Chapter 7

You wish, Paula, to marry Priscus. I am not surprised;You are wise; Priscus will not marry you and he is wise.Martial, IX, 5.

You wish, Paula, to marry Priscus. I am not surprised;You are wise; Priscus will not marry you and he is wise.

You wish, Paula, to marry Priscus. I am not surprised;

You are wise; Priscus will not marry you and he is wise.

Martial, IX, 5.

IN THE TWILIGHT.

Men say the sullen instrument,That, from the Master’s bow,With pangs of joy or woe,Feels music’s soul through every fibre sent,Whispers the ravished stringsMore than he knew or meant;Old summers in its memory glow;The secrets of the wind it sings;It hears the April-loosened springs;And mixes with its moodAll it dreamed when it stoodIn the murmurous pine-wood,Long ago!The magical moonlight thenSteeped every bough and cone;The roar of the brook in the glenCame dim from the distance blown;The wind through its glooms sang low,And it swayed to and froWith delight as it stoodIn the wonderful wood,Long ago!O my life, have we not had seasonsThat only said, Live and rejoice?That asked not for causes and reasons,But made us all feeling and voice?When we went with the winds in their blowing,When Nature and we were peers,And we seemed to share in the flowingOf the inexhaustible years?Have we not from the earth drawn juicesToo fine for earth’s sordid uses?Have I heard, have I seenAll I feel and I know?Doth my heart overween?Or could it have beenLong ago?Sometimes a breath floats by me,An odour from Dreamland sent,That makes the ghost seem nigh meOf a splendour that came and went,Of a life lived somewhere, I know notIn what diviner sphere,Of memories that stay not and go not,Like music heard once by an earThat cannot forget or reclaim it,A something so shy, it would shame itTo make it a show,A something too vague, could I name it,For others to know,As if I had lived it or dreamed it,As if I had acted or schemed it,Long ago!And yet, could I live it over,This life that stirs in my brainCould I be both maiden and lover,Moon and tide, bee and clover,As I seem to have been, once again,Could I but speak and show it,This pleasure more sharp than pain,That baffles and lures me so,The world should not lack a poet,Such as it hadIn the ages glad,Long ago.J. R. Lowell.

Men say the sullen instrument,

That, from the Master’s bow,

With pangs of joy or woe,

Feels music’s soul through every fibre sent,

Whispers the ravished strings

More than he knew or meant;

Old summers in its memory glow;

The secrets of the wind it sings;

It hears the April-loosened springs;

And mixes with its mood

All it dreamed when it stood

In the murmurous pine-wood,

Long ago!

The magical moonlight thenSteeped every bough and cone;The roar of the brook in the glenCame dim from the distance blown;The wind through its glooms sang low,And it swayed to and froWith delight as it stoodIn the wonderful wood,Long ago!

The magical moonlight then

Steeped every bough and cone;

The roar of the brook in the glen

Came dim from the distance blown;

The wind through its glooms sang low,

And it swayed to and fro

With delight as it stood

In the wonderful wood,

Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasonsThat only said, Live and rejoice?That asked not for causes and reasons,But made us all feeling and voice?When we went with the winds in their blowing,When Nature and we were peers,And we seemed to share in the flowingOf the inexhaustible years?Have we not from the earth drawn juicesToo fine for earth’s sordid uses?Have I heard, have I seenAll I feel and I know?Doth my heart overween?Or could it have beenLong ago?

O my life, have we not had seasons

That only said, Live and rejoice?

That asked not for causes and reasons,

But made us all feeling and voice?

When we went with the winds in their blowing,

When Nature and we were peers,

And we seemed to share in the flowing

Of the inexhaustible years?

Have we not from the earth drawn juices

Too fine for earth’s sordid uses?

Have I heard, have I seen

All I feel and I know?

Doth my heart overween?

Or could it have been

Long ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me,An odour from Dreamland sent,That makes the ghost seem nigh meOf a splendour that came and went,Of a life lived somewhere, I know notIn what diviner sphere,Of memories that stay not and go not,Like music heard once by an earThat cannot forget or reclaim it,A something so shy, it would shame itTo make it a show,A something too vague, could I name it,For others to know,As if I had lived it or dreamed it,As if I had acted or schemed it,Long ago!

Sometimes a breath floats by me,

An odour from Dreamland sent,

That makes the ghost seem nigh me

Of a splendour that came and went,

Of a life lived somewhere, I know not

In what diviner sphere,

Of memories that stay not and go not,

Like music heard once by an ear

That cannot forget or reclaim it,

A something so shy, it would shame it

To make it a show,

A something too vague, could I name it,

For others to know,

As if I had lived it or dreamed it,

As if I had acted or schemed it,

Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over,This life that stirs in my brainCould I be both maiden and lover,Moon and tide, bee and clover,As I seem to have been, once again,Could I but speak and show it,This pleasure more sharp than pain,That baffles and lures me so,The world should not lack a poet,Such as it hadIn the ages glad,Long ago.

