2 10 34 https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/bab84af91b461d1a64506206f26042b2.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=nM3j%7EDgTkoasPKabBGXzcmWbw8FHbYqyBkh7sYn1uIm1dZMlxVdNdeZKUXWTCrUJwXXzLnS8qcKF4qeubdQczczZtE%7E1OL7tVDBP9GzNM6MA7U6O6rtwwubGeCQLtZv26k0rek4neyxruHzaiCytjWexndqv0JHoeY5Wfin8LfpHqzbfLDftBY99JPaJXHCwBZ1QTBan9VVwBCrNP10lQ-DTLqDE2LIz8I3I71Rt0jdGsywO6GTla1LCPUPkbIOlRU7riYkit1-jc7Y4CT9TtHhujHontboWOvq5iVEjHcfIP3O1J3GZEqKvYSaWLtuXTIZ852UuFbs3mN41AtgfZw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 438e3d1bc1f5144ee814659edd9da78a PDF Text Text A WINTRY WALK AMONG THE MOUNTAINS WITH SINCEREST APOLOGIES TO THE SHADE OF HIAWATHA. LONDON: F. B. KITTO, 5, BISHOPSGATE STREET WITHOUT. 1867. �EXPLANATORY. The following lines contain an accurate account of what befel the writer during a ramble, on May 13th, 1867, over the summit of Glyder-fach and down by Llyn Bochlwyd to Llyn Idwal, returning by Twll-du and over Glyder-fawr, to Pen-y-gwryd. Weather, densely overcast and strong gale from E. ; reached the clouds and newly-fallen snow at about 2,000 feet above sea level, and had the company of both to the summit, a further height of 1,200 feet. The air temperature in the valley had fallen twenty-five degrees since the evening of the 11th. From several aneroid readings, the writer suspects Glyderfach, the Lesser Glyder, to be at least equal in height to Glyderfawr, i. e. to rise 3,275 feet or more above sea level; and from Snowdon the former looks considerably the higher. H. B. BIDEN. Witton, Birmingham, ' June, 1867. �A WINTRY WALK AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. Scene—The Heart of Snowdonia. MAY 13th, 1861. Reader, let a rambler tell you,— One who oft, the storm defying, Converse lone has held with Nature In her grandest, sternest aspect, 'Mid the crags of wild Snowdonia, Or, with pleasantest companions, Scaled her lofty peaks and ridges Oft by roughest, untried circuit, One incurably afflicted With ^-oaetyetkes scandendiP'caccreiZu’s — Though he ne’er beheld the wonders Of the far-famed Alpine ranges How, this day, alone, he wandered O’er the newly snow-crowned mountains— "Winter’s snows had gone in April* Spite of Post, Gazette, or Record. Senseless work, would say the Guide Books,— Sapient, cockney-followed Guide Books,— Yet most useful to the novice, Thus “ without a guide ” (!) to wander, Courting well deserved destruction ! How he scampered o’er the quagmires, How he floundered through the Gwryd, �4 More correctly called the Mymbyr, Slipping off the treacherous boulders ; Scrambled up the Lesser Glyder Spite of clouds, of snow, and easter. Wind beloved (?) and sung by Kingsley ; Would that he could thus have felt it Freezing his poor toes and fingers. Reached the drifting, level, cloud-roof, Plunged behind its dim grey curtain Darkly stretched o’er lakes and valleys, Blotting out all higher regions, Hiding every well known landmark; Reached the eighteen-inch-deep heather Water-logged with snow half melted, Half way up the lofty mountain ; Onward, upward, floundering, scrambling, Through the fog and furious east wind, Steering now by faith and compass, Reached unmitigated winter; Clambered up by blocks and ledges O’er the frozen cliffs and boulders ; Gained a loftier, colder region, Where the gale made wildest music Howling o’er the crested ridges, Through the obelisks and turrets, Serried battlements and cannons, Dimly seen through drifting mist wreath, Outworks of the storm-rent summit: Wondrous handiwork of Nature, Nought like this is seen on Snowdon, Though each scene alike be snowed on ! Reached Castell-y-gwynt, whose crags were Pointed, edged with fairest frostwork ; Frozen mist, on blocks and ledges— Silvery plumage, icy feathers, Pointed bristling to the tempest; Hung with icicles of crystal Glittering bright in rows and clusters From each point and “ coign of vantage.” Reached the lofty rock-strewn platform, Where the snow lay thick around him, Where the great Stonehenge-like ruins, Ruins of no human structure, ■ ' �5 Lichen-marbled, sno w-besprinkJed, Looming spectral through the cloud-rack In their ever changing groupings, Stood or leaned in solemn grandeur. Porphyritic trap their structure ; Trap indeed the writer found it Once, too far the crags descending Northward from the lofty summit Recking not of cliffs beneath him ;—Novice then at mountaineering, Yet compelled by his position Down that wall of rock to scramble To Cwm Bochlwyd’s deep recesses,— Down, by clefts and narrowing ledges Through the haunts of kite and raven. Reached the pointed sharp-edged cap stone, Bright with snow and silvery frostwork, Thickly fringed with icy pendants, Gleaming through the mist like daggers. Crossed the rugged pile of “ ruins,” Summit of the lofty mountain ; Reached the rocky steep o’erlooking Tryfan’s cone of blocks and pillars,— Deep Cwm Bochlwyd’s wild recesses, All concealed in clouds beneath him : Whence the ravens’ dismal croaking Echoed from the crags of Tryfan O’er the hidden deep abysses Reached his ear, in sudden chorus Piercing through the eddying vapour, IMwf loud in expectation, Scenting, may be, feast most welcome, Should the wanderer’s ice-numbed fingers' Losing hold on crags or boulders, Send him headlong down among them. Corresponding members doubtless, Of that “ Red-tarn Club,” so famous Once, as holding nightly revel In the wilds of far Helvellyn, (Till disturbed by “Mister Wudswuth”) O’er the bruised and mangled body Of the luckless Obadiah ! (See Chris. North his “ Recreations.”) �6 'fc 'fc 5|c How, his purpose now accomplished,* O’er the mountain crest returning, Feet and fingers numbed and senseless Struggling with the furious easter And its six degrees of freezing, Underneath his chin he carried (Load unwonted for the season, On this thirteenth day of fifth month) Frozen mist, an icy burden Hanging to his draggled whiskers, Till each patriarchal “ Billy ” In the depths of lone Cwm Bochlwyd, In that rugged grey-goat valley, Might have owned him as a brother ; But, alas, the goats have vanished ! Passed again the “ Tempest’s Castle,” Where on high, in snowy mantle, Fringed and edged with frosted lace work Stood the “ Sentinel ” gigantic, Lonely ward and vigil keeping Through the heats and frosts of ages By the rugged block-strewn glacis O’er the lofty Col du Gribin. Floundered down the narrow couloir, Waging cool war with the snow drift By the eastern flank of Gribin, Whose arête of stony columns, Though by Ordnance-map constructors Hardly indicated, rises Rough with crest of spiny fretwork (If the fog would let one see it ! ) Gained the scree, so loose and shelving, Down the rugged steep descending. Reached Llyn Boehlwyd’s sparkling fountain, Dripping well of clearest water Where the crystal streamlets trickle From the high-ranged porph’ry columns, From the cliff so grim and barren Northwest face of Lesser Glyder Down the screen of richest verdure ; Golden rod and scented rose root, Mountain rue, and kidney sorrel, * Fixing a minimum thermometer among the rocks. �7 Ladies’ mantle, starry cresses, &®Men saxifrage, and mosses, Glancing bright in silvery ripples. Welcome sight when heats of summer Parch with thirst the mountain climber ; Beauteous now witli fairest frost-work AM enframed in purest snow-wreath ; Forty-two degrees its waters Now, as in the heats of August. Lost at length the whitened snow-field, Left behind the realm of Winter, Lost awhile the piercing east wind In the lee of rugged Tryfan ; Left above, the drifting vapour ;— Saw the snow-crowned Carnedd Dafydd Clear awhile from gloom and tempest; Saw Llyn Ogwen’s rippling waters Fifteen hundred feet beneath him ; Saw the lengthening vale of Francon Bask awhile in pleasant sunshine ; Hastened down to ice-ground Bocblwyd (See Professor Ramsay’s “ Glaciers : ”— No connexion here writh Murray; Safe in print the writer had it In the “ Brum. Gazette ” of August— Of the twenty-fifth of eighth month— Eighteen hundred four and sixtyJ Reached Llyn Bochlwyd’s sheet of silver ; Stood beside its lonely margin Sometimes reached by roving angler, Scarcely known to guide-book maker, Scene but rarely seen by artist; Stood awhile, the view surveying. Wild and gloomy frowned the valley,' Dark beneath its roof of vapour Stretched across from peaks to ridges, From sharp Tryfan’s headless shoulders To decapitated G ribin ; While the crags of Lesser Glyder, Seamed with lines of white, descending Glacier-like from cloud-hid snow fields, Closed the darksome rugged picture. Glorious are these lofty mountains �8 Scarred with precipice and cavern In the full revealing sunshine Of the pleasant days of summer ; (All untrod by highway tourist Only bent to “do” the country) Yet most glorious, when the sunset Breaking through departing tempest Floods with sudden, radiant splendour ( Golden lights and ebon shadows ) “ Castle ” pinnacle and “ turret ” On the lofty crested ridges ; While the lazy snake-like cloud-wreaths, Rank by rank in long procession, Stained throughout with evening’s purple Crawl athwart their lofty shoulders, O’er the dim retiring valleys Grey with cliff-entangled mist beds. “ Scene of sternest desolation ; ” Yet, amid its barren grandeur, Gems of loveliest tint or verd ure “ Waste on desert air their sweetness.”-—(Reader, please forgive this rendering Of a somewhat well-worn passage.) Oft they smile in welcome beauty On the mountain rambler’s footsteps :— Parsley fern in ell-broad masses, Dots the screes with tufted clusters ; Mountain thrift, the sea-green rose-root, Gnarly rooted, golden blossomed, Star, and mossy saxifrages, Bladder fern in brittle lace-work, Alchemilla, mountain shield fern, Oak and beech ferns, stemless catchfly, Golden rod, the pale green-spleenwort, Fringe with green the rocks and ledges, Line the mossy caves and crannies ; While the bristling, bright fir club moss, Sturdy little mountain climber, Though it not disdains the valleys, Dots with life the loftiest ridges ; Or its grey-green Alpine cousin Struggles through the close cropp’d herbage ; Or vivip’rous Alpine grasses Wave in air their tufted offspring �9 Held aloft on wiry foot-stalk ; Or, in damp and sheltered corners, Golden saxifrage encases Rocks and stones with richest carpet:— “ Common ” plant, but yet how lovely Glimmering blue-green in the darkness Deep within some dripping cavern, Roofed with darker olive fringes Of the filmy fern of Wilson ; Chiefly found in wild luxuriance, In the darksome damp recesses Of the huge and loose-heaped fragments, Relics of moraines, dissected By the hidden, tinkling streamlets ; Or in more illumined aspect, Spangled with the snowy blossoms, Gold besprinkled, emerald tufted, Of saxífraga stellaris. (Ending now this long digression,) On again the rambler started,— Scrambled down to well known Idwal, (See Smith’s, Brown’s, or Jones’s guide-books;) Many a hundred feet descending To Llyn Idwal’s southern angle ; Thence by the moraine so rugged Up the centre of the valley Tow’rds the distant “ Devil’s Kitchen,” Gaping high in air before him ; Onward, upward, climbing, scrambling, Round or o’er the ice borne fragments. * * * * Hark, what sudden, sharp crack-crackling, Like the sound of rifle volley Or the snap of closest thunder, Swelling now to noise “uproarious,” Echoes round the rock-walled valley ? Is His Sable Highness cooking In the gloomy cleft up yonder ? Has his kitchen Inter busted ? Whence can come such startling clamour ? See, from out yon crown of vapour Resting on the lofty mountain, �10 Lines of dust, with seeming slowness, ( Strange effect of height and distance,) Creeping down that steep escarpment, Glyder-fawr’s north-western angle ; Gleaming now with sudden radiance In the level sheet of sunshine Streaming ’neath the drifting cloud roof, From Elidyr’s lofty shoulder O’er the twilight darkening valley ; See, from out the lowering columns Right and left, the glancing fragments Leaping, crashing o’ei’ the ledges, Hurling down the loosened boulders, Now with headlong speed descending, Score the cliff with lines of ruin : Nearer, sharper, grows the tumult, Louder, grander, roar the echoes, Till the rushing, stony torrent Clattering down by screes and gullies, Spent and worn, has found its level All its noisy life departed. On again the rambler struggled, Reached at last Twll-du’s dark fissure, Tempting spot to plant collector-; (See the trusty “ Guides ” aforesaid.) Yet one little floral beauty Well deserves a passing notice ;— Purple saxifrage ; its blossoms, Soon as winter’s snows have left it Rosy-tinting rocks aud boulders On the old volcanic ash beds; Loveliest little Alpine creeper, With its slender thyme-like branches Threading all the rocks with crimson. Looked into the “ Devil’s Kitchen,” Too much water, now, to enter, Though the writer oft has clambered Up the fallen blocks and ledges Ad sanctissimum sanctorum, Underneath the fallen boulder ; Whence, on looking back, the landscape, Lake and mountain, bright in sunshine, Seen along the darksome crevice, �11 Framed between its gloomy portals, Startles with its golden radiance ; Like the light of moon or planets Yellow in the midnight darkness. —Climbed to Llyn-y-cwn’s morasses, —Saw the dim grey sea horizon Faintly gleaming o’er Carnarvon,— O’er the tower of Penrhyn Castle Down Nant Francon’s long perspective ; Saw in faintest ghostly outline Moel Eilio’s grassy summit O’er the lakes of deep Llanberis ; All things else in mist were shrouded. Scrambled on by screes and ledges, Near a thousand feet ascending Up the slope of Esgair-felen To the brow of the Great Glyder. Reached again the drifting cloud roof, Reached once more the reign of Winter, Faced again the piercing easter With its six degrees of freezing ; Crunched again the frozen snow sheets, Half a foot in depth, new-fallen ; Hastened on again by compass Through the all-encircling mist wreaths, (Centre of a faint horizon Scarce a hundred yards in compass), Through the gathering shades of evening, O’er the lofty rock strewn platform ; O’er a mile of stony desert, Sharp edged shingle, “ snow-denuded.” Now, a howling wintry desert, Tempest-ridden, fog enfolded ; Yet, in brighter, clearer weather, Scarce you’ll find a nobler station Whence to view the lofty Snowdon : Whence to see the mountain monarch, Whence to watch the changing colours On his peaks and winding ridges In some clear north western sunset Of the longer days of summer; Whoa Crib-goch in fiery radiance Glows along each stony saw crest, �12 Down each scree, with streams of orange; While Cwm-glas in deepening shadow Veiled -with haze of grey and purple Dimly shews its tiny lakelets Dark with rock-reflecting shadows O’er the gorge of deep Llanberis : And Y Wyddfa, “ the conspicuous,” Towering high, in gilded outline, O’er Crib-ddysgyll’s darkening ridges, Crowns the scene of mountain glory. Lost in distance man’s “improvements,” All unseen, those huts unsightly, Yet most welcome to the climber, Faint or thirsty with his scramble Up some rugged mountain buttress :— Up Cwm-dyli’s “ rush of waters,’* By the knife-edged crest of Lliwedd, Up the cliff from Bwlch-y-saethau :— Up the screes, from Cwm-y-clogwyn, Up from Cwm-y-llan’s recesses, To the “ Saddleback’s ” dread (!) shoulder, Scene of regulation terrors !— O’er Crib-goch’s spiky ridges, O’er its wearying screes unstable, Each loose stone a “ friction-roller” Set with knives of flinty sharpness, Roughest peak in all Snowdonia ; From Cwm-glas’ deep recesses By the spiny crest of Ddysgyl. (Routes most dangerous ! most improper ! ! For the guideless mountain rambler.) Why deform a spot so glorious As the crested cone of Snowdon With excrescences so hideous ? Wooden shanties, roofs of patchwork, Rusty funnels, empty bottles ; Why not build in style substantial Honest stonework, plain yet sightly, In some neighbouring sheltered hollow ? Leaving free the narrow summit For the crowds who come to study (When the drifting mists allow them) Scenes of oft recorded beauty. �13 While (to Glyder fawr returning) Snowdon’s lengthening three-forked shadow Leaps Llyn Gwynant’s silvery mirror, Stalks across the wood crowned valley, Climbs the slopes of Cerig Cochion. And the Glyders’ gloomy profiles Slowly creep up sunlit Siabod. Stain his golden-glowing shoulders With their deep embrasured outline. While the Lesser Glyder’s ridges Cut the sky with crested ruins. Wondrous mountain architecture Shining bright in level sunlight. Or, perchance, in broken -weather, -Scenes below, in fitful fragments, Lake and streamlet, rock and woodland, Here and there by turns emerging Lom the snowy, rolling vapour Shine revealed in sudden clearness : While the sea-horizon, gleaming Far and wide in radiant silver Floods the distant scene with beauty, Mottled o’er with flying shadows, Saowy cloudlets, floating islands, Gliding o’er its shining level. While, around, the parting mist-wreaths, Lingering yet, in playful wanderings Race along the rocky desert, Round its pinnacles and turrets. Or some sudden pelting shower Sweeping o’er the lofty ridges Gilds the scene with new-born lustre Flashing in the fitful sunshine ;— Floats away o’er sharp-coned Tryfan— Wreaths his head with sudden glories, Radiant circles, full orbed rainbows, Ro mere lowland “ arch triumphant,” Each concentric ring, completed In the yawning depths of Bochlwyd, Standing forth in fairest colours From the dark, retreating nimbus. While old Snowdon’s western shoulder Ploughing up the sea borne currents �14 Into higher, colder regions Forms a train of sweeping cloudlets Visibly increasing, growing Out of evening’s purest ether ; Till the long cascade of vapour Streaming o’er his pointed summit, Gliding down Cwm-dyli’s hollow, Floats across the vale of Gwynant ; Vainly struggles, hither, thither, Stands in heaps o’er Pen-y-gwryd, Tangled in the threefold eddy Streaming up, from deep Nant Peris, Round from Gwynant’s curving valley, O’er the slopes of Gallt-y-wenallt. Sight of snowy sunlit beauty To the rambler far above it ;— Source of discontented grumbling To the helpless “walking tourist” Buried ’neath its surging billows, Coffee room imprisoned, fearful Of the mountain mist or tempest ; Weatlier-bound, the silly fellow, Ignorant of scenes so glorious On the lofty crests above him. Thus in plaintive doleful numbers Pouring forth his lamentation. �15 LAY OF THE IMPRISONED TOURIST, AS HE LAY “ USED UP” ON THE SOFA, Stranger, who by love for mountains E’er shouldst chance to be allured To this den of dreary horrors, Soon your weakness will be cured: All the skies in cloud extinguished, All the earth by mist obscured, Imps cerulean, dismal vapours, Reign supreme at Pen-y-gwryd ! Here the heavens are ever pouring Drenching streams from fog-bank lurid : Tears of sympathy incessant Angels high in ether pure hid Weep for us, poor luckless captives, In this wretched place immured. Traveller, that’s the reason why it Always rains at Pen-y-gwryd ! Walker! Mr. Walking-tourist, Fudge and nonsense, cease your growling ; Off with those eternal slippers ; Out, and scramble up the mountains ; Burn that fossil, last week’s paper, Last resource of mind most wretched, Come, and soon will soul and body Rise superior to the vapours. Come, and see what glorious pictures Nature shews, in ceaseless beauty, To the thoughtful, loving student Of her ever-changing features,— Not forgetting Nature’s Author, ’Mid such tokens of His power, (With all reverence be it spoken), In whose hands are earth’s deep places,— Whose, the strength of hills and mountains,—- �16 Whose the sea is, for He made it,— Who the outspread land created :— Whose, are Earth and all her fulness, Hail and lightning, snow and vapour, Wind and storm, His word fulfilling,— Ministers that do His pleasure. * * * * 4: Yet what strange ironic contrast To all sunny recollections Was the scene, this wintry evening, On the crest of lofty Glyder ! Howling tempest, whirling vapour, Piercing frost, and crunching snow-wreath. Reached at length his eastern shoulder, Hastened down once more from cloudland ; Saw the face of Llyn-cwm-ffynnon Shine like silver far beneath him— Welcome landmark through the twilight. Passed the darkened cliff of greenstone, Reached the doubly ice-grooved platform, Witness strange, of two-fold glaciers; Hastened down by roches moutonnees, ’Mid blocs perches by the hundred ; Passed the spring-fed Llyn-cwm-ffynnon, Where of late the char have flourished; Hurried on, well nigh belated, Scrambled down, in almost darkness, Gained the road at lone Gorphwysfa, Pen-y-pass, of late its title ; Pen-y-“ pass ! ” a mongrel nickname Cymru should be all ashamed of. Nothing loth, reached Pen-y-gwryd, Ever welcome Pen-y-gwryd! Thus did end an eight hours’ ramble All alone, across the mountains ; (No one else wrould face the weather)— High-away-there ! o’er the Glyders. WHITE AND PIKE, PRINTERS, BIRMINGHAM. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A wintry walk among the mountains Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Biden, H.E. [1832-1907] Description An account of the resource Place of publication: London Collation: 16 p. ; 21 cm. