waller(1606-1687) (On a Girdle).

A woman is the most inconsistent compound of obstinacy and self-sacrifice that I am acquainted with.

J. P. F. Richter(Flower, Fruit and Thorn Pieces).

If she be made of white and redHer faults will ne’er be known.(Love’s Labour Lost, I, 2).

If she be made of white and redHer faults will ne’er be known.

If she be made of white and red

Her faults will ne’er be known.

(Love’s Labour Lost, I, 2).

God made the world in six days, and then he rested. He then made man and rested again. He then made woman and, since then, neither man, woman, nor anything else has rested.

Author not traced.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me.Robert Herrick(To Anthea).

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

The very eyes of me.

Robert Herrick(To Anthea).

As perchance carvers do not faces make,But that away, which hid them there, do take:Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee,And be his Image, or not his, but He.John Donne(The Cross).

As perchance carvers do not faces make,But that away, which hid them there, do take:Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee,And be his Image, or not his, but He.

As perchance carvers do not faces make,

But that away, which hid them there, do take:

Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee,

And be his Image, or not his, but He.

John Donne(The Cross).

As sculptors chisel away the marble that hides the statue within, so let “crosses” or afflictions remove the impurities which hide the Christ in us, so that we shall become His image, or not Hisimage, butHimself.

What is experience? A little cottage made with thedébrisof those palaces of gold and marble which we call ourillusions.

Author not traced.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;Envy and calumny and hate and pain,And that unrest which men miscall delight,Can touch him not and torture not again;From the contagion of the world’s slow stain.He is secure, and now can never mournA heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.Shelley(Adonaïs, an Elegy on Keats, XL).

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;

Envy and calumny and hate and pain,

And that unrest which men miscall delight,

Can touch him not and torture not again;

From the contagion of the world’s slow stain.

He is secure, and now can never mourn

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;

Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

Shelley(Adonaïs, an Elegy on Keats, XL).

This verse is engraved on Shelley’s own monument in the Priory Church at Christchurch, Hampshire.

A loose, slack, not well-dressed youth met Mr. Green and myself in a lane near Highgate. Green knew him and spoke. It was Keats. He was introduced to me, and stayed a minute or so. After he had left us a little way, he came back and said, “Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having pressed your hand!” “There is death in that hand,” I said to Green, when Keats was gone; yet this was, I believe, before the consumption showed itself distinctly.

S. T. Coleridge(Table Talk).

This was about 1819. It is pathetic, this meeting of two great poets, Keats who was to die two years afterwards at the early age of twenty-six, and Coleridge, whose few brilliant years of poetic life had long previously ended in slavery to the opium-habit.

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT

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