And yet, could I live it over,

This life that stirs in my brain

Could I be both maiden and lover,

Moon and tide, bee and clover,

As I seem to have been, once again,

Could I but speak and show it,

This pleasure more sharp than pain,

That baffles and lures me so,

The world should not lack a poet,

Such as it had

In the ages glad,

Long ago.

J. R. Lowell.

I am especially pleased with theirfreundin(the German word meaning a female friend), which unlike theamicaof the Romans, is seldom used but in its best and purest sense. Now I know it will be said that a friend is already something more than a friend, when a man feels an anxiety to express to himself that this friend is a female; but this I deny—in that sense at least in which the objection will be made. I would hazard the impeachment of heresy, rather than abandon my belief that there is a sex in our souls as well as in their perishable garments; and he who does not feel it, never truly loved a sister—nay, is not capable even of loving a wife as she deserves to be loved, if she indeed be worthy of that holy name.

S. T. Coleridge(Biographia Literaria, Letter to a Lady).

Coleridge also says: “The qualities of the sexes correspond. The man’s courage is loved by the woman, whose fortitude again is coveted by the man. His vigorous intellect is answered by her infallible tact. Can it be true what is so constantly affirmed, that there is no sex in souls?—I doubt it, I doubt it exceedingly.”—Table Talk.But surely Coleridge might have found the best proof of his contention in the nature of children, the small boy who fights with his fists, plays with tin soldiers and despises “girls,” and the girl-child who loves her doll and her pretty clothes. See next quotation.

But surely Coleridge might have found the best proof of his contention in the nature of children, the small boy who fights with his fists, plays with tin soldiers and despises “girls,” and the girl-child who loves her doll and her pretty clothes. See next quotation.

O thou most dear!Who art thy sex’s complex harmonyGod-set more facilely;To thee may love draw nearWithout one blame or fear.Unchidden save by his humility:Thou Perseus’ Shield wherein I view secureThe mirrored Woman’s fateful-fair allure!Whom Heaven still leaves a twofold dignity,As girlhood gentle, and as boyhood free;With whom no most diaphanous webs enwindThe barèd limbs of the rebukeless mind.Wild Dryad, all unconscious of thy tree,With which indissólublyThe tyrannous time shall one day make thee whole;Whose frank arms pass unfretted through its boleWho wear’st thy femineityLight as entrailèd blossoms, that shalt findIt erelong silver shackles unto thee.Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul;—As hoarded in the vineHang the gold skins of undelirious wine,As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze;—In whom the mystery which lures and sunders;Grapples and thrusts apart; endears, estranges,—The dragon to its own Hesperides—Is gated under slow-revolving changes,Manifold doors of heavy-hingèd years.So once, ere Heaven’s eyes were filled with wondersTo see Laughter rise from Tears,Lay in beauty not yet mighty,Conchèd in translucencies,The antenatal Aphodrite,Caved magically under magic seas;Caved dreamlessly beneath the dreamful seas.Francis Thompson(Sister Songs).

O thou most dear!

Who art thy sex’s complex harmony

God-set more facilely;

To thee may love draw near

Without one blame or fear.

Unchidden save by his humility:

Thou Perseus’ Shield wherein I view secure

The mirrored Woman’s fateful-fair allure!

Whom Heaven still leaves a twofold dignity,

As girlhood gentle, and as boyhood free;

With whom no most diaphanous webs enwind

The barèd limbs of the rebukeless mind.

Wild Dryad, all unconscious of thy tree,

With which indissólubly

The tyrannous time shall one day make thee whole;

Whose frank arms pass unfretted through its bole

Who wear’st thy femineity

Light as entrailèd blossoms, that shalt find

It erelong silver shackles unto thee.

Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul;—

As hoarded in the vine

Hang the gold skins of undelirious wine,

As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze;—

In whom the mystery which lures and sunders;

Grapples and thrusts apart; endears, estranges,

—The dragon to its own Hesperides—

Is gated under slow-revolving changes,

Manifold doors of heavy-hingèd years.

So once, ere Heaven’s eyes were filled with wonders

To see Laughter rise from Tears,

Lay in beauty not yet mighty,

Conchèd in translucencies,

The antenatal Aphodrite,

Caved magically under magic seas;

Caved dreamlessly beneath the dreamful seas.