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. "With sincerest apologies to the shade of Hiawatha" [Title page]. "The following lines contain an accurate account of what befell the writer during a ramble on May 18th,1867, over the summit of Glyder-fach and down by Lyn Bochlwyd to LlynIdwal ..." [Author's note]. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available F.B. Kitto Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1867 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5312 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Nature Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (A wintry walk among the mountains), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Poetry in English Sacerdotalism https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/1da3e757fffde88d011b2a33c470e7c6.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=R6%7EMXa81naHnY8nbwkAOzeTC3oq2JO054wEYSzjKouxSanMv4s%7E3xK%7EX9RQZNgVsCuwfJOGwbxq4y196-LR8nm-E9OZNOpBsYJg-uwCgmUCbfCms3OpGhoAyUhPApeFnlRVE1J5b6fml7GcShaNh-Ui9VGpQR9o2rOeJpKgNLkZue-VxyC8EOYpyOiWlz%7EC%7E1zHhpc9VMkiNXFow18PVXX9sMDUKiE5xh2QLzhIh6GoAm%7ESkn7bXITaiM7qDqAgZXVNZ%7EVbxPCtRLzpHpc2GWp65B--yo4mzGB9PKqnK%7Ehp%7E2ogule-y3VA-RGRCXYxzvG-sYugM6OTftcdsn0JH9Q__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 6a050d37757e59481c9eb939537c03da PDF Text Text FATED OTHERWISE, A POEM, BY BLANCHE AUTHORESS “IN MORTIMER, OF THE POEM OTHER LANDS,” &c, &c. FERMOY : PRINTED BY JOHN LINDSEY, KING STREET, 1871. �* - �Fated Otherwise. It is customary, now, to acknowledge the source from whence our Plays and Poesies are inspired, hence, become identified in Madame de Valerie at her meeting with Ernest Maltravers. Lord Lytton’s Romance. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Visions sweetly fair shone before me in array; A beauteous form in white, So maidenly and slight, With rosy cheeks so bright, Like a fay, Like a fay, As I lay a-dreaming, she skipped o’er heath and spray. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Gazing in a boudoir soft sounds swept by my ear: “Bright-eyed Canary, tell to me “Whether One could ever see, “ How One’s lot in life would be, “ It isn’t clear “It isn’t clear.” As I lay a-dreaming, her bird she asked in fear. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Shaking all his plumes he merrily chirped away: “ Now can I look so sage, “ When confined within my cage “ I do not know the Age, “Life’s not play, “ Life’s not play:” As I lay a-drcaming, he chirped “ we turn to clay.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, A Parrot from her perch screamed “ Closely watch the Page, “ Scratch poll, I’m Pol, Polly knows, “Mark the vane when it blows, “Darling is her Papa’s rose, “ Love’s the rage, “Love’s the rage.” As I lay a-dreaming, screeched “ Remain sixteen in age.” �4 FATED OTHERWISE. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Charming was the ball room presented to my view, Those bosoms heaving there, With diamonds as a snare, Like serpents in their lair, Folly too, Folly too, As I lay a-dreaming, thought Satan must have you. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Hidden in an alcove two lovers fondly coo’d; “ Darling, lavest thou me, “ My wife, Sweet, wilt thou be ?“ Say yes, for I love thee,” Oh, love’s mood, Oh, love’s mood. As I lay a-xlreaming, ’twas thus he won and woo’d.. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, His hand she gently pressed and blushing answered soon, “ There’s one more query yet, “ Papa must free his pet, “He would not see her fret.” ‘ A honeymoon ! ‘ A honeymoon ! ’ As I lay a-dreaming, she mused ‘ ’tviixt lip, and spoon.’ As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, “ Quite early yet to marry,” said the Earl in hauteur;; “ No, no, my noble boy, “ Thou must not make a toy “Of her’ nay fondest joy.” ‘ Lose my daughter ! ‘ Lose my daughter As 1 lay a-dreaming, thought could he not thwart her, As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Thus spake her Sire again, a vivid whim to strike, “ Go, England’s Flag to wave, “ To dwell amidst the brave “ A great name boy to pave, “ Cutlass and pike ! “ Cutlass and pike 1” As I lay a-dreaming, mused he, this ruse I like. �FATED OTHERWISE. 5. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Sadly sobbed the Earl with his face between his hancfe:• “ Acquired in every art, “ So fashioned to my heart, “I could not with her part, “Brief are life’s sands, “ Brief are life’s sands.” As I lay a-dreaming, willed, “ she bends to my commands.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, So. fondly a letter she has clasped to her breast; “Lina, Pet, I am well, “ Hugh writes from sea to tell “Love to his own Blue belle. “ Eears at rest, “ Fears at rest. As I lay a-dreaming, cried, P.S. ? No ! Which I detest. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Lina and her Aunt were embarked in fierce contest: “ His talents are so great, “ Likewise that huge estate, “ While there’s a marquisate, “ Which is no jest, “ Which is no jest. As I lay a-dreaming, ended, “ wealth'grasped is best.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Our heroine replies, in simple earnest tone : “ Golden fetters, ehains they are, “Happiness at best is far, “Spring and Winter more than jar, “ My love is flown, “ My love is flown.” As I lay a-dreaming.. breathed, no throne would I own. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, “ Heart-rending loss,” read the Earl from his Court Review “ A cyclone it is said, “ Caught “ Canute,” and o’erspread “ All lives in their last bed.’’ “ Poor dear Hugh, “ Poor dear Hugh.” As I lay a-dreaming, She sobbed and breathed A Djev. �6 FATED OTHERWISE. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, I wondered how quickly faces from memory fade, When from dying friends we’re torn, Nature yields our grief a bourn, Then virgins sigh, widows mourn. Born, soon decayed, Born, soon decayed. As [ lay a-dreaming, mused, How should I be laid As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, At the Altar stood a Marquis with his young bride : Her eyes glistened with tears, Her heart panted with fears, Those cheers jarred on her ears, “For life tied, “ For life tied.” As I lay a-dreaming sighed, “ wreath thou dost deride.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, From the Church-porch issued the joyous wedding throng, Silver coins pleased the crowd, Children strewed flowers and bowed, Harridans grinned aloud: “ May you live long! “ May you live long!” As I lay a-dreaming, the bells pealed out So-Wrong. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Lina strolled around the scenes of her childish glee : “ ’Twas here he stood that day, “Here kissed that frown away... “ That coming form! Oh stay ! “ Alive and free, “ Alive and free,’’ As I lay a-dreaming, shrieked, “ yes! to torture me.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Hugh bounding o’ei' a rivulet has reached her seat. ‘ His kiss gives my eyes a gleam, ‘ Do I wake as from a dream, ‘Madness, but ecstacy supreme,’ “Art sad to meet? “ Art sad to meet ?” As I lay a-dreaming, Hugh cried, “ Speak, I entreat.!” �FATED OTIIjE RAVI SE. As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Hugh rattled gaily on as there she sat tongue-tied: “Nine jumped in an open boat, “Providence kept us afloat, “ Till ta’en to a Port remote. “ What! a Bride ! “Thou! a Bride.” As I lay a-dreaming, moaned, “ Thou my life, my guide.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, Starting to her feet she wildly cried “leave me not, “ I will fly, if you dare; “ Spurn me not, if you share “ One wish for my wellfare, “ Pity my lot, “ Pity my lot.” As I lay a-dreaming, urged, “ help me tear that knot.” As I lay a-dreaming, a-dreaming, a-dreaming, He said, “ Darling, Civilization leads astray, “ Yet scorn her she wields hate, “Women map the maiden’s fate “ As Fiends hate, of love in hate, “ Hard to obey, “ Hard to obey.” As I lay a-dreaming, cried, “ Fortune does betray.” As I shook in dreaming, in dreaming, in dreaming— Sweetest Lutestring, another word then I am gone, “Try thy sad lot to bear, dear, “ Sorrows are not given here, “ Without some cause rests quite clear, “ But each May morn, “ But each May morn. “If I fall in dream-land I’ll muse for my lovelorn.’’ BLANCHE MOBTIMEB. 7 �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Fated otherwise, a poem Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Mortimer, Blanche Description An account of the resource Place of publication: Fermoy Collation: 7 p. ; 21 cm. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Printed by John Lindsey Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1871 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5313 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Fated otherwise, a poem), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Poetry in English https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/970bc18e6dc739a187930f1537fb6a72.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=COfUSTAMhdoPBaIk%7EDWYdPAyQsah0P-BazIlE9FgyFC-icD8cuSCSI7Oh%7Efz3lTS7iAp-iBYK-RRR5oxLKhnW3vowbtBj3itkphaYngncGUT3BlbuGMySsPxEaZhHfMvyXk0BEYfV9BDxZejxn5Gh9hUv7R8qXb0FYDBVjsOoLxQHRK0tXmtv2YG-QQYifR2%7EL0k7IWDowctd-S0pRpp0KaAuxKG45Riir-aJfuE3VSCTiYUDHpIr-3Z1-pJ93RQSh%7Eg%7EQdxD7eOuLEju3ffx3tgEn7Dgi306o-8mk0gKZwdqxlLpPmySKoKSm54b8BKcHET6ex21HNP%7EizH0%7EzrNg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 724808c137b725610f48fa5ca6edb3aa PDF Text Text 850 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. worships his kind are bounded, as we have said, by the limita­ tions which he knows are incident to humanity; idealize as he may, he can never free himself of the belief that no perfect man or woman has ever trod this planet. How, then, is it possible that any one but the ignorant and unreflective can ever feel the glow of genuine devotion when he bows himself to a being whose nature he knows to have been but a fragmentary representative of the ideal of man, or when he worships his best conception of this ideal itself knowing it to be an idol of his own creation ? These fatal weaknesses of Positivism have no application to the Theist: the fervour of his adoration is deadened by no secret conscious­ ness that the object of his worship is marred with imperfection; for however great and glorious may be the attributes he ascribes to it, he feels assured that they are infinitely surpassed by the Reality itself. Art. II.—Recollections of Shelley and Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron. Trelawny. London: Edward Moxon. 1858. Byron. By E. J. R. TRELAWNY has done well in giving this manly and carelessly written little volume to the world: it will at least revive the personal memory of two Englishmen who, though long dead, can never be altogether of the past. Without telling much of either with which we were not previously acquainted, the infor­ mation communicated is the result of intimate personal know­ ledge, and, gathered during the intervals of a familiar acquaint­ ance, comes out with such freshness and vigour, that it possesses nearly all the merit of novelty; and the striking features of cha­ racter are brought forward in much stronger relief, than in the tame and wearisome biography of whioh one at least was the victim. It is the least enviable appanage of genius that it perpe­ tuates by its own lustre those faults and weaknesses which repose in the graves of meaner men; the biographer, even though a friend, cannot ignore these; and while he avoids giving them undue prominence, cannot forget that truth has its claims, as well as genius. We recognise Shelley in these sketches as he appeared in his works—the gentle, guileless, noble soul who persisted in putting himself wrong with the world, and who rashly and fearlessly launched his indignant sarcasm at the cant and bigotry and sei- M �Shelley's Personal Appearance. 351 fishness of society, without indicating any rational plan for its regeneration. Had he possessed a friend sufficiently influential and judicious to have delayed the publication of “ Queen Mab” for ten years, Shelley’s lot might have been far different. How could he reasonably expect forbearance from a society whose creed, by a portion of it sincerely venerated, he so recklessly out­ raged ? The wisest man feels himself to be an infant if he at­ tempts to understand the doctrine of Original Sin ; and yet it was this problem that the youthful and inexperienced Shelley dared to grapple in his poem, in a spirit of unparalleled rashness and pre­ sumption. Mr. Trelawny was for some time, as is well known, the compa­ nion of Byron and Shelley during their voluntary exile in Italy. Too manly and too honest to believe in the justice of the tremendous calumnies which drove Shelley from England, and deprived him of his children, he was yet, like all who ever came to personal knowledge of Shelley, astonished to find what manner of man was this of whom all who did not know him spoke so ill. We see him as Mr. Trelawny saw him, more than thirty years since, in the following scene:— “ Swiftly gliding in, blushing like a girl, a tall thin stripling held out both his hands; and although I could hardly believe, as I looked at his flushed, feminine, and artless face, that it could be the poet, I re­ turned his warm pressure. After the ordinary greetings and cour­ tesies, he sat down and listened. I was silent from astonishment; was it possible this mild-looking, beardless boy could be the veritable mon­ ster at war with all the world ?—excommunicated by the fathers of the Church, deprived of his civil rights by a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school ? I could not believe it; it must be a hoax. He was habited like a boy, in black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to have outgrown, or his tailor, as is the custom, had shamefully stinted him in his 1 sizings.’ ” His wife’s personal appearance, nee Godwin, the authoress of “Frankenstein,”is sketched on the same occasion:— “ The most striking feature in her face was her calm, grey eyes. She was rather under the English standard of woman’s height, very fair and fight-haired, witty, social and animated in the society of friends, though mournful in solitude; like Shelley, though in a minor degree, she had the power of expressing her thoughts in varied and appropriate words, derived from familiarity with the works of our vigorous old writers. Neither of them used obsolete or foreign words.” The artless and natural character of Shelley endeared him to the few who had the privilege of personal knowledge; and, as appears from these sketches, contrasted very favourably with �852 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. the artificial manner and undisguised egotism of Byron—but, in truth, the latter was only himself when in the stillness of night he was engaged in composition, and absorbed into forgetfulness of his physical deficiences and his chronic starvation. Mr. Trelawny gives a more minute and circumstantial detail than has previously appeared, of the miserable circumstances at­ tending the deaths of Shelley and his companion Mr. Williams. The letter which the latter had despatched to his wife on the pre­ vious day, informing her and Mrs. Shelley of their proposed return to the home in the Gulf of Spezzia, where both ladies were anxiously expecting their husbands, who had been unexpectedly detained in Leghorn, is surely, breathing as it does the warmest affection, destined to be so sadly quenched, the most touching document ever preserved from oblivion. The condition of the two bodies, when thrown ashore after many days, was such as to make incremation the most eligible means of disposing of the remains ; and this proceeding was conducted in both cases—for they were not burned together—with great care by Mr. Trelawny, in an iron furnace constructed on purpose. Lord Byron may have given way to some apparent levity on the occasion; but it was but to conceal an emotion he deeply felt, but which he lacked the moral courage to evince publicly. Shelley’s toy skiff, the Don Juan, in which they embarked with inauspicious omens on that melancholy even­ ing, does not appear to have been capsized during the gale, not­ withstanding the ominous remark of the Genoese mate of the Bolivar about the superfluous gaff-topsail; but from her damaged condition, when afterwards weighed by the exertions of Captain Roberts, was probably run down by some Italian speronare scudding before the gale. Shelley stands far higher in the opinions of his country­ men now than when his gentle spirit and ardent love of truth were quenched for ever in the waves of the Mediterranean. It is not necessary to vindicate his character from calumnies which are long forgotten; but if there are any who, not knowing, yet care to know, how gentle, how generous, how accomplished, and how unselfish he was, it is written in this late testimony of one who knew him well, and knowing him well in life, had the hard task assigned him of communicating his premature death to the de­ spairing widow. Shelley formed a correct and candid estimate of his own writ­ ings when he said, “ They are little else than visions which im­ personate my own apprehensions of the beautiful and just—they are dreams of what ought to be, or may be.” He read too much, was altogether too much imbued with the ideas of others. His were the azure and vermilion clouds that float in insubstantial beauty through the atmosphere of an Alpine sunrise, rather than �Byrons Movements after Shelley’s Death. 353 the enduring creation of grandeur, strength, and beauty which we recognise in a great poem. After Shelley’s death, Byron moved from Pisa to Albaro, near Genoa, where he occupied the Casa Saluzzi; but the loss of one whom he must have looked on as a friend, and respected for the nobleness of his nature, together with the failure of the Liberal, which could hardly succeed undei* the auspices of two such editors as Hunt and himself, made him dissatisfied with an inac­ tive existence, and he looked round for some field, not of enter­ prise, but excitement. He was quite unfit constitutionally to en­ counter real fatigue or privation; he had courage, no doubt; contempt of life, and tameless pride, but neither possessed the physical or mental robustness to see in well-planned, and longsustained action a career of distinction or usefulness. After much wavering, he determined to revisit Greece, and bought a vessel to convey himself and his lares to the land which was to witness his own dissolution, and thus to derive from him another of its many claims to classic interest. The choice of his vessel seems to have been decided more by motives of economy than from any regard to its nautical capabilities, and when its defects were indi­ cated by a more critical judgment than his own, he was consoled by the reflection that he had got it a bargain. It was on the 13th of July, 1823, that lie sailed in the Hercules from Genoa with Mr. Trelawny, Count Gamba, and an Italian crew ; slowly they stood eastward up the Mediterranean, and so wretched were the sailing qualities of the vessel, that even with a fair wind the average progress was but twenty miles a day. They put into Leghorn, which they quitted for Cephalonia, on the 23rd of July. “ On coming near Lonza, a small islet converted into one of its many prisons by the Neapolitan government, I said to Byron, ‘ There is a sight that would curdle the blood of a poet laureate.’ ‘ If Southey were here,’ he answered, ‘ he would sing hosannahs to the Bourbons. Here kings and governors are only the jailors and hangmen of the detestable Austrian barbarians. What dolts and drivellers the people are to submit to such universal despotism. I should like to see from this our ark, the world, submerged, and all the rascals drowning on it like rats.’ I put a pencil and paper into his hand, saying, ‘ Perpe­ tuate your curses on tyranny,’ &c. He readily took the paper and set to work. I walked the deck, and prevented his being disturbed. . . . After a long spell he said, ‘ You think it is as easy to write poetry as to smoke a cigar—look, it’s only doggrel. Extemporising verse is non­ sense ; Poetry is a distinct faculty—it wont come when called. You may as well whistle for a wind; a Pythoness was primed when put into the tripod. I must chew the cud before I write. I have thought over most of my subjects for years before writing a line.’ . . . ‘ Give me time—I can’t forget the theme ; but for this Greek business [Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXVI.]—New Sekies, Vol. XIII. No. II. A A �354 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. I should have been at Naples writing a fifth canto of ‘ Childe Harold,’ expressly to give vent to my detestation of the Austrian tyranny in Italy.’ ” But his own earlier lines might well have recurred both to the poet and to his biographer, for surely none could be more appli­ cable to the scene before their eyes then, as before ours now, when we look on Naples :— “ It is as though the fiends prevailed Against the seraphs they assailed, And fixed on heavenly thrones should dwell The freed inheritors of hell— So fair the scene, so formed for joy, So cursed the tyrants that destroy.” “ The poet had an antipathy to everything scientific; maps and charts offended him............ Buildings the most ancient or modern he was as indifferent to as he was to painting, sculpture, or music. But dll natural objects, or changes in the elements, he was generally the first to point out, and the last to lose sight of.” p. 187. [The italics are our own.] Mr. Trelawny echoes an old remark of Baron Macaulay’s (Warren Hastings), which every one’s experience will confirm, as to the effect of a sea voyage in testing temper and character, and says—“ I never was on shipboard with a better companion than Byron : he was generally cheerful, gave no trouble, assumed no authority, uttered no complaints, and did not interfere with the working of the ship; when appealed to, he always answered, ‘Do as you like.’” There was much enjoyment of life on board this dull sailer, the Hercules; and the voyage, if protracted, was under clear, warm skies, and in smooth water. One scene nar­ rated has a grimly comic element: apropos to some remark, Byron exclaimed, “ Women, you should say; if we had a woman­ kind on board, she would set us all at loggerheads, and make a mutiny; would she not, captain?” “I wish my old woman were here,” replied the skipper; “ she would make you as comfortable in my cabin at sea as your own wife would in her parlour on shore.” Byron started, and looked savage. The skipper went on unconscious, &c. &c. Byron had written an autobiography, it seems, conceived in manly, straightforward fashion,—in a vigorous, fearless style, and was apparently truthful as regarded himself. It was subse­ quently entrusted to Mr. Moore, as literary executor, and by him suppressed, following the advice of others, it would seem. “ I told Murray Lady Byron was to read the manuscript if she wished it, and requested she would add, omit, or make any com­ ments she pleased, now, or when it was going through the press.” (p. 197.) They reached Zante and Cephaloniaat last; and after �. Byron’s second Visit to Greece. 355 an absence of eleven years, Lord Byron again saw the Morea, which he loved so well— “ The sun, the sky, but not the slave the same.” The reckless greediness of the Suliote refugees at Cephalonia disgusted him; and the intelligence he received about the pros­ pects of liberty in Greece, or the probability of assistance from the Western Powers, so long withheld, being far from encourag­ ing, he determined to remain some time at Cephalonia, but pre­ ferred living on board to accepting the warmly-proffered hospi­ tality of Colonel Charles Napier, or of the other residents in the island. •“ One day, after a bathe, he held out his right leg to me, saying— ‘ I hope this accursed limb will be knocked off in the war.’ ‘ It wont improve your swimming,’ I answered; ‘ I will exchange legs, if you will give me a portion of your brains.’ £ You would repent your bar­ gain,’ he said, &e. &c.” (p. 20.) The Greeks, it appears, very rationally desired a strong cen­ tralized authority to suppress the hordes of robbers—much more numerous than usual, since the outbreak of the war with Turkey ■—and talked, at least a portion of them did, of offering the crown to Byron; he might have bought it, perhaps, afterwards at Salona, and the Greeks would have had a king for three months, if he had not abdicated before, worthy of their classical renown certainly, but not quite the man to disentangle, or divide the political and social complications in which they were en­ tangled. The beauty of Ithaca, visited at this time, seems to have justified the persevering partiality of Ulysses for his island kingdom; but there is an inexcusable piece of rudeness to the abbot of a Greek convent on that island, recorded against Byron. The poor man had received him with all the honour in his power or knowledge, but proceeded, unluckily, to inflict an harangue of such length and solemnity, that Lord Byron, who had missed the indispensable siesta, broke into ungovernable wrath, and abused his entertainer with much more emphasis than euphony, from which his character, and wish to please, should certainly have protected the abbot. No wonder that the astounded abbot could find no better excuse for the conduct of the English peer and poet than madness—“ Ecolo e matto poveretto.” Mr. Trelawny left Lord Byron at Cephalonia, for he was long in moving when once settled, and never saw him again in life. Anxious to know something of the state of matters in the Morea, the former passed over, accompanied by Mr. Hamilton Browne. They found only confusion, intrigue, and embezzlement; and after transacting a little business, his companion, Mr. Browne, went to London, accompanying certain Greek deputies, who were comAA2 �356 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. missioned to raise a loan there, which, wonderful to relate, they succeeded in doing ; though the worthy stockbrokers could hardly have been moved to liberality, or rather credulity, by their classical sympathies; while Mr. Trelawny, quitting the Morea, made for Athens, and joined a celebrated robber chief, who had assumed political functions in the disturbed and anarchic state of the country, and bore the classical name of Odysseus. In January, 1824, Mr. Trelawny heard that Byron had gone to Missolonghi, and then, that he was dead; worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and disgust, his frame, already shattered by repeated attacks of remittent fever, acquired during former residence in the marsh-girt cities of Ravenna and Venice, succumbed in the prime of life to the miasma which in greater or less intensity, according to the season, constitutes the atmosphere of Misso­ longhi. Mr. Trelawny was at Salona, but left for Missolonghi directly, which he entered on the third day from his departure, and found it “ situated on the verge of the most dismal swamp I had ever seen.” “ No one was in the house but Fletcher, who withdrew the black pall and the white shroud, and there lay the embalmed body of the Pilgrim—more beautiful even in death than in life. The contraction of the skin and muscles had effaced every line traced by time or passion; few marble busts could have matched its stainless white, the harmony of its proportions, and its perfect finish. Yet he had been dissatisfied with that body, and longed to cast its slough. How often have I heard him curse it. I asked Fletcher to bring me a glass of water; and on his leaving the room, to confirm or remove my doubts as to the cause of his lameness, I uncovered the Pilgrim’s feet, and was answered—both his feet were clubbed, and the legs withered to the knee: the form and face of an Apollo, with the feet and legs of a .sylvan satyr.” The remaining chapters are exclusively autobiographical, and are not without interest, for Mr. Trelawny’s name has become historical in Gordon’s “ History of the Greek Revolution.” His adventures are not commonplace; and his intimate connexion with the family and fortunes of Odysseus afforded an opportunity of seeing and knowing more of the wilder and worthier elements of Romaic character than has fallen to the lot of any other edu­ cated Englishman. For some time he held watch and ward in the fortified, inaccessible cave on Mount Parnassus, where Odys­ seus had placed his family and property, with a garrison of a few men, and his brother-in-law, Mr. Trelawny, in command. He was at last desperately wounded in a very treacherous manner, by a Scotchman named Fenton, whom he had unduly trusted, but who had been bribed to act as a spy on Odysseus and him­ self, He tells his story, regardless of criticism, in a frank and �Byron’s early Poetry. 357 candid manner; and it must be a captious critic indeed, who can object to the consciousness of that superior physical strength and vigour, which sustained with ease exertions that exhausted the more delicate powers of the two celebrated companions, whose names lend so much interest to his book, and to whose intel­ lectual pre-eminence he renders respectful and affectionate homage. We have so recently recorded our opinions on Shelley’s * writings, that we shall now offer a few remarks on some portion of Lord Byron’s poetry, which, with all its popularity, has not, it appears to us, been always rightly estimated. He unaffectedly repudiated the opinion so generally entertained, that he was the hero of his own compositions—that the monotonous protagonists of his early and brilliantly successful Eastern tales, no less than the blase and reflective “ Childe,” or the fortunate and brilliant “Don Juan,” were drawn from the inspiration of a too partial egotism. We are inclined to believe in the sincerity of his pro­ test, and to attribute to dramatic poverty the uniformity of his characters, and to his own physical imperfection the bodily strength and activity by which his heroes are so generally distin­ guished. In those short pieces which were the fruits of his early travels, and which at once attracted the attention of every reader by the unequalled brilliancy of the language, we perceive the immature judgment and the vehement sensation of his character; the verse flows onward in a torrent of splendour, and a false lustre is given to the passion whose fruit is ashes; beauty of form, and the easy and over-valued achievements of physical courage, are the artless and ordinary attractions of his actors; there is no depth or refinement of character, no difficult invention; the poems are but pictures of ordinary merit, in splendid frames. But a deeper knowledge dawned upon him—a larger experience of his own heart, though little of the actual world from which he shrunk; and if he, as most men have done, regretted the delu­ sions of the master-passion, and wished that the deception had lasted for ever, or had never existed, yet his later strains, in their deeper tone and wider sympathies, evince that better self-know­ ledge, without which no man has successfully mapped even the narrowest province of the human heart; for that knowledge is itself but the evidence and the record of sufferings which the conflicts of reason with passion must ever produce. In the crude though not inharmonious products of his youth, we see how little he had felt his strength, and how he was fettered by the rules which had been the guide of his model and antithesis Pope; nowhere does he dare to be original, and the spirit which * Vide Number for January of this year. �368 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. dictated his first and weakest satire, was but the natural resent­ ment of an Englishman who had no mind to he bullied: the mere mechanical versification gives small promise of the matchless powers which produced “ Don Juan ” and “ Beppo;” and in the matter, there is nothing to warn us of that contemplative and deeply poetical thought which is so apparent in the “Prophecy of Dante,” and in the two later cantos of “ Childe Harold.” Even those unequalled satiric powers which culminated in the “ Irish Avatar,” are but shadowed, not developed, and the commonplace abuse and half-affected contempt of his first satire are calculated to produce a very different effect from the withering ridicule and careless contempt which overwhelmed those who provoked the displeasure of his later years. The German critics, with a severity of taste that does them honour, place the three great poets, whose names at once occur to us—Homer, Shakspeare, and Goethe—so far above all rivalry, as to accord to these alone that supremacy and universality of intellect which we call poetic genius; and this may be just, but the human mind is so constituted in its appreciation of poetry, as sometimes to derive superior pleasure from strains which have emanated from minds of far inferior order. We like best that poetry which addresses most strongly and directly the prevailing sentiments of our own characters; and hence thousands in whom the finest of Homer’s rhapsodies, Shakspeare’s “ Tempest,” or Goethe’s “ Iphigenia,” would awake no other sentiment than cool admiration, would be moved to tears or to enthusiasm by Pindar, Campbell, or Gray. It is no less certain that men of even the keenest intellect merely, are not unfrequently deficient in poetic taste and judgment. We know, for example, that Napoleon pre­ ferred Ossian, and Robert Hall Virgil to Homer; and that Lord Byron himself, utterly wanting in dramatic power, but little appreciated the true strength of Shakspeare. Poetry, indeed, especially of the first order, must be felt in the heart as well as judged by the head, and the greatest merit is least apparent to a superficial glance; long study, contemplation, and comparison are required to comprehend the consummate excellence of a masterpiece, whether it be from the hand of Shakspeare or the pencil of Raphael. But if the very few of the first order of poets completely satisfy all the requirements of the most refined and matured intellect, the poetry of Lord Byron will always appeal strongly to those, and they are not a few, whose passions, at some period of their lives, have proved too strong for the control of reason, and where regret, if not remorse, has followed the fruitless contest—a contest which has left the mind vacant for want of strong excitement, �Characteristics of Byron’s Poetry. 359 and wearied with a scene which offers no sufficient substitute for what has been lost. Flashes of the melancholy wisdom which follows on such experience are frequent in his later works, and their deep, and perhaps not barren truth, may sink with some­ thing of a healing and enlightening influence into hearts whose scars are not yet callous. There is, too, a strong and ardent reverence for the nobleness of intellect, ever felt most strongly by those most highly endowed; that reverence which, rightly considered, is the only true religion, and a scorn, as strongly expressed, for the vulgar or tinsel idols of mob idolatry. His spirit had wrestled with itself in vain; the vehement and unwise desire for something denied to mere mortality was his; the self-condemnation of performance so grievously inadequate to the lofty resolution, which more or less dwells in every heart, rebelling against the sway of low desires, was strong upon him; so that he hated life, and sought at first wildly, but afterwards more calmly, to give that feeling utterance : but the “ voiceless thought” could not so be spoken, and he, the most eloquent, went to his grave without succeeding in the vain effort to unburden his full heart. Not by words, however eloquent, can man satisfy himself, or vindicate liis life to others. Consistent action alone can satisfy the conscience, or justify us to our own hearts; and when action is denied or unsought, we strive for the relief, however inadequate, that words can furnish. Thus Chaucer: “ For when we may not do, then will we speken, And in our ashen colde, is fire yreken.” Had any suitable career of action been open to him, or had he lived in feudal times, he might have surpassed Bertrand de Born in thirst for irregular warlike achievement, and in the strains that celebrated it; the monotony of a modern.military career, and the subordination which can recognise no superiority but professional rank, where the opportunity of achievement is an accident, and routine the rule of life, was utterly unsuited to his character and his physical constitution. No better career offered to him than that miserable one of Missolonghi, and here he gave evidence of a moderation and self-command little to have been expected from a man whose vanity and egotism were not less conspicuous than his genius; this desire for an active career is translated into his eastern stories, and his heroes are rather models of what he wished to be, than what he was. His forte, however, as he knew, was vivid description, varied and illuminated by flashes of earnest thought, and the results of a melancholy, if a short experience. �360 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. In sustained diamatic, or epic power, he was deficient; but this is an imperial endowment, and, in his own language, “ Not Hellas could unrol From her Olympiads two such names.” His “Manfred,” despite Mr. Moore’s crude criticism, is a dramatic failure ; and when he calls this creation of Lord Byron’s “ loftier and worse ” than Milton’s Satan, the critic shows how little of the dramatic or epic element he must have himself possessed. “ Manfred ” is not a great creation—he is but a dreamer, who, finding no pleasure in an earthly pursuit, itself a morbid and unhealthy feeling, strives to o’erpass the limits of mortality, and to coerce the Spirits whom the elements obey. Such a desire, as common as it was vain, before men had emerged from the super­ stitious element of the middle ages, evinces no elevation or great­ ness of character, and if with dauntless courage he defies the spirits whom he had evoked by his spells, and provoked by his contempt of their power, he does so as one who knows they cannot injure him, and who seeks death rather than shuns it. The great blot of the piece, however, is the doubt that encom­ passes the fate of Astarte; the imagination can conceive no adequate cause for the terrible implacability which could reign in the bosom of a beatified spirit, and deny to a despairing brother one word of consolation in his awful abandonment. If she could condemn him, how can he be forgiven ? Such a subject, however attractive to a writer of strong imagi­ nation, and however promising in appearance, proves much more difficult to treat adequately, if, indeed, it can ever be so treated at all, than scenes and characters of a more earthly nature, where strictly human agents appeal to a kindred reason and sympathy. The communion of the supernatural with the natural has been a favourite theme, and a certain stumbling-block, to the greatest poets. Homei' succeeded best, because he invented little, taking the materials within his reach—and his gods and goddesses are but human beings, with a loftier physical and mental stature; it was easy to introduce them implementing the inferior powers of their favourite heroes, but we feel that, in all that should distin­ guish the supernatural Being above the human nature, the greatest of all, the tyrant Zeus, was inferior. Like some vulgar earthly ruler, he uses his power but to gratify passions unworthy of a God------ and the charm of divine beauty and celestial grace which hovers for ever round the name of Aphrodite, is insufficient to overcome the disgust with which we regard her threat to Helena, when the latter indignantly refuses to return to her van­ quished and fugitive paramour. And when, in the “ Tempest,” Shakspeare introduces Ariel to- �The Supernatural as an Element of Poetry. 