Francis Thompson(Sister Songs).

Francis Thompson is one of the “difficult” poets who repay study. Here he says that, in the young girl, sex appears in a less complex form than in the woman and, just as Perseus could safely look at the reflection on his shield of the fatal Medusa’s head, so we can freely view womanhood in the girl-child. Nothing conceals her open, innocent, feminine nature. She is the Dryad, the Nymph who lives in the tree and is born and dies with it, but is as yet unconscious of the tree, that is, of her sex. Her “young sex is yet but in her soul,” and is like the juice of the grape which has not yet fermented into wine, or the calm air which sleeps undisturbed. The mystery of womanhood, which attracts and yet, in its own protection, repulses man, will not come to her until after the changes of years. It is the Aphrodite lying in unawakened beauty before she rises as a goddess from the sea. (“Facilely” appears to have the strained meaning “easy to understand” or “simply”; the word “gated,” “confined,” is a curious use of a university word: the Oxford or Cambridge undergraduate, who has misbehaved, may be “gated” for a period,i.e., confined to the precincts of his own college.) “The dragon to its own Hesperides”—the Hesperides were maidens who guarded the golden apples of love and fruitfulness, which Earth had given to Hera on her marriage to Zeus. The maidens were protected by a dragon. Here the dragon is the maiden’s own sensitive reserve and self-protecting nature, which enable her to protect herself. (“Conchèd,” Aphrodite is lying in her shell.)

Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer when once we know them.

Alexander Pope.

Compare the ancient with the modern world; “Look on this picture, and on that.” One broad distinction in the characters of men forces itself into prominence. Among all the men of the ancient heathen world there were scarcely one or two to whom we might venture to apply the epithet “holy.” In other words, there were not more than one or two, if any, who besides being virtuous in their actions were possessed with an unaffected enthusiasm of goodness, and besides abstaining from vice regarded even a vicious thought with horror. Probably no one will deny that in Christian countries this higher-toned goodness, which we call holiness, has existed. Few will maintain that it has been exceedingly rare. Perhaps the truth is, that there has scarcely been a town in any Christian country since the time of Christ where a century has passed without exhibiting a character of such elevation that his mere presence has shamed the bad and made the good better, and has been felt at times like the presence of God Himself. And if this be so, has Christ failed? or can Christianity die?

Sir J. R. Seeley(Ecce Homo).

The quotation from Hamlet should read, “Look here, upon this picture, and on this.”

DAY

Waking one morningIn a pleasant land,By a river flowingOver golden sand:—Whence flow ye, waters,O’er your golden sand?We come flowingFrom the Silent Land.Whither flow ye, waters,O’er your golden sand?We go flowingTo the Silent Land.And what is this fair realm?A grain of golden sandIn the great darknessOf the Silent Land.James Thomson(“B.V.”)

Waking one morningIn a pleasant land,By a river flowingOver golden sand:—

Waking one morning

In a pleasant land,

By a river flowing

Over golden sand:—

Whence flow ye, waters,O’er your golden sand?We come flowingFrom the Silent Land.

Whence flow ye, waters,

O’er your golden sand?

We come flowing

From the Silent Land.

Whither flow ye, waters,O’er your golden sand?We go flowingTo the Silent Land.

Whither flow ye, waters,

O’er your golden sand?

We go flowing

To the Silent Land.

And what is this fair realm?A grain of golden sandIn the great darknessOf the Silent Land.

And what is this fair realm?

A grain of golden sand

In the great darkness

Of the Silent Land.

James Thomson(“B.V.”)

For there is not a lie, spite of God’s high decree,But has made its nest sure on some branch of our tree,And has some vested right to exist in the land:And many will have it the tree could not stand,If the sticks, straws, and feathers, that sheltered the wrong,Were swept from the boughs they have cumbered so long.W. C. Smith(Borland Hall).

For there is not a lie, spite of God’s high decree,

But has made its nest sure on some branch of our tree,

And has some vested right to exist in the land:

And many will have it the tree could not stand,

If the sticks, straws, and feathers, that sheltered the wrong,

Were swept from the boughs they have cumbered so long.

W. C. Smith(Borland Hall).

I shall be old and ugly one day, and I shall look for man’s chivalrous help, but I shall not find it. The bees are very attentive to the flowers till their honey is done, and then they fly over them.

Olive Schreiner(The Story of an African Farm).

There are some of us who in after years say to Fate “Now deal us your hardest blow, give us what you will; but let us never again suffer as we suffered when we were children.”

Olive Schreiner(The Story of an African Farm).

Il n’a jamais fait couler larmes à personne sauf à sa mort.

(He never caused any one to shed tears, except at his death.)

B. Seebohm’s Life of Grellet.

Epitaph on Pétion, President of Hayti about 1816.

... that pleasureless yielding to the small solicitations of circumstance, which is a commoner history of perdition than any single momentous bargain.

George Eliot(Middlemarch).

If there are two things not to be hidden—love and a cough—I say there is a third, and that is ignorance, when one is obliged to do something besides wagging his head.

George Eliot(Romola—Nello speaking).

George Eliot is quoting the Latin proverb,Amor tussisque non celantur. It is also found in George Herbert’sJacula Prudentum, 1640. The same proverb appears with all sorts of variations, “love and a sneeze,” “love and smoke,” “love and a red nose,” “love and poverty,” etc., being the things that cannot be hidden. “Love and murder will out” (Congreve,The Double Dealer, Act IV, 2). (I took these instances from some collection of proverbs.)

We Men, who in our morn of youth defiedThe elements, must vanish;—be it so!Enough, if something from our hands have powerTo live, and act, and serve the future hour:And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,We feel that we are greater than we know.Wordsworth(After-Thought).

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish;—be it so!

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour:

And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,

We feel that we are greater than we know.

Wordsworth(After-Thought).

You can’t turn curds to milk again,Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;And, having tasted stolen honey,You can’t buy innocence for money.George Eliot(Felix Holt).

You can’t turn curds to milk again,Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;And, having tasted stolen honey,You can’t buy innocence for money.

You can’t turn curds to milk again,

Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;

And, having tasted stolen honey,

You can’t buy innocence for money.

George Eliot(Felix Holt).

The gods are brethren. Wheresoe’erThey set their shrines of love or fearIn Grecian woods, by banks of Nile,Where cold snows sleep or roses smile,The gods are brethren. Zeus the SireWas fashioned of the self-same fireAs Odin, He, whom Ind brought forth,Hath his pale kinsman east and north;And more than one, since life began,Hath known Christ’s agony for Man.The gods are brethren. Kin by fate,In gentleness as well as hate,’Mid heights that only Thought may climbThey come, they go; they are, or seem;Each, rainbow’d from the rack of Time,Casts broken lights across God’s Dream.R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).

The gods are brethren. Wheresoe’er

They set their shrines of love or fear

In Grecian woods, by banks of Nile,

Where cold snows sleep or roses smile,

The gods are brethren. Zeus the Sire

Was fashioned of the self-same fire

As Odin, He, whom Ind brought forth,

Hath his pale kinsman east and north;

And more than one, since life began,

Hath known Christ’s agony for Man.

The gods are brethren. Kin by fate,

In gentleness as well as hate,

’Mid heights that only Thought may climb

They come, they go; they are, or seem;

Each, rainbow’d from the rack of Time,

Casts broken lights across God’s Dream.

R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).

“You remember Tom Martin, Neddy? Bless my dear eyes,” said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated window before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth; “it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-the-hill, by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, a-coming up the Strand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered by his bruising, with a patch o’ winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that ’ere lovely bull-dog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following at his heels. What a rum thing Time is, ain’t it, Neddy?”

Charles Dickens(Pickwick Papers).

Mr. Roker is a turnkey in the Fleet prison.

THE COURTIN’

God makes sech nights, all white an’ stillFur’z you can look or listen,Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,All silence an’ all glisten.Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknownAn’ peeked in thru’ the winder,An’ there sot Huldy all alone,’Ith no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room’s one sideWith half a cord o’ wood in—There warn’t no stoves (till comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin’.The wa’nut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her,An’ leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser....The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,An’ she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin’....He was six foot o’ man, A1,Clear grit an’ human natur’;None couldn’t quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—All is, he couldn’t love ’em.But long o’ her his veins ’ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o’ sunEz a south slope in Ap’il.She thought no v’ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin’-bunnetFelt somehow thru’ its crown a pairO’ blue eyes sot upon it.Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,Down to her very shoe-sole.She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu,A-raspin’ on the scraper,—All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,sequel.His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An’ on her apples kep’ to work,Parin’ away like murder.“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”“Wal ... no ... I come designin’”—“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’esAgin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”To say why gals acts so or so,Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;Mebby to meanyesan’ saynoComes nateral to women.He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t’other,An’ on which one he felt the wustHe couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.Sez he, “I’d better call agin;”Sez she, “Think likely, Mister;”Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An’ ... Wal he up an’ kist her.When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lipsAn’ teary roun’ the lashes....The blood clost roun’ her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin’,Till mother see how metters stood,An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.Then her red come back like the tide,Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,An’ all I know is they was criedIn meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.J. Russell Lowell

God makes sech nights, all white an’ stillFur’z you can look or listen,Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,All silence an’ all glisten.