361 delude and torment a set of drunken menials, or frighten a brutal and ignorant drudge, he scarcely redeems the character of that “ dainty” creation by his services in reconstructing the shattered ship, or even in deceiving the wretches who were plotting the death of the Duke. An inspired genius may walk through pro­ prieties at will, as he so constantly does, but even Shakspeare might have remembered in the “Tempest,” “NecDeus intersit,” &c. When Goethe, following the popular superstition, introduces the Devil, thinly disguised, as the companion and mentor of Faust, he goes easily enough with the pair through the tempta­ tions and the punishment of his neophyte and of Margaret—an episode too common in daily life to require the Devil as its agent —and Faust, when on the blasted heath he upbraids Mephisto with the cruel fate of her he should have protected from all harm, and curses himself as the dupe of a pitiless fiend, does but vent the reproaches many a man has heaped on himself, shuddering, if he had a conscience, at the cruel treachery which has rent a heart that beat only for him. But when the great German leaves the popular guide to invent a sphere of supernatural action, when Faust appears in scenes where the author has no guide from tradition, and subject to temptations of a less human character, we see how little mere mortal wit can observe any semblance of probability, or appearance of cohesion, in attempting that for which there is no actual precedent in human experience. There is but one Magician, and he has long laid aside all pretensions above morta­ lity. Patient and sagacious interrogation of nature, in disclosing the hidden properties of matter, has evoked powers which the genii of the lamp might have envied, and wealth, which would have satisfied the avarice of the alchemists. The greatest can but draw the supernatural from knowledge of the natural, and we have but human nature exaggerated in the majority of instances; Shakspeare’s Ariel, and the spirits in “Manfred” are nearly the only exceptions. Homer is greatest where he describes the actions of men, and the submissive grace and tenderness of women. Shakspeare stirs the heart, and awakens our admiration most strongly when he depicts the loving constancy of the gentler sex, and the masculine heroism of Coriolanus or of Henry the Fifth. Goethe has an easy task when he echoes the sarcastic mockery, or paints the demon heart of Mephisto; but the master-hand is seen in the calm and natural beauty of the “ Iphigenia,” and above all in his unequalled delinea­ tion of the female nature; he who could draw such characters as Gretchen, Clara, Mignon, and Adelheid von Weislingen, has surpassed all others, Shakspeare himself, in this the most inte­ resting province of observation and invention. And Lord Byron, though he has clothed his demons with �362 Recollections of Shelley ancl Byron. majesty and power, though he has avoided the vulgar error of too easily vanquishing evil by good, Satan by Abdiel, yet hardly introduces these for purposes worthy their supernatural powers, unless it be to justify the magnificent “ Hymn of the Spirits” in worship round the throne of Ahrimanes. In the first two cantos of “ Childe Harold,” the objective element is strongly ascendant, written as they were at a period of life when the world was still fresh, and the essential identity of human nature, under all its phases, hardly appreciated. The boundless command of his own language, and the liveliest sus­ ceptibility to the beauty or grandeur of nature, produced a poem which riveted immediately the attention of contemporaries, partly, indeed, due to a comparative novelty of style, and the want of sustained originality, in the poetry which immediately preceded its publication; something too may have been owing to the lesser preoccupation of the public by the floods of ephemeral and amusing literature which dissipate the intellectual tastes of the readers of our day. It is in the two latter cantos, and especially the last, in which wTe find his powers completely matured, whether reflective or descriptive. In these cantos he has carried those important elements of poetry to their highest excellence, though of invention, the test of the highest genius, we find no traces. There is throughout a want of cohesion, if we consider “ Childe Harold ” as an attempt at poetic creation, for the “ Childe” is a voice, not a living pilgrim; but if we recognise Lord Byron him­ self under an alias, narrating what he saw, and expressing in just and vivid language what he felt, we have a poem, the various merit of which it is difficult to over-estimate. The vigour of description therein displayed is indeed without a parallel; who has equalled, or even approached, the power displayed_ in stanzas 27, 28, 29 of the fourth canto ; in them we see actually brought before us by the magical force of his lan­ guage, the exquisite and fugitive beauties of an Italian sunset, which would have mocked the pictorial art of Claude or Turner to transfer to canvas. Mere words are made to appeal to the mind more effectively than the consummate skill of the masters of painting could appeal to the sense of vision. Even Homer is here surpassed for a moment, for nowhere does he bring before us so striking and so difficult a phase of nature’s ever-varying countenance; not even in the familiar passage in the eighth Rhapsody— S’ or ev ovpavu aarpa (]>aeivi)v apuju (teXt]vt]v <baivErai apLirpe7TEa. k. t. X. though it well deserves the homage Byron pays it in the fourth canto of the “ Prophecy of Dante”— �Childe Harold. 363 a The kindled marble’s bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear.” In stanza 102, canto 3, we even seem to hear and see the busy summer forest life of birds and insects in the woods of Clarens, the rustle of the leaves in the early summer breath of June, and the very plash of Alpine waterfalls; the beautiful living solitude, unspoilt by the intrusion of man, comes before us as if in spirit, or in a dream we were transported to the Swiss wilderness ; it is transferred to paper as delicately and with truer colouring than could have been effected by the calotype: but these scenes in their quiet loveliness yet suggest reminiscences of the world which the author and the reader have for a moment for­ gotten, and the vigorous sketches of Gibbon and Voltaire, who had long lived within sight of that beautiful scenery, come like a cloud over the mind which had just been revelling in the laughing sunshine of a Swiss landscape. Applied to graver scenes, the same matchless power nearly rivals the merit of inven­ tion, and when by the lake of Thrasymene (c. iv., w. 62, 63, 64), he recals the strife that made Rome to reel on her seven-hilled throne, and strove with inexorable fate to reverse her stern de­ cree, the ancient battle comes before us as by a lightning-flash darted into the abysses of the past; as the soldiers of Carthage and of Rome pass before us in their deadly struggle. Nothing can be more exquisite than the various harmony of the stanzas from 86 to 104 of canto iii.: in these every variety of emotion and of feeling is characterized; of admiration, reverence, love, awe; and in the apostrophe to “ Clarens, sweet Clarens,” that passion which he felt with so much of its earthly alloy is exalted to a refinement almost unearthly, and to a dignity which truly belongs to it, as in its purity the least selfish of human desires. Was there ever a tribute to the Divinity of Love so exquisite as that contained in stanza 100 of canto iii.?— “ O’er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.” Such language may fairly excite a rapturous admiration, resem­ bling that which he professes, and only professes to have felt, when beholding the marble loveliness of the Medicean Venus. But in a different mood, and with feelings disappointed or blunted, he afterwards recurs to this, the dream of youth, and the disenchantment of maturity; and as a warning against the in­ dulgence of that passionate and eager credulity, what homily or �350 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. worships his kind are hounded, as we have said, by the limita­ tions which he knows are incident to humanity; idealize as he may, he can never free himself of the belief that no perfect man or woman has ever trod this planet. How, then, is it possible that any one but the ignorant and unreflective can ever feel the glow of genuine devotion when he bows himself to a being whose nature he knows to have been but a fragmentary representative of the ideal of man, or when he worships his best conception of this ideal itself knowing it to be an idol of his own creation? These fatal weaknesses of Positivism have no application to the Theist: the fervour of his adoration is deadened by no secret conscious­ ness that the object of his worship is marred with imperfection; for however great and glorious may be the attributes he ascribes to it, he feels assured that they are infinitely surpassed by the Reality itself. —— C7I Art. II.—Recollections of Shelley and Recollections of the Last Lays of Shelley and Byron. Trelawny. London: Edward Moxon. 1858. Byron. By E. J. R. TRELAWNY has done well in giving this manly and carelessly written little volume to the world: it will at least revive the personal memory of two Englishmen who, though long dead, can never be altogether of the past. Without telling much of either with which we were not previously acquainted, the infor­ mation communicated is the result of intimate personal know­ ledge, and, gathered during the intervals of a familiar acquaint­ ance, comes out with such freshness and vigour, that it possesses nearly all the merit of novelty; and the striking features of cha­ racter are brought forward in much stronger relief, than in the tame and wearisome biography of which one at least was the victim. It is the least enviable appanage of genius that it perpe­ tuates by its own lustre those faults and weaknesses which repose in the graves of meaner men; the biographer, even though a friend, cannot ignore these; and while he avoids giving them undue prominence, cannot forget that truth has its claims, as well as genius. We recognise Shelley in these sketches as he appeared in his works—the gentle, guileless, noble soul who persisted in putting himself wrong with the world, and who rashly and fearlessly launched his indignant sarcasm at the cant and bigotry and sei- M � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Recollections of Shelley and Byron Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [London] Collation: p. 350-368 ; 22 cm. Notes: Review essay of "Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron" by Edward John Trelawny. London: Edward Moxon, 1858. Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Westminster Review 13 (April 1858). Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1858 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT42 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource [Unknown] Subject The topic of the resource Book reviews Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Recollections of Shelley and Byron), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Book Reviews Conway Tracts English Poetry George Gordon Byron Percy Bysshe Shelley Poetry in English Romantic Poetry https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/f932200b3c2ec153a87eac44e5d300b3.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=GF6qV1OMrmZGzhBHBDCmSdC45zvFhO4YgIP1KOKeoGqrbpW23bBjLn3Wl9rltfyPzqT%7EwfD65emmnqsWPW5a9QDYRPJeiVfP9cdo5%7EYr69-0wjBmONDqD2clZMdVELgVBOnt2vXxdJJ7gmsakyAKBEx4UVp7SAWLe9yLo1QObab4bSpJWMJhK29cjAihrqfKIZOw21Vw5F1Q%7EJREcnJyC1qb1Iuif6fwxXsbEr-D0FXFKeNHMrAgnuNqMmn6CNUaPorWGdv18bZC4OUF7jYHsdZDAJw0rpooIhp3eIxYfbTNPCtJhb2Clg%7EZCQX6u6HcpiFsYq8uPe-Y5oIeS8Dh6w__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 1b51f55111e373dd43e904a15d31c051 PDF Text Text 65 lUIIab. Why is it so with me, false Love, Why is it so with me ? Mine enemies might thus have dealt; I fear’d it not of thee. Thou wast the thought of all my thoughts, Nor other hope had I: My life was laid upon thy love; Then how could’st let me die ? The flower is loyal to the bud, The greenwood to the spring, The soldier to his banner bright, The noble to his king : The bee is constant to the hive, The ringdove to the tree, The martin to the cottage-eaves; Thou only not to me. Yet if again, false Love, thy feet To tread the pathway burn That once they trod so well and oft, Return, false Love, return; And stand beside thy maiden’s bier, And thou wilt surely see, That I have been as true to love As thou wert false to me. F. T. Palgrave. 4—5 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Ballad Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Palgrave, Francis Turner Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [London] Collation: 1 page (p.65) ; 23 cm. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From the Cornhill Magazine 30 (July, 1874). Attribution from Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals, 1824-1900. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [Smith, Elder & Co.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1874] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5347 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Ballad), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Poetry in English https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/6319c02d64ce5075b562a76b25e423fc.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=WtzY6tIHsgoNnjp3mWuYUNIRclPOu%7EHH1jTh38NTpgrA2VeUIYS0eF6vg5GFsIvkA1mG-cYgAoED4Xk%7E62znHWKnzfMyFDZYPgbSEB6w1FI27COaj2EuC5npYTiBObYprC386raHFQ5DCeRYaKBPsAOau0ew0hragL%7ErvrZFXA2qCpXYbiiLQBalAaVALVQ%7ESBZ6cZRgwub10%7EtBVs8CeS7Q3UZyqEnABuCKfDSMvZ%7EdU0O%7E6wXA3imsMQZlHVtFyLv7avCcLwpXVqFLNeVgadkD7194zTLx-y6-K-cm%7EJTVCONYpSYxUWt%7E6DlYOVATlK9FZdU-E0h9RbSItNiSDw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 825ff3ba3bbd17aeeb68bf1744521bda PDF Text Text T �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. “De kortste levensbeschrijvingen zijn die der grootste genieen. Zij leefden in hun schriften en daarom ging hun privaat en publiek leven onopgemerkt voorbij. Hun grootste bewonderaars gelijken het meest op hen.” Ook de biographie van Emerson, aan wien wij deze woorden ontleenen, beslaat slechts enkele bladzijden. Zijn uitwendig leven was niet rijk aan afwisselingen. Ralph Waldo Emerson, wiens voorouders in Northumberland woonden, werd den 25sten Mei 1803 te Boston geboren, waar zijn vader predikant was. Reeds op achttienjarigen leeftijd ontving hij een academischen graad aan Harvard-college. Na voltooiing zijner theologische studien werd hij predikant bij een der unitarische gemeenten zijner geboortestad. Maar de Unitariers , hoewel om hun vrijzinnigheid geroemd, maakten Emerson het leven moeielijk. Zij begrepen zijn vrijen en onafhankelijken geest niet. “De leiders der Unitariers verwierpen het oorspronkelijk ta­ lent, dat onder hen geboren was. De oogen der verlichte jonge menschen waren op de nieuwe ster gevestigd, die hen voortdu- XI. 5 �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. rend inspireerde en langs nieuwe wegen leidde. Amerika had nimmer zulk een verschijning aanschouwd. Maar het genie van Emerson verdween spoedig nit het kerkelijk gesternte en stond voortaan alleen als een vaste en eenzame ster.” 1 Op den 15den Juli 1838 nam hij afscheid van zijn gemeente. Parker, die een jaar te voren predikant was geworden, getuigt van deze toespraak: “Hij overtrof zichzelf. Schoon, waar,indrukwekkend was de schildering van de fouten der kerk in haar tegenwoordigen toestand. Hij heeft mijn geest wakker geschud.” 2 De afscheidsrede, op uitnoodiging der theologische studenten te Cambridge in “Divinity-College” gehouden, was in het oog van vele eerwaardigen dwaas en goddeloos. Emerson had vooral op twee dwalingen in het kerkelijk Christendom gewezen: Jezus, die tot het echte ras der profeten behoorde, was onkenbaar ge­ worden. Men had hem goddelijke titels gegeven, die eens de uitdrukking waren van bewondering en liefde. Door hem buiten de menschheid te plaatsen, hebben zijn prediking en leven hun bekoorlijkheid verloren. De andere dwaling bestond hierin, dat men Gods openbaring tot het verleden beperkte en daarom, in plaats van den levenden, een dooden God verkondigde. Het kenmerk der tegenwoordige prediking was volgens Emer­ son de traditie. Daarom kon zij geen brood voor het leven geven. Alleen hij, die over de oude vormen den adem des levens laat gaan, die overal de waarheid spreekt, gelijk eigen leven en geweten hem ingeven, kan voor de zoekende en bezwaarde zielen bronnen van hoop en vertroosting ontsluiten. Tweemaal heeft Emerson Europa bezocht. In gezelschap van een amerikaansch kunstenaar vertoefde hij, tot herstel zijner ge' Vgl. Theodore Parker’s Experience as a Minister, p. Ill, 51, 33. 2 Vgl. Life and Correspondence of Th. Parker bij John Weiss, I, p. 113, 114. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 73 zondheid, in 1833 gedurende eenige maanden in Sicilie, Italie, Frankrijk en Engeland. Zeker zou hij ook aan Duitschland een bezoek hebben gebracht, ware Goethe, wien hij hoog vereerde , niet het vorige jaar gestorven. Met eenige beroeinde persoonlijkheden, wier schriften hem bekend waren, verlangde Emerson kennis te maken. In Engeland trokken hem vooral Coleridge, Wordsworth en Carlyle aan. Hij vond den laatste op zijn eenzaam landgoed Craigenputtock ; de leeraar van Dunscore, die op een afstand van zestien mijlen van hem woonde, was de eenige in den ganschen omtrek, met wien de groote denker kon converseeren. Emerson noemt hem een schrijver, “die de wereld zoo volkomen beheerschte, alsof hij in zichzelf het beste bezat, wat Louden kon aanbieden.” Hij beschrijft Carlyle als een lang, mager, spraakzaam man, vol frissche anecdoten en humor. Als de wijsgeer zich ergerde over de uitbundige loftuitingen op een genie gehouden, dan vertelde hij van zijn diepe bewondering voor het talent, dat ziju varken toonde te bezitten. Het beste, wat hij van Amerika wist, was dat een mens ch daar vleesch voor zijn arbeid kon krijgen. Veertien jaar later kwam Emerson voor de tweede maal in Engeland. Van eenige handwerkersvereenigingen in Lancashire en Yorkshire had hij een uitnoodiging ontvangen, om in een twintigtal steden voorlezingen te houden. Het uitzicht om Engeland en Schotland grondig te leeren kennen, de aantrekkelijkheid eener zeereis , die op zijn door ingespannen studie geschokte gezond- heid gunstig kon werken, deden hem besluiten, om aan het verzoek te voldoen. Toch besloot hij slechts aarzelend. Met reizen was hij weinig ingenomen. Hij noemt het ergens “het paradijs der dwazen”. De reismanie is volgens hem een bewijs van gebrek aan karakter, van een ziekte, waaraan het geestelijk leven lijdt. Te Boston ging hij den 5den October 1847 aan boord, om na �74 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. een afwezigheid van ruim een half jaar in zijn vaderland terugte keeren. Emerson heeft de indrukken, die hij van Engeland ontving , in eenige voorlezingen aan zijn landgenooten medegedeeld. 1 De moed, het intieme huiselijk leven, de teedere omgang van de leden der beide seksen, waarvan hij in Engeland getuige was,, hadden zijn bewondering opgewekt. In zijn oog staat de engelsche held hooger dan de fransche, de duitsche, de italiaansche of grieksche. In Engeland verwacht men, gelijk Nelson zeide, dat ieder zijn plicht zal doen. Er wordt daar driemaal meer gearbeid dan in andere landen. Armoede beschouwt men als een schande. Wat hem minder beviel, was de gehechtheid van den Engelschman aan oude gebruiken, zijn bekrompen nationaliteitsgevoel, zoodat de hoogste lofspraak, die een vreemdeling verdienen kan, aldus luidt: ik zou u bijna voor een Engelschman houden. De godsdienst is er zinledig, de staatskerk een pop, die elke kritiek met angst afwijst. Zij duldt geen verschil van meeningen en schuwt het licht. De Engelschman gelooft allereerst aan een Voorzienigheid, die voor elk pond sterling zorgt. Het ontbreekt hem aan idealisme, aan phantasie. Zelfs in zijn verhevenste poezie verloochent zich zijn utilitarianisme niet. De “nuttige” wetenschappen trekken hem allermeest aan. Engeland wordt vergeleken met een oud, in verschillende eeuwen opgetrokken gebouw, waaraan allerlei reparaties zijn aangebracht. Zijn zwaartepunt ligt in het private, niet in het publieke leven, dat meestal trouweloos is geweest. Zijn buitenlandsche politiek was zelden edelmoedig en rechtvaardig. De rijken onderdrukken er de armen; het pauperisme is in Engeland een ontzettende macht. Het is het land der patriotten, wijzen, martelaars en zangers. Werd het eens door den Oceaan, waaruit het is voortgekomen, Vgl. English Traits, in 1856 uitgegeven. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 75 verzwolgen, dan zal het in de herinnering voortleven als het «iland, dat onsterfelijke wetten gegeven en het recht der persoonlijkheid gehuldigd heeft. Emerson onderscheidt in Engeland twee volken of klassen, wier harmonie en disharmonie de macht van den staat uitmaken: tot de eersten hehooren zij, die voor idealen ontvankelijk zijn, wier aantal door hem op een dozijn geschat wordt; de klasse der practische lieden daarentegen telt haar volgelingen bij millioenen. Zijn voorliefde voor het idealisme beheerschte zijn oordeel over de celebriteiten onder de schrijvers van dien tijd. Terwijl hij met Coleridge, Words­ worth , Carlyle hoogelijk is ingenomen, is zijn oordeel over de mannen, die hij een plaats geeft in de practische klasse, niet van eenzijdigheid vrij te pleiten. Wat dunkt u b. v. van de volgende karakteristiek van Macaulay? “De schitterende geschiedschrijver leert, dat men onder het goede verstaan moet: goed eten, goede kleeding, stoffelijk welzijn; dat de roem der nieuwere phi­ losophic bestaat in haar streven, om het nuttige te bevorderen, de ideeen en de moraal buiten rekening te laten. Het verstand moet ons leeren, hoe wij betere ziekenstoelen en wijnsoepen voor zwakken kunnen maken. Zinnelijk genot is het eenig goede. Het grootste voordeel der astronomie bestaat in de verbetering der scheepvaart. Een schoon resultaat voorwaar, waartoe de beschaving en de godsdienst van Engeland na een geschiedenis van duizend jaren gekomen zijn: de loochening der zedelijkheid!” Duitschland staat volgens Emerson ver boven Engeland, dat niet in staat is den duitschen geest te begrijpen. In Engeland is de natuurwetenschap van de wetenschap des geestes gescheiden , waarmede zij eeuwig verbonden moest blijven. Duitschland is het land der idealen, dat voor Europa denkt, waar het enthousiasme levendig wordt gehouden. Van zijn verblijf in Engeland nam Emerson de aangenaamste indrukken mede. Overal was hij vriendelijk en gastvrij ontvangen. �76 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Oude vrienden werden nog eens bezocht, nieuwe vriendschapsbanden gesloten. Bancroft, de groote amerikaansche geschiedsehrijver, die toen nog gezant te Londen was, bracht hem in kennis met Hallam, Dickens, 'Thackeray, Tennyson, Disraeli, Forster, Robert Brown, Owen, Lyell en anderen, Hij was voor eenige dagen de gast van Miss Martineau, die pas uit Egypte was teruggekeerd. Met haar bezocht hij Wordsworth, den dichter van de Ode op de onsterfelijkheid, welke volgens hem de hoogte aanwijst, waartoe de geest in onzen tijd kan stijgen. Sinds 1838 woont Emerson als privaat persoon te Concord in Massachusetts. Zijn woning staat op de plaats, waar de Amerikanen in 1775 een overwinning bebaalden op de Engelschen. 