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still

Fur’z you can look or listen,

Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,

All silence an’ all glisten.

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknownAn’ peeked in thru’ the winder,An’ there sot Huldy all alone,’Ith no one nigh to hender.

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown

An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,

An’ there sot Huldy all alone,

’Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room’s one sideWith half a cord o’ wood in—There warn’t no stoves (till comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin’.

A fireplace filled the room’s one side

With half a cord o’ wood in—

There warn’t no stoves (till comfort died)

To bake ye to a puddin’.

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her,An’ leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser....

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her,

An’ leetle flames danced all about

The chiny on the dresser....

The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,An’ she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin’....

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,

An’ she looked full ez rosy agin

Ez the apples she was peelin’....

He was six foot o’ man, A1,Clear grit an’ human natur’;None couldn’t quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.

He was six foot o’ man, A1,

Clear grit an’ human natur’;

None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton

Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,

He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,

Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—

All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

But long o’ her his veins ’ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o’ sunEz a south slope in Ap’il.

But long o’ her his veins ’ould run

All crinkly like curled maple,

The side she breshed felt full o’ sun

Ez a south slope in Ap’il.

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing

Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,

Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.

An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin’-bunnetFelt somehow thru’ its crown a pairO’ blue eyes sot upon it.

An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,

When her new meetin’-bunnet

Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair

O’ blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,Down to her very shoe-sole.

Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!

She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul,

For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,

Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu,A-raspin’ on the scraper,—All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.

She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu,

A-raspin’ on the scraper,—

All ways to once her feelins flew

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,sequel.His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,

Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,sequel.

His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,

But hern went pity Zekle.

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An’ on her apples kep’ to work,Parin’ away like murder.

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder,

An’ on her apples kep’ to work,

Parin’ away like murder.

“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”“Wal ... no ... I come designin’”—“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’esAgin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”

“Wal ... no ... I come designin’”—

“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es

Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

To say why gals acts so or so,Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;Mebby to meanyesan’ saynoComes nateral to women.

To say why gals acts so or so,

Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;

Mebby to meanyesan’ sayno

Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t’other,An’ on which one he felt the wustHe couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,

Then stood a spell on t’other,

An’ on which one he felt the wust

He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

Sez he, “I’d better call agin;”Sez she, “Think likely, Mister;”Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An’ ... Wal he up an’ kist her.

Sez he, “I’d better call agin;”

Sez she, “Think likely, Mister;”

Thet last word pricked him like a pin,

An’ ... Wal he up an’ kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lipsAn’ teary roun’ the lashes....

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,

Huldy sot pale ez ashes,

All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips

An’ teary roun’ the lashes....

The blood clost roun’ her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin’,Till mother see how metters stood,An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.

The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued

Too tight for all expressin’,

Till mother see how metters stood,

An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.

Then her red come back like the tide,Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,An’ all I know is they was criedIn meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.

Then her red come back like the tide,

Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,

An’ all I know is they was cried

In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.

J. Russell Lowell

What is the life of man? Is it not to turn from side to side? From sorrow to sorrow? To button up one cause of vexation and unbutton another?

Sterne(Tristram Shandy).

I know thy heart by heart.

P. J. Bailey(Festus).

HERBERT SPENCER’S “FIRST PRINCIPLES.”

Mr. Spencer’s genesis of the universe from chaos to the Crimean War ... For our own part, we must confess that this new book of Genesis appears to us no more credible than the old.

J. Martineau(Science, Nescience, and Faith).

JAMES MILL.

Did the facts of consciousness stand, as he represents them, his method would work. He satisfactorily explains—the wrong human nature.

J. Martineau(Essay on John Stuart Mill).

(Referring to those who insist on thepracticalas against thetheoretical.) This solitary term (“practical”) serves a large number of persons as a substitute for all patient and steady thought; and, at all events, instead of meaning that which is useful as opposed to that which is useless, it constantly signifies that of which the use is grossly and immediately palpable, as distinguished from that of which the usefulness can only be discerned after attention and exertion.

Sir Henry Maine.

(Men are) dragged along the physiological history, because easy to conceive, and baffled by the spiritual, because it has no pictures to help it.

J. Martineau(Hours of Thought, I, 100).

As psychology comprises all our sensibilities, pleasures, affections, aspirations, capacities, it is thought on that ground to have a special nobility and greatness, and a special power of evoking in the student the feelings themselves. The mathematician, dealing with conic sections, spirals, and differential equations, is in danger of being ultimately resolved into a function or a co-efficient: the metaphysician, by investigating conscience, must become conscientious; driving fat oxen is the way to grow fat.