1 1 Aan een artikel van een Amerikaan over “Emerson in zijn eigen wo­ ning”,’ geplaatst in The Inquirer van 26 Juli 1879, ontleenen wij de volgende bijzonderheden: Emerson woont met zijn vrouw en een dochter. Naast hem woonde vroeger de bekeilde Nathanael Hawthorne (f 1864). Zijn eenige zoon is een uitstekend geneeshecr te Concord. Zijn huis is eenvoudig, maar smaakvol ingericht. De niet groote bibliotheek bestaat alleen uit voortreffelijke werken. Schrijvers uit verschillende deelen der wereld zenden hem present-exemplaren hunner geschriften. In den omgang boeit Emerson vooral door zijn eenvoud. Over zijn gebrek aan helderheid heeft men dikwijls ten onrechte geklaagd. Eenige handwerkslieden Zeiden eens tot hun nieuwen predikant: wij zijn maar eenvoudige'lieden en hebben het niet verder gebracht dan dat wij Emer­ son kunnen begrijpeii. De grijsaard onderzoekt nog met de grootste gemakkelijkheid de moeielijkste problemen van onzen tijd. Zijn dichterlijk idealisme is verheven boven de heftige polemiek der theologen. Wie den wijze van Concord bezocht heeft, verwondert zich niet over de liefde, die zijn vrienden hem toedragen, over den eerbied, waarmede �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 77 Na het verlaten van den kansel heeft hij het werk, in de kerk begonnen, in de maatschappij voortgezet. Als schrijver en als spreker in verschillende vereenigingen, voor geletterden en ongeletterden, is hij steeds als de prediker van het idealisme opgetreden. Eerst had hij met allerlei vooroordeelen te kampen. Men waarschuwde tegen hem, omdat hij een ongeloovig en goddeloos mensch was. Maar het duurde niet lang , of hij werd als de gevierde auteur en spreker begroet. Volgens de getuigenis van een landgenoot kan men zich niets aangrijpenders voorstellen dan Emerson te hooren. Als hij een gedachte uitspreekt, die de vrucht is van langdurige overpeinzing, dan zou men meenen, dat hij in het bezit was van een opdracht. door de gansche menschheid onderteekend, om juist z66 te spreken. Carlyle, die de beide eerste bundels zijner “Essays” met een Voorrede verrijkte, noemde ze: de alleenspraak van een ziel, die waar is. In Engeland verschenen van zijn werken tai van nadrukken, in Frankrijk en Duitschland enkele vertalingen. Vooral in Duitschland zijn sommige schrijvers hoogelijk met hem inge­ nomen. “Ein Prophet, nicht in der pratentiosen Bedeutung gebraucht, die uns die Vergangenheit, die Heiligkeit vieler Jahre ertheilt, ist Emerson wohl zu nennen. Er ist es nicht allein weil er Geist besitzt, denn wir haben viele lebende Autoren, die auch damit gesegnet sind; wahrend wir jedoch hinter jenen uns selten einen Charakter denken konnen, und nur ihre, in den Spinnennetzen der Literatur, waltende Feder verfolgen, so denken wir uns hin­ ter seinen Worten einen leuchtenden, strahlenden Charakter verborgen. Ja noch mehr, wir ahnen ein groszes Herz voll Anmuth geleerden uit Engeland en Amerika tot hem opzien. Niemand verlaat zijn gastvrije woning zonder de overtuiging mede te nemen, dat hij althans eenmaal in zijn leven een groot man heeft ontmoet. �78 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. und Liebs, das sich allein dem Fortschritt dsr Menschheit gewidmet hat.” 1 “Kein Schriftstellsr” — zoo schrijft Hermann Grimm 2 — “hat solchen Reiz fur mich als Emerson. Nichts Ueberflussigendes, Beschonigendes, Sentimentales finden wir bei ihm. Die alltaglichen Binge macht er poetisch, das geringste fiihrt er auf das groszte zurtick. Mit einem Wort hebt er uns uber die Erde, und wahrend er sagt, dasz alles schon sei, glauben wir es ihm. Die Welt wird zu einer bunten Wiese, die er vor uns ausbreitet, und der Geist des Lebendigen flieszt mitten hindurch in klaren Wellen, aus denen versteckt alle Blumen und Graser Kraft und Wachsthum trinken.” In ons vaderland heeft, zoover ik weet, alleen Dr. Wolff op hem de aandacht gevestigd en hem een plaats toegekend onder de voortreffelijkste schrijvers. 34 Aan hem dank ik mijn eerste ken- nismaking met Emerson, terwijl hij mij tevens aan zich verplicht heeft door de inlichtingen, mij bij de bewerking dezer schets gegeven. 1 Zullen wij in staat zijn Emerson te begrijpen, dan moeten wij niet vergeten, dat hij een Amerikaan is, die voor Amerikanen schrijft en spreekt. 1 Vgl. Fabricius, in de Voorrede voor eenige door hem vertaalde Es­ says van Emerson (1858). 2 Vgl. E. W. Emerson uber Goethe und Shakespeare (1857). 3 Vgl. De Gids, 1861, p. 772-825. 4 De londensche editie, (Bell & Sons, 1876) getiteld: The complete Works of R. W\ Emerson is alles behalve compleet. Daarin ontbreken o. a.: The mind and manners of the nineteenth century, lezingen door E. in 1848 in Engeland gehonden; Memoirs of Margaret Fuller, Marchesa d'Ossoli, in 1852 met W. H. Channing uitgegeven; Ora­ tion on the death of President Lincoln, 1865; Society and Solitude, �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 79 In zijn voorkomen vertoont hij het type van een Amerikaan nit Nieuw-Engeland. Niet Engeland, maar Amerika is volgens hem de zetel en het centrum van het britsche ras. Zijn vaderland bezit natuurlijke voordeelen, welke het moederland mist. Eens zal Engeland, als een oud en uitgeput eiland, tevreden moeten zijn wanneer het zijn kinderen krachtig ontwikkeld ziet. In zijn lezing over den amerikaanschen geleerde laat hij de fiere taal hooren: “Wij hebben te lang naar Europa geluisterd. Reeds begint men den geest van den vrijen Amerikaan voor schroomvallig en bedeesd te houden, steeds geneigd om anderen na te vol­ gen. Wij mogen niet altijd van den oogst van vreemden profiteeren. Wij moeten op eigen beenen staan , met eigen handen arbeiden, onze eigen gedachten uitspreken .* 1 Er zijn menschen, die vragen: wie wil gaarne in een land wonen, dat haast geen verleden, geen geschiedenis heeft? Aan dezulken vraagt hij op zijn beurt: zoudt gij u thuis gevoelen in een land, waar privileges worden toegekend aan geboorte en rijkdom , waar de pers niet vrij , het pauperisme een ontzettende macht is, waar titulaire vors ten heerschen, die in prachtige koetsen rijden en veel wijn drinken, maar niet door zelfopoffering, volharding en ernstige studie hun leven versieren? 2 Essays, 1870; (vertaald in het Duitsch door Mohnicke, Zweite Auflage, 1876); Letters and Social Aims, Essays, 1871; (in het duitsch met een inleiding van Julian Schmidt, 1876); Parnasszis, Selected Poems, 1871. In het prachtwerk, dat onlangs is aangekondigd: The hundred grea­ test Men zullen, behalve door Matthew Arnold, Max Muller, Fayne en Renan, ook door Emerson “historical Introductions” gegeven worden. 1 Rede, uitgesproken 31 Aug. 1837, in de Phi Seta Kappa Society te Cambridge. 2 The young American, een lezing, gehouden te Boston, 7 Febr. 1844, in the Mercantile Library Association. �80 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. De ingenomenheid met zijn land en volk maakt hem daarom niet blind voor de groote gebreken, die hij opmerkte. Als een echt profeet treedt hij daartegen op. In de staatsstukken en de debatten der volksvertegenwoordigers, in de lycaea en kerken, in de nieuwsbladen verneemt hij niet de taal, die van een opgewekt nationaal gevoel getuigt. ’t Schijnt of het belang van den kapitalist het eenige noodige is! Wie verkondigt van het spreekgestoelte, in de courant of op de straten het geheim van den echten held, die alleen het onmogelijke tot stand kan brengen? Wij bezitten, zegt hij, geen krachtige publieke meening. Wij scharen ons niet aan de zijde der echte liberalen, die de armen, de onderdrukten, de zwakken beschermen. Wij hebben te veel vertrouwen op het geld, maar te weinig op God. Bij herhaling wordt het practisch materialisme bestreden, dat zich in alle vertakkingen van het amerikaansche leven openbaart. In onze maatschappij — zoo roept hij zijn toehoorders toe — is er, behalve aan pachters, wevers en zeelieden, ook behoefte aan enkele mannen, die de hemelsche vonk, welke in hun borst gloeit, op anderen weten over te brengen, die ons de richting aanwijzen, welke wij te volgen hebben. “Zult gij te midden van allerlei stemmen, die roepen om nieuwe wegen of standbeelden, verbeteringen in kleeding of in de tandheelkunde, om een politieke partij of de verdeeling van een staat, niet het oor leenen aan een paar eenzame stemmen in het land, die voor ideeen en beginselen pleiten, welke niet verkocht noch vernietigd kunnen worden?” 1 Ook in zijn sterk ontwikkeld individualisme is Emerson het type van den echten Amerikaan. Hij bekommert zich niet om het oordeel zijner lezers of hoorders. Wat het publiek van hem zegt, dat gaat hem niets ter wereld aan. 1 The Transcendlist, een lezing, gehouden te Bostonenta, in Januari 1842. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 81 Een bevoegd beoordeelaar beeft opgemerkt: Emerson schrijft en denkt als Amerikaan. Emerson is terecht een wijsgeer genoemd. Elk onderwerp wordt door hem wijsgeerig behandeld. Nooit blijft hij bij de oppervlakte staan. Ieder verschijnsel, ook het schijnbaar onbelangrijkste, wordt door hem ontleed en verklaard. Hij rust niet, voordat hij tot het wezen der dingen is doorgedrongen. Maar een wijsgeerig stelsel zoeken wij bij hem te vergeefs. Een boek over de wijsbegeerte heeft hij nooit geschreven. Het zijn korte verhandelingen over allerlei onderwerpen, Essays, die hij geeft. Hij rangschikt zich het liefst onder de zoekende geesten en heeft een onbegrensden afkeer van alle stelselzucht en dogmatisme. Er is volgens hem geen enkele waarheid, hoe verheven ook, of de mogelijkheid bestaat, dat wij haar morgen, bij het licht van nieuwe gedachten, moeten prijs geven. Hij houdt niet van die menschen, welke altijd naar een steunpunt verlangen. De meesterwerken van God, de volmaakte eenheid zijn verborgen en onberekenbaar. Als wij nog jong zijn, besteden wij veel tijd en moeite, om alle deflnities over godsdienst, poezie, kunst en politiek op te teekenen, in de hoop dat wij binnen eenige jaren de waarde van alle theorieen zullen kennen. Maar de jaren gaan voorbij en het doel. waarnaar wij streven, wordt niet bereikt. Tegenover het materialisme kiest Emerson beslist partij voor het idealisme. Terwijl de materialist uitgaat van de zinnelijke wereld en den mensch als een harer producten beschouwt, is het menschelijk bewustzijn zijn uitgangspunt. De natuur, de letterkunde, de geschiedenis zijn volgens hem subjectieve verschijnselen. De geest is de eenige realiteit. Hij houdt het voor bepaald onmogelijk, dat een idealist zoo diep zou kunnen zinken, om een materialist te worden. �82 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Emerson is een hartstochtelijk bewonderaar van de natuur. “Ik doorwaadde moerassen en baggerde door de sneeuw zonder hoop en voelde mij toch vroolijk en volmaakt gelukkig. Wie in de bosschen zijn leven doorbrengt, kan altijd een kind blijven. Zij zijn altijd jong. Er heerscht daar zeker decorum. Het is er voortdurend feest. Daar gevoel ik eerst, dat de natuur elke ramp kan genezen. dat alle egolsme verdwijnt. Mijn oog wordt een doorschijnende globe. Ik voel mij een deel van God. De naam van mijn vriend klinkt mij als een vreemde in de ooren of als een, dien ik slechts toevallig boor. Of ik heer of knecht ben, het raakt mij niet. Ik bemin een onsterfelijke schoonheid. Te midden van velden en bosschen ben ik niet alleen, geen onbekende. Maar de natuur is niet altijd in feestkleederen getooid. Hetzelfde tooneel, dat gister nog zoo liefelijk was, is heden som­ ber. Daarom moet er harmonie zijn tusschen de natuur en den mensch, zal het gevoel van voldoening in ons worden opgewekt.” Zoo schreef hij in een zijner eerste opstellen. 1 De beschouwingen, die hij hier over de natuur geeft, herinneren aan Fichte’s idealisme. Ik ben niet in staat — zoo schrijft hij — de onfeilbaarheid mijner zintuigen te bewijzen; ik weet niet of de indrukken, die zij mij verschaffen, met de voorwerpen in overeenstemming zijn. Maar wat doet het er toe, of de Orion werkelijk in de diepten van het firmament bestaat of een beeld is, op het uitspansel mijner ziel geteekend? Het is mij om het even, of de natuur een werkelijk bestaan heeft of een apocalypse is van den geest. Zij blijft in mijn oog even eerbiedwaardig. Al zijn wij van de onveranderlijkheid der natuurwetten overtuigd, daaruit kan het absoluut bestaan der natuur niet bewezen worden. Kinderen gelooven aan de zichtbare wereld. Lichtzinnige zielen maken zich vroolijk over hen, volgens wie de natuur geen werkelijk bestaan heeft 1 Nature, 1839. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 83 buiten ons. De wetenschap werpt de gewone voorstellingen over de natuur omver. Door haar voorgelicht, noemt onze geest, wat men gewoon is werkelijkheid te noemen, schijn en daarentegen werkelijk, wat in het oog van velen een visioen is. Later moge Emerson wat minder beslist gesproken hebben, de zichtbare wereld blijft toch in zijn oog slechts het symbool der onzichtbare. Tegenover Locke kent hij aan het onstoffelijke de prioriteit toe bo ven het stoffelijke. Ook de natuur leidt volgens Emerson tot God op, wien hij het liefst the Over-Soul noemt. Hij is de ziel van alles. Buiten hem bestaat niets. Hij woont in ons. Er is geen muur als grens, waar het uitwerksel, de mensch, ophoudt en de oorzaak, God, begint. Hij bezoekt ons, gelijk het spreekwoord zegt, zonder klok- kengelui. De natuur van den absoluten geest is goedheid en waarheid. Wij kunnen zijn taal alleen verstaan, wanneer wij aan onze beste gedachten gehoorzamen, ons aan den geest der profetie toevertrouwen, die elk mensch is ingeschapen. Wanneer wij ons onder den invloed van zijn geest stellen, dan worden onze gesprekken lyrisch, zacht als het geluid van den wind, die pas opkomt. Wie zijn goddelijke tegenwoordigheid bespeurt, wordt met geestdrift vervuld. God openbaart zich alleen aan de eenvoudigen en nederigen. Wie zich met Hem vereenigd gevoelt, weet bij intuitie dat het goede ook het ware is, dat zijn belangen den Allerhoogste ter harte gaan. Wat voor hem goed is, zal hem niet kunnen ontgaan. Elk woord, ieder boek, die voor hem noodig zijn tot hulp of vertroosting, zullen zeker tot hem komen. Wie Gods stem wil hooren, moet in zijn binnenkamer gaan en de deuren gesloten houden, gelijk Jezus deed. Het is noodig om naar de stem in ons binnenste te luisteren, zullen wij God lceren kennen. 1 1 Vgl. vooral The Over-Soul, in de tweede bundel zijoer Essays (1844). �84 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Godsdienst is aanbidding. Volgens Emerson zijn wij van nature geloovigen en waren de schoonste tijdperken in de geschiedenis der menschheid door geloof gekennierkt. Maar wij moeten ons niet ongerust maken, als wij den invloed van Calvijn, Fenelon, Wesley of Chan­ ning zien afnemen. Op de bouwvallen van kerken en godsdiensten richt God zijn tempel op in de harten der menschen. Wij leven thans in een tijdperk van overgang. De oude leerstellingen, die eens de volken krachtig gemaakt, ja in het leven geroepen hebben , schijnen krachteloos geworden. Men heeft helaas! godsdienst en zedelijkheid van elkander gescheiden. In onze groote steden wonen massa’s menschen, die geen God meer hebben, omdat zij materialisten zijn geworden. Geestdrift , verhefiing van het hart zijn hun vreemd. Velen gelooven aan chemie, mechanica, vleesch, wijn , rijkdom, aan electrische batterijen, naaimachines — maar niet aan een goddelijke oorzaak. Kunnen er krachtiger bewijzen voor veler ongodsdienstigheid gegeven worden dan de . verdraagzaamheid tegenover den slavenhandel, de verkeerde richting, die de opvoeding neemt, de geringe waarde, die aan de hoogste gaven van geest en hart wordt toegekend, de verdraagzaamheid der meest beschaafde gezelschappen tegenover de zonde? Het staat bij Emerson vast, dat het scepticisme de overwinning niet zal behalen. Maar het moet niet door theologische leerstellingen bestreden worden, “Vergeet uw boeken en overleveringen en gehoorzaamt alleen aan uw zedelijk instinkt. Ik ken geen woorden, die zulk een diepe beteekenis hebben als deze: geestelijk en zedelijk.” 1 Een zijner jongste Essays is getiteld; Onsterfelijkheid. 2 Hij kan zich begrijpen, dat men niet gaarne over dit onderwerp schrijft. De lezer zal zich teleurgesteld voelen. Hij vindt niet, wat hij zoekt. 1 Vgl. The Conduct of Life (1860). 2 Vgl. Letters and social aims. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 85 Gelijk alle ernstige zielen, zegt Emerson, is mijn geloof aan de onsterfelijkheid der ziel vaster dan de bewijzen, die ik daarvoor geef. Het eenig werkelijk bewijs is te teeder en staat boven alle redeneering; daarom blijft Wordsworth’s “Ode op de onsterfelijk­ heid” altijd een meesterstuk. Men kan wijzen op de oneindigheid van het heelal, die zich evenzeer in elk deeltje openbaart; op ons verlangen naar het blijvende, het eeuwige, dat alleen in staat is op den duur onze belangstelling te wekken; op de onvolmaaktheid van den arbeid en de deugd zelfs van den edelste; op allerlei analogieen en profetieen in ons en buiten ons. Al hebben die gronden en gevolgtrekkingen zeker beteekenis, zij zijn onvoldoende om daarop een theorie te bouwen, gelijk menigmaal is beproofd. Zulk een onderwerp moet met heiligen schroom behandeld worden. Niet door boeken of door theologische bewijzen, maar alleen door een uitnemende persoonlijkheid, die ons oog aan het tijdelijke ontrukt en op het eeuwige wijst, in wiens hart de krachtigste en teederste liefde woont, kan het visioen verklaard worden. Daarom heeft het getuigenis van enkele geinspireerde zielen groote beteekenis. Het is een dwaasheid, om te vragen: mijn bisschop, mijn leeraar, hoe denkt gij daarover? Geloofden Wesley, Butler, Fenelon aan onsterfelijkheid? Wat zijn dat voor vragen? Leest liever een dichter als Milton of een ziener als Plato; leest den heiligen Augustinus, Swedenborgh, Kant. Wie de wetten des geestes verstaan heeft, zal zulke vragen, die goed zijn voor schooljongens, niet meer doen. Alleen hij bezit onsterfelijkheid, die, waar hij komt, alles met nieuw leven bezielt. “Ik geloof, dat elke gezonde geest zich bij de overtuiging kan nederleggen: Wanneer een bewust persoonlijk voortleven het beste is, — en als wij het heelal konden overzien, zou het ons zeker blijken, dat dit het beste is, — dan zal het ons deel worden.” �86 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. De geschiedenis is volgens Emerson’s eigenaardige opvatting de oorkonde van de werken van den geest, die alles omvat. Alle feiten der historie bestaan reeds te voren als wetten in den geest. Elke gebeurtenis, zal zij geloofwaardig en verstaanbaar zijn, moet beantwoorden aan iets, dat in den mensch is. Wij stellen belang in steden, die lang verwoest zijn, in pyramiden, omdat wij voor die onzinnige uitdrukkingen: daar of eertijds de woorden: hier of thans in de plaats willen stellen. Het niet-ik moet door het ik, het verschil door de eenheid vervangen worden. De geschiedenis van het individu geeft de verklaring van de geschiedenis der wereld, der natuur, der kunst en der letter kunde. De St. Pieter is de zwakke kopie van een goddelijk ideaal, dat in eens menschen ziel is opgekomen; de Munster van Straatsburg het stoffelijk afdruksel van den geest van Erwin von Steinbach. De ervaring van elken dag leert de vervulling der oude profetie, dat woorden en teekenen, waarop wij vroeger geen acht sloegen, concrete voorwerpen voor ons worden. Wie de engelsche kathedralen bezoekt, bemerkt aanstonds, dat het woud een overweldigenden invloed op den geest der bouwmeesters heeft uitgeoefend. Wanneer wij op een winternamiddag door de bosschen wandelen en op de kleuren letten, die door de takken doorschemeren, dan kennen wij den oorsprong der geschilderde glazen in de gothische kerken. Waarom trekken ons de geschiedenis, de letterkunde, de kunst van Griekenland vooral aan? Omdat wij zelve Grieken zijn. Wij worden daardoor aan een periode uit ons eigen leven herinnerd. Onze bewondering voor de oudheid geldt niet het oude, maar het natuurlijke. De eenvoudigheid en de gratie van het kind kenmerkten den Griek. Zijn vormen boeien ons, zoolang wij het kinderlijk karakter behouden hebben. �7 ' - ' RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 87 De godsmannen vervullen een missie, die in het hart en de ziel van den eenvoudigste onder hun leerlingen was geschreven. Hoe komt het, dat sommige menschen aan Jezus een bovennatuurlijken oorsprong toekennen, omdat hij uit de geschiedenis niet verklaard kan worden ? Omdat zij zelve niet godsdienstig zijn, niet tot zichzelve inkeeren; anders zou hun eigen godsvrucht de verklaring geven van elk zijner woorden en daden. Ik ken de eerste monniken en anachoreten. Als ik menschen ontmoette, die in contemplatie verzonken waren en een afkeer hadden van den arbeid, herkende ik een Simon Stylites en de eerste kapucynermonniken. Wanneer de geschiedenis gelezen en geschreven wordt in het licht dezer twee feiten: de geest is ; tusschen den geest en de natuur bestaat een wederkeerige betrekking, dan zal zij niet langer voor ons een onvruchtbaar boek zijn. Wij hooren dan niet meer, welke boeken iemand gelezen, maar welke tijdperken hij doorleefd heeft. In hem vind ik het verleden terug: de gouden eeuw, den boom der kennis, de roeping van Abraham, den tempelbouw, de komst van den Christus, de Middeleeuwen, de herleving der wetenschappen, de Hervorming, de ontdekking van nieuwe werelden. Hij is de priester van Pan, die de zegeningen der morgensterren en de weldaden van hemel en aarde zal brengen. Veel te lang hebben wij onze aandacht gevestigd op die oude chronologie van hoogmoed en zelfzucht. Aan een nieuwe historiographie is behoefte, waarin wij de ware uitdrukking onzer eigen natuur zullen wedervinden. 1 Wanneer de geschiedenis, gelijk Emerson haar opvat, biographie is, dan kan het ons niet verwonderen, dat vooral de uitnemende persoonlijkheden zijn aandacht hebben getrokken. Volgens hem schijnt de natuur voor hen te bestaan. Zij maken de aarde gezond. Vgl. vooral Emerson’s Essay: History. XI. 6 �88 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Eerst door ons geloof aan hen wordt ons leven draaglijk en liefelijk. Wij leven dan met onze meerderen. Hun namen geven wij aan onze kinderen en steden. In onze woningen staan hun werken en beelden, terwijl elke omstandigheid ons een anecdote voor den geest brengt, die op hen betrekking heeft. Als er een magneet was, die ons kon aanwijzen, waar menschen wonen, die inwendig rijk en krachtig zijn, wij zouden al onze goederen verkoopen en heden nog met dezen magneet op reis gaan. Een groot man woont in een hoogere sfeer der gedachten, waartoe anderen slechts met moeite eD inspanning kunnen opklimmen. Als hij zijn oogen opent, ziet hij de dingen in het ware licht. Hij is dicht bij ons, zoodat wij hem op het eerste gezicht herkennen. Hij voldoet aan onze verwachtingen en komt op den juisten tijd. Elke groote geest is de openbaring van een nieuw geheim der natuur. De schimmen der helden verheffen zich telkens voor onze oogen. Zij geven ons hun bevelen met blikken vol schoonheid en woorden vol goedheid. Maar welke helden staan in Emerson’s schatting het hoogst? Zij, die zich weten te verloochenen en zichzelve durven te zijn, bij wie het geestelijke hooger staat dan het stoffelijke, die door oprechtheid en zelfbeheersching over anderen heerschen. Zij trekken alle klassen der maatschappij tot zich, totdat eindelijk, gelijk men pleegt te zeggen, ook de honden zich aan hen toevertrouwen. 1 Men vergete evenwel niet, dat de held deugden bezit, die hij niet aan anderen kan mededeelen. Het schijnt dat de godheid , 1 Van Abraham Lincoln getuigt Emerson: “Hij was welkom en tehuis in de nederigste hut, terwijl hij in dagen van gevaar de bewondering der wijzen opwekte. Zijn hart was zoo groot als de wereld en toch was daarin geen plaats, om de herinnering aan geleden onrecht te bewaren. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 89 •fils zij hem zendt om zijn tocht door de wereld te volbrengen, op het kleed zijner ziel geschreven heeft: Slechts goed voor deze reis. Volgens de wet der individualiteit moet ieder mensch zichzelf blijven. Men zou kunnen vragen: Vormen de groote mannen eenkaste? Zijn de ellendige massa’s van geen waarde? Wat wordt er dan van de beloften aan de deugd gedaan ? Emerson’s antwoord luidt: De maatschappij is een school, waarin elk op zijn beurt meester en leerling is. Voor alien is dezelfde werkkring weggelegd. 1 Wie iets van Emerson gelezen heeft, kent zijn “Representative Men”, die in 1850 voor het eerst zijn uitgegeven. Het boekje bevat geen levensschetsen van beroemde personen, maar typen. Plato wordt als de wijsgeer, Swedenborg als de mysticus, Shakespeare als de dichter, Montaigne als de scepticus, Goethe als de schrijver, Napoleon als de man der wereld geschetst. 2 De schrijver plaatst ze niet in de lijst van hun tijd, maar beschouwt hen als de vertegenwoordigers van het geestelijk leven in zijn verschillende vor­ men. “De schatten des geestes worden onder de hoede van dit zestal gesteld, zonder wie het u niet geoorloofd is, daarnaar te grijpen. Een groot paleis staat voor ons, waartoe zes poorten den 1 Vgl. Uses of great men , een Inleiding op Representative Men. 2 “In der geistvollcn kleinen Schrift “Representative Men” giebt der Amerikaner Emerson dem einen Aufsatz den Titel “Shakespeare oder der Dichter”, dem anderen “Goethe oder der Schriftsteller”. Dieser Unterschied in den Titeln erscheint zuerst wunderlich: Goethe ist doch vor Allem auch Dichter. Bei naherem Zusehen verstandigt man sich aber mit dem Verfasser wohl. Shakespeare ist ausschlieszlich Dichter und als solcher der erste unter den modernen; wer dagegen Goethe nnr als Dichter kennt, kennt ihn kaum zur Halfte.” (Vgl. Julian Schmidt; “Goethe nnd Herder”, in de 'PreussiscTie Jahr- liicher, 1879, p. 441.) �90 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. I.- . > - ■ toegang verschaffen, aan elk van welke -een dezer helden de wacht houdt. Wie binnen wil treden, moet zich aan een der zes onderwerpen.” (Herm. Grimm.) Bij dit boekje, zoo rijk aan schoonfr en diepzinnige gedachten, moeten wij, al kan het slechts kort zijn, de aandacht onzer lezers bepalen. Plato behoort tot de lievelingsschrijvers van Emerson. Telkens komt hij op hem terug. Wanneer een scepticus, over vragen die­ op het geestelijk leven betrekking hebben, zijn meeningen verkondigt en Plato niet gelezen heeft, dan kan hij, volgens onzen schrijver, geen aanspraak maken op onzen tijd. Gedurende 22 eeuwen is Plato de Bijbel der geleerden. Mannen als Augustinus, Copernicus, Newton, Swedenborg waren zijn schuldenaars en tot schade van hun roem na hem geboren. Tot schande der menschheid is het niemand gelukt, om een enkel idee aan de zijne toe te voegen. Hij had geen vrouw en kinderen, maar de denkers van alle beschaafde volken vormen zijn nakomelingschap en zijn met zijn geest doortrokken. De alexandrijnsche geleerden' en de groote helden uit de eeuw van Eliza­ beth zijn leerlingen van hem. Het Calvinisme, ja zelfs het Chris­ tendom vindt ge in zijn Phaedo terug. Het mysticisme dankt aan Plato al zijn teksten. Een Engelschman leest hem en roept uit: Hoe geheel engelschfl Een lezer in Nieuw-Engeland houdt hem voor een amerikaansch genie. Hoe is het te verklaren, dat hij in de geschiedenis van het geestelijk leven van ons geslacht zulk een hooge plaats heeft in­ genomen , dat alle scholen, wijsgeeren, kerken, priesters zijn werken hebben bestudeei^r Zulk een wonder zou onverklaarbaar zijn, ware Plato niet een oprecht en universeel denker geweest, die de wetten van den geest en de orde der natuur wist te eerbiedigen, in wiens hoofd een plaats was voor de schatten van Europa en van Azie. Emerson dweept, zou men bijna zeggen, met Plato. Alleen be- �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 91 treurt hij het, dat deze edele in het achtste boek der Republiek den leugen voor regenten geoorloofd acht. Is Swedenborg terecht de vertegenwoordiger der mystiek genoemd? Deze type komt mij voor het minst gelukt te zijn Gaarne beken ik, dat het mij niet gelukt is, den schrijver altijd te kunnen volgen. Misschien zou hier de uitspraak van een zijner bewonderaars in Amerika van toepassing zijn: Als ik Emerson niet hegrijp, dan ligt het aan mij. Het kan ook zijn, dat Swedenborg, die zelf alles behalve door duidelijkheid uitmunt, moeielijk in een helder licht kan worden gesteld voor hen, die vreemdelingen zijn in zijn werken. Er is in die vreemde persoonlijkheid veel, dat Emerson aantrekt. Vooreerst staan bij hem boven den dichter en den wijsgeer de mannen, die ons in de wereld der zedelijkheid of van den wil binnenleiden. ‘‘Van alles maak ik poezie, maar het zedelijk gevoel maakt poezie van mij.” Maar hij vond ook enkele zijner lievelingsdenkbeelden bij Sweden­ borg terug. Alles in de natuur is volgens dezen mysticus symbolisch -en typisch; de zinnelijke wereld is slechts het zinnebeeld der geestelijke. Met vromen eerbied was hij vervuld voor de harmonie, die hij in de natuur wist te ontdekken. Volgens Emerson komt hem een plaats toe onder de wetgevers der menschheid. Zijn tijdgenooten mochten hem voor een visionair houden; maar terwijl de koningen en hertogen van zijn tijd lang vergeten zijn, begint hij thans in de harten van duizenden te leven. Toch is Emerson alles behalve blind voor de afdwalingen van dien grooten geest. Zijn omgang met engelen en geesten trok hem niet aan. Zijn onderzoek droeg eeri te uitsluitend theologisch karakter. Het individu kwam bij hem niet tot zijn recht. Men is met hem altijd in een kerk. De scepticus heeft een afkeer van de uitersten. Hij gaat even- �92 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. min met den speculatieven wijsgeer als met den materialist, met den idealist als met den realist, met den geloovige als met den ongeloovige mede. Waarom —■ zoo vraagt hij — zal ik gaan philosopheeren over dingen, die buiten de grenzen van mijn ver­ stand liggen? Waartoe ons op overtuigingen omtrent een ander leven beroepen, die wij niet bezitten? Wat baat het de kracht der deugd te overdrijven en een eogel te worden vbdr uw tijd? Ik heb genoeg van de dogmatici en walg van hen, die de dog­ ma’s ontkennen. Ik ben hier om te onderzoeken. Waartoe theorieen over de maatschappij, den godsdienst, de natuur verkondigd, die elk oogenblik weersproken kunnen worden ? Het terrein van den scepticus is dat der waarneming, der onthouding, niet van het ongeloof, van de ontkenning, nog minder van de spotternij. Hij is de bedachtzame, voorzichtige man, die zijn rekening opmaakt, zijn goederen bestuurt en meent, dat een mensch te veel vijanden heeft, om ook nog zijn eigen vijand te worden. Montaigne is volgens hem een type van het verstandig scepticisme. Vanwaar Emerson’s voorliefde voor hem? Hij verhaalt ons, dat hem uit de bibliotheek zijns vaders een deel van Cotton’s vertaling der Essais van Montaigne in handen kwam. Jaren daarna, toen hij pas de hoogeschool verlaten had, las hij het en schafte zich ook de andere deelen aan. De lectuur boeide hem. ’t Was hem of hij zelf die bladzijden geschreven had in een vroeger leven, daar zij geheel de uitdrukking waren van zijn eigen denkbeelden en ervaringen. Met blijdschap vernam hij later, dat een der nieuw ontdekte autografen van Shakespeare op een vertaling van Montaigne door Florio geschreven was. Ook trok hem Montaigne’s blanke oprechtheid aan. Hij verstond niet de kunst van veinzen. Hij beleed zijn zonden. Zijn eigen deugden hield hij niet voor vlekkeloos. “Wanneer ik zijn portret tegenover het titelblad bekijk, dan is ’t of ik hem hoor �RALPH 'WALDO EMERSON. 93 zeggen: gij kunt declameeren en overdrijven zooveel gij wilt; ik houd mij aan de waarheid en spreek liever in proza over wat ik weet, dan dat ik een fraaien roman schrijf. Ik houd van oude schoenen, die mijn voeten geen pijn doen, van oude vrienden en duidelijke bewijzen.” Zijn beschouwingen over allerlei onderwerpen laten zich aangenaam lezen. Montaigne schrijft in de taal der conversatie. Hij is nooit zouteloos, onoprecht en bezit het talent om den lezer bezig te houden met wat hem belang inboezemt. Hij kent de wereld, de boeken en zijn eigen persoon; hij schreeuwt niet, protesteert niet, smeekt niet; hij geniet elk uur van den dag en bemint de smart, omdat zij hem aan de werkelijkheid herinnert. Hij houdt van stevigen grond onder zijn voeten. Enthousiasme of hoogere inspiratie zoekt gij bij hem te vergeefs. Hij blijft altijd kalm en bezadigd; alleen wanneer hij over Socrates spreekt, wordt hij hartstochtelijk. Het recht van het scepticisme van Montaigne moet volgens Emerson erkend worden. In sommige oogenblikken van ons leven trekt het ons aan. Het is niet het scepticisme van den materia­ list. “Wat vleermuizen of ossen denken , gaat ons niet aan.” Maar het scepticisme heeft zijn grenzen. Het zedelijk gevoel is onaantastbaar. In het veranderlijke moeten wij het blijvende leeren ontdekken. Moge de eene afgrond zicb onder den anderen openen, deze meening plaats maken voor gene — in de eeuwige oorzaak heeft alles zijn grond. Geen dichter staat in Emerson’s oog zoo hoog als Shakespeare, de dichter bij uitnemendheid. Anderer wijsheid kunt gij verklaren, de zijne niet. Wij moeten in het voorhof blijven staan. Men kan zich niets verheveners voorstellen dan zijn scheppingen. Zijn levenswijsheid is even groot als zijn lyrisch talent en phantasie. Zijn taal is melodieus en waar. Nooit liet hij zich tot ostentatie �94 Ralph Waldo emerson. verleiden. De personen, die hij laat optreden, schijnen met hem onder dak te wonen. Niet Aubrey of Eowe, maar Shakespeare zelf geeft ons zijn biographie. Al kan hij zijn drievoet niet verlaten, om ons de geheime geschiedenis zijner inspiratie te verhalen, wij kennen zijn overtuigingen over vr^agstukken, waarin elk mensch belang stelt: over leven en dood, rijkdom en armoede, over de verborgen en zichtbare invloeden, die ons lot bepalen, over de geheimzinnige en demonische machten, welke met onze wetenschap spotten. Wie’ las ooit zijn sonnetten en drama’s en ontdekte niet zijn intiemste gedachten ? Bleven de vragen, die op zedelijkheid, godsdienst, wijsbegeerte betrekking hebben, door hem onbeantwoord ? Kan een vorst niet, evenals Napoleon van Talma, van hem leeren , hoe hij koninklijk moet optreden? Welk meisje vond hem niet teederder dan haar eigen teederste gevoelens? Overtrof hij den jeugdigen minnaar niet in liefde? Aan welken edelman met ruwe manieren gaf hij geen lessen ? Waarom mag Shakespeare het type van den dichter heeten? Omdat hij het wezen der dingen in muziek en verzen weet uit te drukken. Hij is een profeet, een voorlooper van een beteren toestand. Onpartijdig schildert hij het tragische zoowel als het komische. Met even vaste hand teekent hij een ooghaartje of een kuiltje in den wang, als een berg. De gansche wereld kon zich door hem laten portretteeren. Men zou zich vergissen, wanneer men Emerson voor een blind vereerder van “dien zanger en weldoener der menschheid” hield. Ook Shakespeare deelt volgens hem in de menschelijke onvolkomenheden. Hij bleeft bij de schoonheid der zichtbare wereld staan. Het is bevreemdend, dat zulk een genie niet de hoogere beteekenis der symbolen onderzocht. Waar het talent en gaven des geestes geldt, kent de wereld zijns gelijke niet. Maar zijn leven was in strijd met zijn ideeen. Hij, die voor de zielkunde �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 95 een nieuw veld opende , die de standaard der menschheid hooger vlrhief, leidde zelf een onheilig leven! Hij misbruikte zijn genie tot amusement van het publiek! “De wereld wacht nog op haar dichter-priester, die als een geinspireerde zien, spreken en handelen zal.” De schrijver is , volgens Emerson , de man voor alle eeuwen , die tot zijn eigen tijd in de rechte betrekking moet staan. Hij was vroeger een gewijde persoonlijkheid. Toen schreef hij bijbels, hymnen ter eere der godheid, wetboeken , heldendichten en treurspelen. Elk zijner woorden bevatte een waarheid. Hij wekte volken tot nieuw leven op. Waarom zijn de schrijvers thans minder geSerd ? Omdat zij voor de wisselende meeningen van het wufte volk buigen, een slechte regeering schaamteloos verdedigen of in dienst der oppositie hun geblaf laten hooren, kleurlooze kritiek en onzedelijke romans schrijven, in plaats van dag en nacht hun dorst aan de bronnen der inspiratie te lesschen. Emerson meent, dat wij van niemand beter dan van Goethe de macht en den plicht van den auteur kunnen leeren. Hij trad op in een tijd van algemeene beschaving zonder individualiteit; van poStische schrijvers zonder dichters; van parlementaire redenaars en advocaten zonder Demosthenessen en Chattams; van theologische faculteiten zonder profeten, van geleerde genootschappen zonder geleerden. Goethe is het hoofd van het duitsche volk. Hij ontleende zijn kracht aan de natuur, waarmede hij op het innigst verbonden was, aan den eeuwigen geest, die hem bezielde. Vandaar dat verheven gevoel van onafhankelijkheid, hetwelk hem kenmerkte. Niets bleef voor hem verborgen; hij wist van demonen, heiligen, bovennatuurlijke krachten gebruik te maken. Hij ontdekte elk geheim op het gebied der schoone kunsten. Hij had geen tijd, om iemand �96 ■RALPH WALDO EMERSON,, te haten. Zijn “Wilhelm Meister” is de schoonste roman. Wie het boek kan verstaan, leest het met verrukking en verbazing. Geen werk dezer eeuw is z66 nieuw, beschrijft het leven, de gewoonten, de karakters der menschen z66 juist. Alleen het slot is gebrekkig en onzedelijk. Waarom, vraagt Emerson, kunnen wij Goethe nooit als een geliefd vriend begroeten ? Omdat hij meermalen ons zedelijk gevoel beleedigt. De waarheid is bij hem alleen een middel tot beschaving. De toon, dien hij aanslaat, is te wereldsch. “Wij moeten” — zoo luidt het schoone slot dezer schets — “heilige schriften schrijven, om aarde en hemel te vereenigen. Geen enkele onwaarheid mag blijven bestaan. De waarheid moet altijd het richtsnoer onzer daden'zijn.” Napoleon wordt als de vertegenwoordiger van de mannen van het gezond verstand, van de praktijk geschetst. Hij is de profeet van de kooplieden, industrieelen, van alien, wier doel is rijk te worden. Hij bezat alles, wat de mensch in de 19de eeuw begeert: goede boeken, goed gezelschap , talrijke bedienden, paleizen , schilderijen en wat al niet meer. De ergste ziekte is in zijn oog het verlangen naar volmaaktheid. Met minachting spreekt hij over de predikers der vrijheid. Necker en Lafayette zijn in zijn oog dwepers! Dankbaarheid en edelmoedigheid achtte hij goed voor vrouwen en kinderen. Napoleon werd geboren , omdat hij noodzakelijk was. Hij heerschte over de volken, omdat deze Napoleons in het klein waren. Hij was een man van staal en ijzer; zestien uren kon hij te paard zitten, dagen lang bijna zonder voedsel en rust blijven. Hij handelde met de snelheid eens tijgers. Moedig, vastberaden , zonder gewetensbezwaren, liet hij zich door niemand of niets van zijn voornemen afbrengen. Hij wist wat hij den volgenden dag te doen had. Hinderpalen en gevaren kende hij niet. Hij had een �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 97 afkeer -van de mannen van geboorte en van “de erfelijke ezels”, gelijk hij de Bourbons noemde. Met al zijn groote en scbitterende gaven was hij geen held in den waren zin des woords. Omdat hij verstand had zonder geweten, was hij een bedrieger en een schelm. Hij zocht fortuin te maken zonder zedelijk begins el. Daarom heeft zijn werk geen sporen achtergelaten. Volgens de eeuwige wet, die in het heelal heerscht, moet iedere daad, die een zelfzuchtig doel beoogt, mislukken. Alleen dat goed gedijt, hetwelk met open deuren genoten kan worden en anderen tot zegen is. Emerson is niet alleen wijsgeer, maar ook moralist. Ook als zoodanig dienen wij hem wat meer van naderbij te leeren kennen. Het beginsel der zedelijkheid is volgens hem zelfvertrouwen. 1 Er komt in het leven van elk mensch een tijd, wanneer hij inziet, dat navolging voor hem met zelfmoord gelijk staat. Niemand, ook hij zelf niet, weet wat hij vermag, voordat hij er de proef van genomen heeft. Gelijk de groote helden van ons geslacht, moet elk mensch de plaats innemen, welke de goddelijke Voorzienigheid hem heeft aangewezen, een weldoener en verlosser voor anderen zijn. Maar wij vertrouwen niet genoeg op ons zelve en schamen ons daarom voor de goddelijke gedachte, die wij vertegenwoordigen. De maatschappij is er op uit, om ons deze zelfstandigheid te ontrooven. Zij heeft een afkeer van zelfvertrouwen, houdt van gebruiken en gewoonten en eischt boven alles conformiteit. Daartegen waarschuwt Emerson zoo krachtig mogelijk. Een mensch moet een non-conformist wezen. Zelf moet hij onderzoeken wat Vgl. zija Essay: Sdf-Reliance. �98 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. goed is, overal, zonder aanzien des persoons, de ronde waarheid zeggen. In de wereld volgens de publieke opinie, in de eenzaamheid naar eigen overtuiging te leven, dat gaat gemakkelijk. Maar alleen hij is groot, die in de wereld de onafhankelijkheid der eenzaamheid bewaart. Wie zich naar gebruiken schikt, die voor hem geen recht van bestaan hebben, verliest al zijn kracht Wie een doode kerk in het leven zoekt te houden, geeft zijn karakter prijs. Wanneer ik weet, tot welke sekte iemand behoort, behoef ik naar zijn meeningen geen onderzoek meer te doen. Als een prediker over de kerkelijke instellingen het woord voert, dan weet ik vooruit, dat hij niet als mensch, maar als dienaar der parochie zal spreken. (?) Laat de menigte haar ontevredenheid toonen over onze nonconformiteit, haar oordeel is zonder waarde. Er is nog meer, wat ons zelfvertrouwen in den weg staat: onze eerbied voor ons eigen verleden, voor onze woorden en daden, waaraan wij niet ontrouw willen worden (consistency). Die dwaze vasthoudendheid is het ideaal van kleine staatslieden, kleine philosofen en kleine theologen. Een groote ziel zegt ronduit wat zij heden denkt, en spreekt later even open haar overtuigingen uit, al wijken zij nog zoo ver af van die, welke vroeger gehuldigd werden. Het is waar, dan zullen oude dames uitroepen: gij kunt zeker zijn, dat gij niet begrepen wordt. Maar Pytha­ goras, Socrates, Jezus , KLuther, Copernicus, Galilei, Newton, ja, geen enkel wijs en edel mensch werd ooit begrepen. Is dat zoo treurig? De bron van het zelfvertrouwen is volgens Emerson de spontaneiteit. “De intuitie is de fontein, waaruit daden en gedachten ontspringen, de bron der inspiratie, welke alleen de atheist loochent. Elk mensch weet, dat hij aan zijn inspiraties volkomen vertrouwen schuldig is. Zij zijn evenmin betwistbaar als dag en nacht.” �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 99 Op twee wetten in de zedelijke wereld vestigt Emerson vooral de aandacht: de eerste is die der compensatie. 