Alexander Bain(1818-1903) (Contemporary Review, April 1877).

There is a crude absurd materialism abroad which hasn’t yet learned the fundamental difference between Mind and Matter. It is altogether incomprehensible how any material processes can beget sensations and feelings and thoughts; it is altogether incomprehensible howyouarose orIarose. Listen to Spencer:—“Were we compelled to choose between the alternatives of translating mental phenomena into physical phenomena, or of translating physical phenomena into mental phenomena, the latter alternative would seem the more preferable of the two.... Hence though of the two it seems easier to translate so-called Matter into so-called Spirit, than to translate so-called Spirit into so-called Matter (which latter is, indeed, wholly impossible), yet no translation can carry us beyond our symbols.”

Richard Hodgson(Letter, March 21, 1880).

Clown.What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?

Malvolio.That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

Clown.What thinkest thou of his opinion?

Malvolio.I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

Clown.Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness.

Shakespeare(Twelfth Night, IV, 2).

As the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, “That, that is, is.”

Shakespeare(Twelfth Night, IV, 2).

WHAT IS LOVE?

The passion which unites the sexes ... is the most compound, and therefore the most powerful of all the feelings. Added to the purely physical elements of it are, first, those highly complex impressions produced by personal beauty.... With this there is united the complex sentiment which we term affection—a sentiment which, as it can exist between those of the same sex, must be regarded as an independent sentiment.... Then there is the sentiment of admiration, respect, or reverence.... There comes next the feeling called love of approbation. To be preferred above all the world, and that by one admired above all others, is to have the love of approbation gratified in a degree passing every previous experience.... Further, the allied emotion of self-esteem comes into play. To have succeeded in gaining such attachment from, and sway over, another is a proof of power which cannot fail agreeably to excite theamour propre. Yet again, the proprietary feeling has its share in the general activity: there is the pleasure of possession—the two belong to each other. Once more, the relation allows of an extended liberty of action. Towards other persons a restrained behaviour is requisite. Round each there is a subtle boundary that may not be crossed—an individuality on which none may trespass. But in this case the barriers are thrown down; and thus the love of unrestrained activity is gratified. Finally there is an exaltation of the sympathies. Egoistic pleasures of all kinds are doubled by another’s sympathetic participation; and the pleasures of another are added to the egoistic pleasures. Thus, round the physical feeling, forming the nucleus of the whole, are gathered the feelings produced by personal beauty, that constituting simple attachment, those of reverence, of love of approbation, of self-esteem, of property, of love of freedom, of sympathy. These, all greatly exalted, and severally tending to reflect their excitements on one another, unite to form the mental state we call Love.

Herbert Spencer(Principles of Psychology, 3rd Ed., Vol. I, 487).

The heading is, of course, mine—not Spencer’s.

WHAT AM I?

The aggregate of feelings and ideas, constituting the mentalI, have not in themselves the principle of cohesion holding them together as a whole; but theIwhich continuously survives as the subject of these changing states is that portion of theUnknowable Power, which is statically conditioned in (my particular one of those) special nervous structures pervaded by a dynamically-conditioned portion of the Unknowable Power called energy.

Herbert Spencer(Principles of Psychology, 3rd Ed., Vol. II, 504).

The heading and words in brackets are mine. As the reader may at any time be asked “What are you?” it would be well to be ready with a simple reply.

New truths, old truths! sirs, there is nothing new possible to be revealed to us in the moral world; we know all we shall ever know: and it is for simply reminding us, by their various respective expedients, how we do know this and the other matter, that men get called prophets, poets, and the like. A philosopher’s life is spent in discovering that, of the half-dozen truths he knew when a child, such an one is a lie, as the world states it in set terms; and then, after a weary lapse of years, and plenty of hard-thinking, it becomes a truth again after all, as he happens to newly consider it and view it in a different relation with the others: and so he restates it, to the confusion of somebody else in good time. As for adding to the original stock of truths,—impossible!

R. Browning(A Soul’s Tragedy).

When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter,And proved it, ’twas no matter what he said.Byron(Don Juan, Canto XI).

When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter,And proved it, ’twas no matter what he said.

When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter,

And proved it, ’twas no matter what he said.

Byron(Don Juan, Canto XI).

The law of equal freedom which Herbert Spencer deduces is binding only upon those who admit both that human happiness is the Divine Will and that we should act in accordance with the Divine Will. Why should I obey this law? Because without such obedience human happiness cannot be complete. Why should I aim at human happiness? Because human happiness is the Divine Will. The inexorablewhypursues us here—Why should I aim at the fulfilment of the Divine Will? To this question there seems no satisfactory reply but that it is for my own happiness to do so.