1 Reeds in zijn jengd, zoo verhaalt hij ons, had hij gewenscht, over deze wet iets te schrijven. Naar zijn meening kan het leven ons omtrent die wet beter inlichten dan de theologie, weet het volk er meer van dan de predikers. De oneindige verscheidenheid der documenten, die van de compensatie getuigen, bekoorde zijn verbeelding. Hij was er van overtuigd, dat de leer der com­ pensatie een ster op onzen weg zou zijn, waardoor wij in donkere oogenblikken voor afdwalingen bewaard werden. Op lateren leeftijd werd de begeerte om daarover te schrijven weder bij hem opgewekt. Hij hoorde een leeraar, die om zijn orthodoxie geacht was, op de gewone manier over het laatste oordeel preeken. Aan de rede en de Schrift ontleende hij de bewijzen, die ons dwingen aan een vergelding in het toekomend leven te gelooven. In deze wereld toch heeft de gerechtigheid haar loop niet. De vergeldingsleer, door den prediker verkondigd, kwam hier op neer: goederen, prachtige kleeren, weelde en nog zooveel meer, dat alles is thans in handen der beginselloozen, terwijl de godsdienstigen arm en veracht zijn. De laatsten hebben dus aanspraak op geld, wildbraad, champagne enz. De dwaling van den prediker bestond volgens Emerson in de concessie, dat de slechten gelukkig zijn en dat er op aarde geen gerechtigheid heerscht. Maar de vergadering ging schijnbaar wel voldaan naai’ huis. Nu moest hij zelf dat onderwerp eens op zijn wijze gaan behandelen. Wij kunnen slechts enkele punten uit zijn interessante verhandeling aanstippen. Er heerscht in de natuur een onvermijdelijk dualisme, zoo­ dat elk voorwerp een helft is, welke door een andere gecompleteerd wordt, b. v. geest en stof; man en vrouw; subjectief en 1 Vgl. zijn Essay: Compensation. �100 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. objectief; boven en beneden; beweging en rust; ja en neen. De physiologen hebben opgemerkt, dat er in de dierenwereld geen bevoorrechten zijn, daar een zekere compensatie het evenwicht be- waart tusschen elke gave en elk gebrek. Een koud klimaat verhoogt onze kracht, Een onvruchtbare grond brengt geen koortsen, krokodillen, tijgers of schorpioenen voort. Ook in Alle zoet lies. Met Wat ter het leven van den mensch heerscht hetzelfde dualisme. heeft zijn bitter. Tegenover elke winst staat een ver­ elk grein vernuft krijgt gij ook een grein dwaasheid. eener zijde verloren gaat, wordt ter anderer zijde ge- wonnen. De natuur houdt niet van monopolies en uitzonderingen. In het oog van den pachter is macht een begeerlijke zaak. Maar hij vergeet, dat de President zijn “White-House” ’ duur betaaid heeft. Misschien heeft hij zijn vrede en zijn beste eigen- schappen moeten prijsgeven. Wie door de kracht van zijn wil of zijn geest over duizenden heerscht, draagt ook de verantwoordelijkheid van die macht. De gemspireerde moet van het licht getuigen', vader en moeder, vrouw en kind haten, de wereld be­ droeven door aan de waarheid getrouw te blijven. De wet der compensatie schrijft aan steden en volken wetten voor. Niemand vermag iets tegen haar. Is een regeering wreed, dan is het leven van den regent niet meer veilig. Wanneer het strafwetboek te gestreng is, dan zullen de jury’s geen veroordeelend vonnis uitspreken. Al wat willekeurig, kunstmatig is, kan op den duur niet bestaan. Het heelal is in elk zijner deeltjes vertegenwoordigd. De natuuronderzoeker merkt in elke metamorphose hetzelfde type op: het paard is een loopend, de visch een zwemmend, de vogel een vliegend mensch. De ware leer der alomtegenwoordigheid Gods 1 De naam van het hotel, volgens de Constitute der Vereenigde Staten van Amerika ter beschikking van den President gesteld. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 101 is deze: God openbaart zich met al zijn eigenschappen in elk grasscheutje. Alle dingen zijn zedelijk. De ziel, die in ons gevoel is, heet buiten ons wet. In ons bemerken wij haar inspiratie, terwijl wij in de geschiedenis haar noodlottige kracht kunnen bespeuren. “Zij is in de wereld en de wereld is door haar gemaakt.” Elk geheim komt aan het licht, iedere misdaad wordt gestraft, elke deugd beloond, elk onrecht hersteld. Wat wij vergelding noemen, is de noodzakelijkheid, door welke het geheel verschijnt wanneer een deel aanwezig is. Als gij rook ziet, moet er ook vnur zijn. Oorzaak en gevolg, middelen en doel, zaad en vrucht kunnen niet gescheiden worden. Alle pogingen, die de dwazen ondernemen om het goede te verkrijgen, zonder aan de voorwaarden te voldoen, die daaraan verbonden zijn, blijven vruchteloos. De wet der compensatie wordt in de spreekwoorden van alle volken verkondigd: geef en u zal gegeven worden ; wie niets waagt, bezit niets; wie niet werkt, zal niet eten; verwenschingen komen altijd terug op het hoofd van hem, die ze uitspreekt; de duivel is een ezel. Wie een ander onrecht aandoet, lijdt daardoor zelf. De fanaticus, die de poorten des hemels voor anderen wil sluiten, vergeet dat voor hem de toegang gesloten is. Wie zich om het hart van anderen niet bekommert, zal ook het zijne verliezen. Niemand kan den edele eenig kwaad doen. Ziekte, beleediging, armoede, alle rampen, worden zijn weldoeners. Een dwaas bijgeloof beweert, dat een mensch door anderen bedrogen kan worden. Wij kunnen slechts ons zelve misleiden. Elke bewezen dienst wordt vergolden. Hoe langer de betaling uitgesteld wordt, des te beter voor ons: de goddelijke gerechtigheid is gewoon, met interest op interest te betalen. De geschiedenis der vervolgingen verhaalt, hoe de menschen beproefd hebben de natuur te misleiden. Te vergeefs. De geeseling, �102 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. die de martelaar ondergaat, strekt hem tot eer; ieder boek, dat verbrand wordt, verlicht de wereld ; elke stem, die men tot zwijgen poogt te brengen, weerklinkt over de gansche aarde. Eindelijk ontwaken de geesten en de martelaar wordt gerechtvaardigd, de onderdrukker van zijn macht beroofd. De omstandigheden zijn onverschillig; de mensch is alles. Wanneer dwazen van de wet der compen satie hooren, dan roepen zij nit: wat baat het goed te doen? Als ik iets goeds deelachtig word, moet ik den prijs daarvoor betalen; verlies ik iets goeds, dan win ik wat anders. Zij vergeten, dat een mensch niets wezenlijks verliest, wanneer hij in rechtschapenheid toeneemt. “Ik wensch geen uitwendige goederen , geen eerbewijzingen , geen macht, geen gunst van menschen, daar zij geen werkelijke winst aanbieden. Ik begin de woorden van den heiligen Bernard te begrijpen: “Nieman d kan mij kwaad doen dan ik zelf; wanneer ik werkelijk lijd, is het alleen mijn eigen schuld.” Er schijnt een groote onrechtvaardigheid in de wereld te bestaan. Wij denken aan de onderscheiding, die wij overal opmerken tusschen meer en minder. Wij voelen ons bedroefd, als wij in aanraking komen met menschen, die minder vermogens hebben dan wij, en zijn verlegen met onze verhouding tegenover hen. Wij zijn bevreesd, dat zij God zullen aanklagen. Maar wanneer wij de feiten nauwkeurig onderzoeken , dan verdwijnen al die kolossale ongelijkheden. De liefde heft ze alle op. Is mijn broeder edeler dan ik, ik kan hem beminnen en zijn eigenschappen worden de mijne. Ik ontdek, dat hij mijn goede genius is. Wanneer ik Jezus bemin, wordt zijn deugd dan niet de mijne? Langzamerhand komen wij tot het besef, dat de wet der compensatie zich ook in de rampen des levens openbaart. Wij kunnen van onze vrienden niet scheiden. Onze engelen willen wij niet laten vertrekken. Maar wij vergeten, dat zij voor aartsengelen plaats maken. De dood van een geliefden vriend of van een onzer be- �-Vi' V ’ : ‘ RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ' 103 trekkingen, eerst een gemis, brengt gewoonlijk een weldadige omwenteling in ons leven tot stand. Een tijdperk van ons leven wordt gesloten, om plaats te maken voor een ander, dat heilzamer is voor de ontwikkeling van ons karakter. Emerson herinnert nog aan een andere wet in de zedelijke wereld , die der voortdurende opklimmende beweging, welke zich overal in bet heelal openbaart. 1 Elk einde is een begin; om elken cirkel kan men een anderen beschrijven; onder elken afgrond opent zich een diepere. Een laatste feit is het begin van een nieuwe serie van feiten. Wij zoeken steeds een hoogeren trap te bereiken dan dien, waarop wij het laatst stonden. Elke nieuwe stap, door ons in het rijk der gedachten gedaan, leert ons, dat twintig tegenstrijdige feiten de uitdrukking zijn van een en dezelfde wet. Wanneer God op aarde een denker zendt, dan schijnt alles in gevaar. Elk deel der wetenschap moet op nieuw onderzocht wor­ den,- aan menige letterkundige celebriteit dreigt de kroon ontnomen te zullen worden. Zijn komst wordt met blijdschap begroet door hem, die de waarheid verkiest boven zijn meeningen over de waarheid, die overtuigd is, dat zijn verhouding tot de maatschappij, het Christendom en de wereld niet boven alle bedenking verheven is. Geen enkele deugd heeft reeds haar toppunt bereikt. De maatschappelijke deugden zijn de ondeugden van den heilige. Onze vrees voor hervorming is een bewijs , dat onze zoogenoemde deugden in denzelfden afgrond moeten geworpen worden, die reeds onze grovere ondeugden heeft verzwolgen. 1 Vgl. zijn Essay: Circles. XI. 7 �104 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. In zijn verbeelding hoort Emerson de volgende tegenwerping: “Tot welk een fraai Pyrrhonisme zijt gij gekomen, o wijsgeer der kringen! Gij zoudt ons gaarne willen wijsmaken, dat zelfs onze misdaden, als wij waar zijn, levende steenen kunnen zijn, waarmede wij den tempel van den waren God zullen bouwen.” Zijn antwoord luidt: Ik bekommer mij niet om de rechtvaardiging mijner gevoelens. Ik verblijd mij, dat ik mocht opmerken, hoe het onoverwinlijk beginsel van het goede in elke spleet doordringt, die het egoisme openlaat. Ik ben slechts een zoeker der waarheid. Niemand be- hoeft aan hetgeen ik doe of laat eenige waarde toe te kennen. Ik onderzoek eenvoudig, alsof er geen verleden achter mij lag. Met onverzadelijke begeerte street ik er naar, om een nieuwen cirkel te trekken. Zonder geestdrift is nimmer iets groots tot stand gekomen. Als wij hiet weten waarheen wij gaan, dan kunnen wij. hoog stijgen. Wij moeten van ten moralist afscheid nemen. Wanneer wij over meer ruimte konden beschikken, we zouden vooral de aandacht onzer lezers bij de Essays over karakter, liefde en vriendschap bepalen?P Terecht is Emerson een dichter genoemd. Niet omdat hij eenige verhandelingen geschreven heeft over kunst, poezie, verbeelding, melodie; ook niet ijlmdat hij een paar bundels verzen in het licht heeft gegeven. De inspiratie van den dichter is hem alles behalve vreemd. Zijn stijl kenmerkt zich door levendigheid en aanschouwe-. lijkheid. Zijn proza is menigmaal poezie. Wat hij over de roeping van den dichteijj schreef, is niet uit boeken geput. uElk mensch beleeft enkele oogenblikken 1 wanneer hij de stof beheerscht. In. 1 Vgl. ook, in The Conduct of Life, de opstellen over Power, Cul­ ture, Illusions. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 105 goed gezelschap wordt alles in schoone gelijkenissen, in symbolen uitgedrukt. De dichter moet de grootste beeldhouwer zijn. Aan het hof der Muzen geldt de onverbiddelijke wet: gij moet bf geinspireerd zijn df zwijgen. De zanger mag slechts in zijn beste oogenblikken zijn stem verheffen. De hoogste poezie, die aan de menschheid jeugd en gezondheid, heldenmoed en kracht schenkt, is dieper verborgen en moeielijker te ontdekken dan Amerika en Australis, de stoom en de electrische batterij. De poezie is onschatbaar als een schuilplaats van het geloof, als een protest tegen het geschreeuw van het atheisme. Elke schoone en mannelijke r taal is een zuivere toon in het lied.” Spreekt uit zulk een taal niet de dichter tot ons? Niemand herinnert minder dan Emerson aan den geleerde van •den ouden stempel. Naar uitvoerige citaten, die van zijn geleerdheid getuigenis moeten afleggen, zoekt ge bij hem te vergeefs. Toch is hij tehuis in oude en nieuwe letterkunde, zoowel van het Oosten als van het Westen. Als hij ze noodig heeft, staan hem de beste schrijvers en dichters ten dienste. Hij heeft ze niet alleen gelezen, maar ook hun beste gedachten in hoofd en hart bewaard. Met een zijner Essays, getiteld: Boeken, willen wij nog vluchtig kennismaken. 1 Er zijn boeken, hoewel hun getal klein is, die in ons leven dezelfde plaats innemen als ouders, geliefden en hartstochtelijke ervaringen ; die z66 heilzaam, versterkend, revolutionair zijn , zulk een treffende overeenkomst toonen met de wereld, die zij schilderen, dat wij ons schamen, aan zulke werken niet een voorname plaats in ons leven te hebben toegekend. * In Society and Solitude. �106 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. In een uitgezochte kleine bibliotheek verkeeren wij in gezelschap van de wijste en ontwikkeldste mannen uit de beschaafde landen in verschillende eeuwen. De gedachten, die zij zelfs voor hun boezemvrienden niet durfden uitspreken, liggen voor ons open. Wij danken daaraan de idee der onsterfelijkheid. Zij versterken in ons de zedelijke kracht en wekken onze phantasie op. Wie de classieke werken gelezen heeft, heeft recht tot spreken. Maar als een scepticus of een schijnheilige over vraagstukken, die op het geestelijk leven betrekking hebben, een oordeel velt, zonder dat hij de werken der groote meesters op dit gebied gelezen heeft, dan mag hij op uw tijd geen aanspraak rnaken. Laat hem eerst naar de bronnen gaan, om daar zelf het antwoord te vernemen. Volgens Emerson ontbreekt aan de Hoogescholen een leerstoel der “boeken”, welke meer dan eenige andere vereischt wordt. Ineen academische bibliotheek noodigen duizende vrienden, in dezelfde foedralen gehuld, ons uit. De keus is moeielijk en wij weten uit eigen ervaring, dat in deze loterij minstens vijftig of honderd nieten op £en prijs voorkomen. Wanneer nu een barmhartige ziel,. die een groot deel van zijn tijd verspild heeft te midden van onbeduidendheden, eindelijk rust vond bij enkele meesterstukken, die hem gelukkig maakten, zou hij een goed werk verrichten, als hij ons die werken wilde aanwijzen, welke hem veilig over oceauen en donkere moerassen in het hart der heilige steden, naar paleizen en tempels gevoerd hebben. De Fabriciussen, de Scaligers, de Mirandolas, de Bayles, de Johnsons zouden de aangewezen personen zijn, wier oog met e£n blik den ganschen horizont der geleerdheid omvat. Het lezen van middelmatige schrijvers is onvruchtbaar. Vele volken danken hun beschaving aan enkel boek. Voor een groot deel van Europa was de Bijbel de eenige godsdienstige lectuur. Hafiz, Confucius, Cervantes waren de grootste genieen �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 407 I der Perzen, Chinezen en Spanjaarden. Het zou wenschelijk zijn, dat alle schrijvers van lageren rang voor ons verloren gingen > opdat wij een diepe studie van de uitnemendste geesten konden maken. Emerson wil voorloopig de taak van zulk een professor der “boeken” op zich nemen en noemt eenige werken op, die niemand zonder schade ongelezen kan laten. Wie geen vreemdeling in Griekenland wil zijn, moet Homerus, Herodotus, Aeschylus, Plato en Plutarchus kennen. Onder de Platonici kunnen Plotinus, Porphyrius, Jamblichus niet ongelezen blijven. Voor de kennis van Rome’s geschiedenis zijn Livius, Horatius, Tacitus, Martialis, Gibbon onontbeerlijk. ' Zonder Dante, Boccacio, Michel Angelo kunnen wij de Middeleeuwen niet verstaan. Voor de oudste geschiedenis van Engeland moeten o. a. de jongere Edda, Beda Venerabilis en Hume, voor de eeuw van Eli­ zabeth Shakespeare, Spencer, Baco, Beaumont, Fletcher, Her­ bert — om slechts enkelen te noemen — bestudeerd worden. , a Voor de geschiedenis zijn vooral biographiefe van belang. Tot de beste boeken rekent Emerson autobiographieen als die van Augustinus, Benvenuto Cellini, Montaigne, ■ Rousseau, Linnaeus, Gibbon, Hume , Franklin, Burns, Goethe en Haydn. In onzen tijd, nu velen onverschillig zijn omtrent alles, wat niet in getallen kan worden uitgedrukt, moeten vooral de dichters en alien, die de phantasie opwekken, in eere gehouden worden. De allerbeste lectuur bieden ons volgens Emerson de heilige schriften, niet alleen die der Jodea en der Christenen, maar ook die van heidensche volken, vooral de Veda’s, de wetten van Manu, de Upanischads, de Bhagavad-Gita en de heilige boeken der Buddhisten aan. “De Bijbels zijn de majestueuse uitdrukking van het algemeen geweten. Zij zijn bestemd voor de binnenkamer en �1,Q8 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. moeten op de knieSn gelezen worden. De zendeling kan ze medenemen , maar zal bemerken, dat de geest, die in deze boeken woont, sneller reist dan hy en hem by zijn komst in een vreemd land begroet.” Daarnaast worden die schriften geplaatst, welke bijna canoniek gezag verwierven, zooals de spreuken van Epictetus, van Mar­ cus Aurelius, de “Imitatio Christi” en de “Pens^es” van Pascal. Aan het slot zijner lezing erkent de spreker, dat niet ieder in staat is, om de meesterstukken der menschheid, al bepaalde hij zich daartoe ook alleen, te lezen. Hij beveelt daarom letterkundige vereenigingen aan, waarin elk op zijn beurt een beroemden schrijver aan anderen voorstelt. Wanneer wij de parels aanbieden, die wij zelve in een werk gevonden hebben, dan mogen anderen beslissen, of het voor hen onontbeerlijk is. Frederika Bremer heeft Emerson vergeleken met zijn landgenoot Theodore Parker en niet zonder reden. Bij alle verschil, waarop wij hier niet kunnen wijzen, beschouwden beiden het als hun roeping, om als profeten onder hun volk te arbeiden. Welk een liefde voor waarheid en gerechtigheid woonde in die twee edele harten! Tegenover het gezag in kerk en maatschappij hebben zij de vrijheid gepredikt; tegenover het materialisme de vaan van het idealisme omhoog geheven., Julian Schmidt noemt Emerson een geestverwant van Carlyle. “Emerson errinnert fast in all seinen Schriften an Carlyle. Ohne Zweifel ist er als der jiingere von ihm stark beeinfluszt; die Verwandtschaft ist jedoch angeboren.” 1 Beider ingenomenheid met Duitschland, hun idealistische levensbeschouwing, hun opvatting van de geschiedenis en van de waarde der groote helden van ons ge1 Vgl. de Inleiding voor de Neue Essays van R. W. Emerson, p. X. �RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 109 slacht Ieveren treffende parallellen. Toch zou het weinig moeite kosten, om naast de o vereen stemming het verschil tusschen deze groote geesten in het licht te stellen. Wij hebben ons bijna geheel van kritiek op Emerson’s denkbeelden onthouden. Wij deden dit opzettelijk. Waartoe zou het dienen, telkens aan te wijzen, waar wij van hem verschillen? Er was gelegenheid te over, om tegen sommige vreemde voorstellingen , paradoxen, overdrijvingen, tegenstrijdigheden, die wij in zijn schriften bij menigte aantreffen, protest aan te teekenen. Maar wij wenschten Emerson aan te bevelen bij zoovelen, voor wie hij nog een vreemdeling is. Wij ontkennen niet, dat er in­ spanning vereischt wordt, om van zijn werken te genieten. Zijn stijl is niet gemakkelijk te volgen, al komt het ons voor, dat zijn laatste werken in helderheid boven zijn vroegere schriften uitmunten. 