Richard Hodgson(Unpublished Essay, 1879).

I have no ambition to wander into the inane and usurp the sceptre of the dim Hegel, situated Nowhere, with pure Nothing behind him, and pure Being before him, steadfastly and vainly endeavouring with hisWerdento stop the sand-flowing of smiling Time.

Richard Hodgson(Early Unpublished Essay).

Werdenin Hegel is usually translated “Becoming.” To Hegel the truth of the world is found in life or movement, not in Being which is changeless, but tells and does nothing.

Edwin (afterwards Sir Edwin) Arnold was with Herbert Spencer on a Nile steamer. Spencer was dyspeptic and irritable; Arnold was a nocturnal bird, pacing the deck alone in a long gown and smoking a long pipe. Suddenly appeared a white figure, Spencer in his night-shirt, who in the bad light took Arnold for a sailor (and Arnold did not undeceive him).

“Hi! there!”

“Ay, ay, Sir.”

“What are the men making that noise there forward for?”

“Cleaning the engines, Sir.”

“Just tell them not to make such a row, keeping good Christians from their sleep at this time of night.”

“Ay, ay, Sir.”

(Disappearance of ghost; joke next morning,)

(Told by Arnold to Hodgson, June, 1884).

The great agnostic, usually most precise in his language, describes himself as a “good Christian”!

The very law which moulds a tearAnd bids it trickle from its source,—That law preserves the earth a sphere,And guides the planets in their course.Samuel Rogers(On a Tear).

The very law which moulds a tearAnd bids it trickle from its source,—That law preserves the earth a sphere,And guides the planets in their course.

The very law which moulds a tear

And bids it trickle from its source,—

That law preserves the earth a sphere,

And guides the planets in their course.

Samuel Rogers(On a Tear).

WILLIAM BLAKE.

He came to the desert of London townGrey miles long;He wander’d up and he wander’d down,Singing a quiet song,He came to the desert of London Town,Mirk miles broad;He wandered up and he wandered down,Ever alone with God.There were thousands and thousands of human kindIn this desert of brick and stone:But some were deaf and some were blind,And he was there alone.At length the good hour came; he diedAs he had lived, alone:He was not miss’d from the desert wide,—Perhaps he was found at the Throne.James Thomson(“B.V.”).

He came to the desert of London townGrey miles long;He wander’d up and he wander’d down,Singing a quiet song,

He came to the desert of London town

Grey miles long;

He wander’d up and he wander’d down,

Singing a quiet song,

He came to the desert of London Town,Mirk miles broad;He wandered up and he wandered down,Ever alone with God.

He came to the desert of London Town,

Mirk miles broad;

He wandered up and he wandered down,

Ever alone with God.

There were thousands and thousands of human kindIn this desert of brick and stone:But some were deaf and some were blind,And he was there alone.

There were thousands and thousands of human kind

In this desert of brick and stone:

But some were deaf and some were blind,

And he was there alone.

At length the good hour came; he diedAs he had lived, alone:He was not miss’d from the desert wide,—Perhaps he was found at the Throne.

At length the good hour came; he died

As he had lived, alone:

He was not miss’d from the desert wide,—

Perhaps he was found at the Throne.

James Thomson(“B.V.”).

The desert of London town—Magna civitas, magna solitudo: “a great city is a great solitude.”It is strange to think that these verses (and especially the last verse) were written by the pessimist who wrote in all sincerity the terrible lines in Pt. VIII of “The City of Dreadful Night.”

The desert of London town—Magna civitas, magna solitudo: “a great city is a great solitude.”

It is strange to think that these verses (and especially the last verse) were written by the pessimist who wrote in all sincerity the terrible lines in Pt. VIII of “The City of Dreadful Night.”

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,Where flocks have ta’en delight;Where lambs have nibbled, silent moveThe feet of angels bright;Unseen, they pour blessingAnd joy without ceasing,On each bud and blossom,And each sleeping bosom.They look in every thoughtless nest,Where birds are covered warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.When wolves and tigers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep;Seeking to drive their thirst away,And keep them from the sheep,But if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.William Blake(Night).

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,

Where flocks have ta’en delight;

Where lambs have nibbled, silent move

The feet of angels bright;

Unseen, they pour blessing

And joy without ceasing,

On each bud and blossom,

And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,Where birds are covered warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.

They look in every thoughtless nest,

Where birds are covered warm;

They visit caves of every beast,

To keep them all from harm:

If they see any weeping

That should have been sleeping,

They pour sleep on their head,

And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep;Seeking to drive their thirst away,And keep them from the sheep,But if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,

They pitying stand and weep;

Seeking to drive their thirst away,

And keep them from the sheep,

But if they rush dreadful,

The angels, most heedful,

Receive each mild spirit,

New worlds to inherit.

William Blake(Night).

Sic vos non vobis nidificatis, aves,Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves,Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes,Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves.(So you, birds, build nests—not for yourselves,So you, sheep, grow fleeces—not for yourselves,So you, bees, make honey—not for yourselves,So you, oxen, draw the plough—not for yourselves.)Virgil.

Sic vos non vobis nidificatis, aves,Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves,Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes,Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves.

Sic vos non vobis nidificatis, aves,

Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves,

Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes,

Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves.

(So you, birds, build nests—not for yourselves,So you, sheep, grow fleeces—not for yourselves,So you, bees, make honey—not for yourselves,So you, oxen, draw the plough—not for yourselves.)

(So you, birds, build nests—not for yourselves,

So you, sheep, grow fleeces—not for yourselves,

So you, bees, make honey—not for yourselves,

So you, oxen, draw the plough—not for yourselves.)

Virgil.

According to Donatus, Virgil wrote a couplet in praise of Cæsar and posted it anonymously on the portals of the palace (31B.C.). Bathyllus gave himself out as the author of this couplet, and on that account received a present from Cæsar. Next nightSic vos non vobis(“So you not for you”) was found written four times in the same place. The Romans were puzzled as to what was meant by these words, until Virgil came forward and completed the verse—adding a preliminary line,Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores, “I wrote the lines, another wears the bays.”Shelley inSong to the Men of Englandwrote as a socialist:The seed ye sow, another reaps;The wealth ye find, another keeps;The robes ye weave, another wears;The arms ye forge, another bears.In previous verses he refers to bees, and, of course, the above quotation was in his mind.

Shelley inSong to the Men of Englandwrote as a socialist:

The seed ye sow, another reaps;The wealth ye find, another keeps;The robes ye weave, another wears;The arms ye forge, another bears.

The seed ye sow, another reaps;

The wealth ye find, another keeps;

The robes ye weave, another wears;

The arms ye forge, another bears.

In previous verses he refers to bees, and, of course, the above quotation was in his mind.

I know, of late experience taught, that himWho is my foe I must but hate as oneWhom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves meWill I but serve and cherish as a manWhose love is not abiding. Few be theyWho, reaching friendship’s port, have there found rest.Sophocles(Ajax).

I know, of late experience taught, that him

Who is my foe I must but hate as one

Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves me

Will I but serve and cherish as a man

Whose love is not abiding. Few be they

Who, reaching friendship’s port, have there found rest.

Sophocles(Ajax).

This is from C. S. Calverley’s fine translation of the speech of Ajax.

A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards,And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety:He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.C. S. Calverley.

A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards,

And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety:

He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,

Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.

C. S. Calverley.

Imitating the now-forgotten Martin Tupper.

Whosoever is harmonically composed delights in harmony.... Even that vulgar and Tavern Musick, which makes one man merry, another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion, and a profound contemplation of the First Composer.... There is something in it of Divinity more than the ear discovers: it is an Hieroglyphical and shadowed lesson of the whole World, and creatures of God; such a melody to the ear as the whole World, well understood, would afford the understanding. In brief, it is a sensible fit of that harmony which intellectually sounds in the ears of God.

Sir Thomas Browne(Religio Medici).

(Speaking of an Essay on Wordsworth he is about to write for some Melbourne society) I purpose describing briefly the poetic tendencies, or rather the unpoetic tendencies, of the 18th Century, and the new school beginning to manifest itself in Cowper. I shall then refer to W.’s principles—shall banish to a future time the working out of thepsychologicalconnection between forms of nature and the human soul—shall banish also the feelings, the elementary feelings, of humanity, which W. drewpowerfulattention to, and confine myself to pointing out those characteristics in external nature which he took note of. These produce corresponding feelings in the “human,” and some of them arebeauty,silence and calm,joyousness,generosity,freedom,grandeur, andSpirituality. These are found in Nature, and W. saw them, and in the growing familiarity with them a man’s soul becomesbeautiful,calm,joyous,generous,free,grand, andspiritual. The first ones, of course, all depend on and grow from the last, and the Spirituality is God immanent. This last, as the root of all the others, will merit special attention—it exhibits W.’s poetico-philosophy so far as it regards the work of Nature upon man; and includes too the Platonic Reminiscence business. (Here follows personal chit-chat.) I think we might add the “supreme loftiness oflabour” to the foregoing elements in Nature. In theGipsies(I give both readings)

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