1 Maar de moeite, aan de studie besteed, wordt rijkelijk beloond. Wij maken kennis met een diepzinnig man, wiens ernst en karakter, wiens afkeer van alle ijdelheid en zelfverheffing ons onweerstaanbaar aantrekken. Al zijn wij het menigmaal niet met hem eens, hij wektop tot nadenken en schenkt ons een genot van de edelste soort.In zijn gezelschap voelt men zich beter gestemd. Wij kunnen denindruk verklaren, dien de studie van Emerson’s werken op een zijner vereerdcrs maakte: “Als 1 Ik geloof, dat iemand een goed werk zou verrichten, wanneer hij b. v. het keurig boekje: Society and Solitude in onze taal overzette. Van de duitsche vertaling van Scalma Mohnicke is reeds een tweede uitgave verschenen. “Geschrieben in der classischen Weise des beriihmten Autors, spricht sich dieses Buch in zwolf Anfsatzen uber die sociale und natiirliche Stellung des Menschen aus. Der hohe sittliche Ernst, die gliicklichen Apercjus, die auszerordentliche Belesenheit, der umfassende Gesichtskreis, die scharfe Beobachtung und die virtuose Darstellnng des Verfassers sind von wahrhaft hinreiszender Wirkung und gewahren dem denkenden Leser ein Genusz, der eben so kostlich als nachhaltig ist.” �" 110 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ' “ ' ■ ? \L"‘ men jaren lang van een boek denzelfden reinen, aangrijpenden indruk ontvangt, leert men daaraan te gelooven. Wanneer ik Emerson lees, dan komt mij alles oud en bekend voor, maar tevens nieuw, alsof ik het voor de eerste maal hoorde. Zijn overtuigingen komen voort uit het diepst zijner ziel. Zulk een man te hooren, dat moet boven alle beschrijving aangrijpend zijn.” 1 1 H. Grimm, Funfzehn Essays, p. 430 verv. (1874.) � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Ralph Waldo Emerson Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [s.l.] Collation: p. 71-110 : ill. (front. port.) ; 20 cm. Notes: Drawing of Ralph Waldo Emerson with his signature on front cover. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Includes bibliographical references. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [n.d.] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT33 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource [Unknown] Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Ralph Waldo Emerson), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource Dutch American Poetry Conway Tracts Poetry in English Ralph Waldo Emerson https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/57b8631eda1101715a603562d0b80ebe.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=b0X1MZCLPxpksZFuTNChmLjoU3%7E5WPwVj81fE5bHNKgIJ5kAx2MjkMsFtqP6W2SIbmC3HLlrPqEmQ1OCszhWeFKZKytr9pt0IMl5rdQUE2RQyqlD-EmtamHlq5OUefwnMbIAIcVtszatZpaFXz5Wh5HClRgJmTggvctytXdDn78ykmIwMUgkj429tRX1wVbq87ExIUPLeVPO8c4qUn6oBkHqUcErz41nonZB%7ET-l1Ua4ot7RJ-0Rlp8P0QgRGvADlzOYeG9qEJUz96-G0f3VbJriL3wSjWngrOdCx4M-UIIyKynS-488pekCqc7NwsfWDUOuIReZjbLe0-lw8DQfkg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 3347584ee8ad2dcdecbc8488b010f8cf PDF Text Text 38 [July ci ^3 Shelley as a Lyric Poet.1 OO many biographies, records, comments, criticisms, of Shelley 0 have lately appeared that I take for granted that all who hear me have some general acquaintance with the facts of his life. Of the biographies none, perhaps, is more interesting than the short work by Mr. J. A. Symonds, which has lately been published as one of the series edited by Mr. Morley, ‘ English Men of Letters.’ That work has all the charm which intense admiration of its subject, set forth in a glowing style, can lend it. Those who in the main hold with Mr. Symonds, and are at one with him in his funda­ mental estimate ot things, will no doubt find his work highly attrac­ tive. Those, on the other hand, who see in Shelley’s character many things which they cannot admire, and in the theories that moulded it much which is deeply repulsive, will find Mr. Symonds’s work a less satisfactory guide than they could have wished. Of the many comments and criticisms on Shelley’s character and poetry two of the most substantial and rational are, the essay by Mr. R. H. Hutton, and that by the late Mr. Walter Bagehot. To these two friends Shelley, it would appear, had been one of the attractions of their youth, and in their riper years each has given his mature estimate of Shelley’s poetry in its whole substance and tendency. We all admire that which we agree with; and nowhere have I found on this subject thoughts which seem tome so adequate and so helpful as those contained in these two essays, none which give such insight into Shelley's abnormal character and into the secret springs of his inspiration. Of the benefit of these thoughts I have freely availed myself, whenever they seemed to throw light on the subject of this lecture. The effort to enter into the meaning of Shelley’s poetry is not altogether a painless one. Some may ask, Why should it be painful ? Cannot you enjoy his poems merely in an aesthetic way, take the marvel of their aerial movement and the magic of their melody, without scrutinising too closely their meaning or moral import? This, I suppose, most of my hearers could do for themselves, without any comment of mine. Such a mere surface, dilettante way of treating the subject would be useless in itself, and altogether un­ worthy of this place. All true literature, all genuine poetry, is the direct outcome, the condensed essence, of actual life and thought. Lyric poetry for the most part is—Shelley's especially was—the vivid expression of personal experience. It is only as poetry is founded on reality that it has any solid value ; otherwise it is 1 A Lecture delivered in the theatre of the Museum, Oxford. �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 39 worthless. Before, then, attempting to understand Shelley's lyrics I must ask what was the reality out of which they came—that is, what manner of man Shelley was, what were his ruling views of life, along what lines did his thoughts move ? Those who knew Shelley best speak of the sweetness and refine­ ment of his nature, of his lofty disinterestedness, his unworldliness. They even speak of something like heroic self-forgetfulness. These things we can in sort believe, for there are in his writings many traits that look like those qualities. And yet one receives with some decided reserve the high eulogies of his friends ; for we feel that these were not generally men whose moral estimates of things we would entirely accept, and his life contained things that seem strangely at variance with such qualities as they attribute to him. When Byron speaks of his purity of mind we cannot but doubt whether Byron was a good judge of purity. We must, moreover, on the evidence 'of Shelley’s own works demur; for there runs through his poems a painful taint of supersubtilised impurity, of aweless shamelessness, which we never can believe came from a mind truly pure. A pene­ trating taint it is, which has evilly affected many of the higher minds who admire him, in a way which Byron's own more commonplace licentiousness never could have done. One of his biographers has said that in no man was the moral sense ever more completely developed than in Shelley, in none was the perception of right and wrong more acute. I rather think that the late Mr. Bagehot was nearer the mark when he asserted that in Shelley the conscience never had been revealed—that he was almost entirely without conscience. Moral susceptibilities and impulses, keen and refined, he had. He was inspired with an enthusiasm of humanity after a kind; hated to see pain in others, and would willingly relieve it; hated oppression, and stormed against it, but then he regarded all rule and authority as oppression. He felt for the poor and the suffering, and tried to help them, and willingly would have shared with all men the vision of good which he sought for himself. But these passionate impulses are something very dif­ ferent from conscience. Conscience first reveals itself when we become aware of the strife between a lower and a higher nature within us— a law of the flesh warring against the law of the mind. And it is out of this experience that moral religion is born, the higher law rather leading up and linking us to One whom that law represents. As Canon Mozely has said, ‘ it is an introspection on which all religion is built—man going into himself and seeing the struggle within him ; and thence getting self-knowledge, and thence the knowledge of God.’ Of this double nature, this inward strife between flesh and spirit, Shelley knew nothing. He was altogether a child of impulse —of impulse, one, total, all-absorbing. And the impulse that came to him he followed whithersoever it went, without questioning either himself or it. He was pre-eminently roZs ttu6c<tlv aKoXovOyriKos, and you know that Aristotle tells us that such an one is no fit judge �40 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [j^y of moral truth. But this peculiarity, which made him so little fitted to guide either his own life or that of others, tended, on the other hand, very powerfully to make him pre-eminently a lyric poet. How it fitted him for this we shall presently see. But abandonment to impulse, however much it may contribute to lyrical inspiration, is a poor guide to conduct; and a poet s conduct in life, of whatever kind it be, quickly reacts on his poetry. It was so with Shelley. It is painful to recall the unhappy incidents, but? we cannot understand his poetry if we forget them. ‘ Strongly moralised,’ Mr. Symonds tells us, his boyhood was ; but of a strange—I might say, an unhuman—type the morality must have been which allowed some of the chief acts of his life. His father was no doubt a com­ monplace and worldly-minded squire, wholly unsympathetic with his dreamy son; but this cannot justify the son’s unfilial and irreverent conduct towards his parent, going so far as to curse him for the amusement of coarse Eton companions. Nobility of nature he may have had, but it was such nobility as allowed him, in order to hurl defiance at authority, to start atheist at Eton, and to do the same more boldly at Oxford, with what result you know. It allowed him to engage the heart of a simple and artless girl, who entrusted her life in his keeping, and then after two or three years to abandon her and her child—for no better reason, it would seem, than that she cared too little for her baby, and had an unpleasant sister, who was an offence to Shelley. It allowed him first to insult the religious sense of his fellow men by preaching the wildest atheism, then in the poem ‘ Laon and Cythna,’ which he intended to be his gospel for the world, to outrage the deepest instincts of our nature by introducing a most horrible and unnatural incident. A moral taint there is in this, which has left its trail in many of his after poems. The furies of the sad tragedy of Harriet Westbrook haunted him till the close, and drew forth some strains of weird agony; but even in these there is no manly repentance, no self-reproach that is true and human-hearted. After his second marriage he never repeated the former offence, but many a strain in his later poems, as in ‘ Epipsychidion,’ and in his latest lyrics, proves that constancy of affection was not in him, nor reckoned by him among the virtues. Idolators of Shelley will, I know, reply, ‘Tou judge Shelley by the conventional morality of the present day, and, judging him by this standard, of course you harshly con­ demn him. But it was against these very conventions which you call morality that Shelley s whole life was a protest. He was the prophet of something truer or better than this.’ To this I answer that Shelley’s revolt was not against the conventional morality of his own time, but against the fundamental morality of all time. Had he merely cried out against the stifling political atmosphere and the dry, dead orthodoxy of the Regency and the reign of George IV., and longed for some ampler air, freer and more life-giving, one could well have understood him, even sympathised with him. But he rebelled �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 41 not against the limitations and corruptions of his own day, but against the moral verities which two thousand years have made good, and which have been tested and approved not only by eighteen Christian centuries, but no less by the wisdom of Virgil and Cicero, of Aristotle and Sophocles. Shelley may be the prophet of a new morality, but it is one which never can be realised till moral law has been ob­ literated from the universe and conscience from the heart of man. A nature which was capable of the things I have alluded to, whatever other traits of nobility it may have had, must have been traversed by some strange deep flaw, marred by some radical inward defect. In some of his gifts and impulses he was more,—in other things essential to goodness, he was far less,—than other men ; a fully developed man he certainly was not. I am inclined to believe that, for all his noble impulses and aims, he was in some way defi­ cient in rational and moral sanity. Alanv of you will remember Hazlitt’s somewhat cynical description of him. Yet, to judge by his writings, it looks like truth. He had ‘ a fire in his eye, a fever in his blood, a maggot in his brain, a hectic flutter in his speech, which mark out the philosophic fanatic. He is sanguine-complexioned and shrill-voiced.’ This is just the outward appearance we could fancy for his inward temperament. What was that tem­ perament ? He was entirely a child of impulse, lived and longed for highstrung, intense emotion—simple, all-absorbing, all-penetrating emo­ tion, going straight on in one direction to its object, hating and resenting whatever opposed its progress thitherward. The object which he longed for was some abstract intellectualised spirit of beauty and loveliness, which should thrill his spirit continually with delicious shocks of emotion. Ibis yearning, panting desire is expressed by him in a thousand forms and figures throughout his poetry. Again and again the refrain recurs— I pant for the music which is Divine, My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine, Loosen the notes in a silver shower; Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. Let me drink the spirit of that sweet sound ; More, 0 more ! I am thirsting yet; It loosens the serpent which care has bound Upon my heart, to stifle it; The dissolving strain, through every vein, Passes into my heart and brain. He sought not mere sensuous enjoyment, like Keats, but keen intellectual and emotional delight—the mental thrill, the glow of soul, the ‘ tingling of the nerves,’ that accompany transcendental �42 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [July rapture. His hungry craving was for intellectual beauty, and the delight it yields ; if not that, then for horror, anything to thrill the nerves, though it should curdle the blood and make the flesh creep. Sometimes for a moment this perfect abstract loveliness would seem to have embodied itself in some creature of flesh and blood ; but only for a moment would the sight soothe him—the sympathy would cease, the glow of heart would die down—and he would pass on in the hot, insatiable pursuit of new rapture. ‘ There is no rest for us,’ says the great preacher, 4 save in quietness, confidence, and affection.’ This was not what Shelley sought, but something very different from this. The pursuit of abstract ideal beauty was one form which his hungry, insatiable desire took. Another passion that possessed him was the longing to pierce to the very heart the mystery of existence. It has been said that before an insoluble mystery, clearly seen to be insoluble, the soul bows down and is at rest, as before an ascertained truth. Shelley knew nothing of this. Before nothing would his soul bow down. Every veil, however sacred, he would rend, pierce the inner shrine of being, and force it to give up its secret. There is in him a profane audacity, an utter awelessness. Intellectual AZSws was to him unknown. Beverence was to him another word for hated superstition. Nothing was to him inviolate. All the natural reserves he would break down. Heavenward, he would pierce to the heart of the universe and lay it bare; manward, he would annihilate all the precincts of personality. Every soul should be free to mingle with any other, as so many raindrops do. In his own words, The fountains of our deepest life shall be Confused in passion’s golden purity. However fine the language in which such feelings may clothe theme­ selves, in truth they are wholly vile ; there is no horror of shameless­ ness which they may not generate. Yet this is what comes of the unbridled desire for ‘ tingling pulses,’ quivering, panting, fainting sensibility, which Shelley everywhere makes the supreme happiness. It issues in awelessness, irreverence, and what some one has called 4 moral nudity.’ These two impulses, both combined with another passion, he had —the passion for reforming the world. He had a real, benevolent desire to impart to all men the peculiar good he sought for himself —a life of free, unimpeded impulse, of passionate, unobstructed desire. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity—these of course; but some­ thing far beyond these—absolute Perfection, as he conceived it, he believed to be within every man’s reach. Attainable, if only all the growths of history could be swept away, all authority and govern­ ment, all religion, all law, custom, nationality, everything that limits and restrains, and if every man were left open to the uncon­ trolled expansion of himself and his impulses. The end of this process of making a clean sweep of all that is, and beginning afresh, would be that family, social ranks, government, worship, would dis­ �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 43 appear, and then man would be king over himself, and wise, gentle, just, and good. Such was his temperament, the original emotional basis of Shelley s nature ; such, too, some of the chief aims towards which this temperament impelled him. And certainly these aims do make one think of the ‘ maggot in his brain.’ But a temperament of this kind, whatever aims it turned to, was eminently and essentially lyrical. Those thrills of soul, those tingling nerves, those rapturous glows of feeling, are the very substance out of which high lyrics are woven. The insatiable craving to pierce the mystery, of course, drove Shelley to philosophy for instruments to pierce it with. During his brief life he was a follower of three distinct schools of thought. At first he began with the philosophy of the senses, was a materialist, adopting Lucretius as his master and holding that atoms are the only realities, with perhaps a pervading life of nature to mould them—that from atoms all things come, to atoms return. Yet even over this dreary creed, without spirit, immortality, or God, he shouted a jubilant ‘ Eureka,' as though it were some new glad tidings. hrom this he passed into the school of Hume—got rid of matter, the dull clods of earth, denied both matter and mind, and held that these were nothing but impressions, with no substance behind them. This was liker Shelley’s cast of mind than materialism. Not only dull clods of matter, but personality, the ‘ I ’ and the ‘ thou,’ were by this creed eliminated, and that exactly suited Shelley’s way of thought. It gave him a phantom world. brom Hume he went on to Plato, and in him found still more congenial nutriment. The solid, fixed entities—matter and mind — he could still deny, while he was led on to believe in eternal arche­ types behind all phenomena, as the only realities. These Platonic ideas attracted his abstract intellect and imagination, and are often alluded to in his later poems, as in ‘ Adonais.’ Out of this philosophy it is probable that he got the only object of worship which he ever acknowledged, the Spirit of Beauty. Plato’s idea of beauty changed into a spirit, but without will, without morality, in his own words :— That Light whose smile kindles the universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which, through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Bums bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst. To the moral and religious truths which are the backbone of Plato’s thought lie never attained. Shelley’s thought never had any backbone. Each of these successively adopted philosophies entered into and coloured the successive stages of Shelley’s poetry; but through them all his intellect and imagination remained unchanged. W hat was the nature of that intellect ? It was wholly akin and �44 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. -juiv adapted to the temperament I have described as his. Imnatient of solid substances, inaccessible to many kinds of truth, inappreciative of solid, concrete facts, it was quick and subtle to seize the evanescent hues of things, the delicate aromas which are too fine for ordinary perceptions. His intellect waited on his temperament, and, so to speak, did its will—caught up one by one the warm emotions as they were flung off, and worked them up into the most exquisite abstrac­ tions. The rush of throbbing pulsations supplied the materials for his keen-edged thought to work on, and these it did mould into the rarest, most beautiful shapes. This his mind was busv doing all his life long. The real world, existence as it is to other minds, he re­ coiled from—shrank from the dull, gross earth which we see around us—nor less from the unseen world of Righteous Law and Will which we apprehend above us. The solid earth he did not care for. Heaven—a moral heaven—there was that in him which would not believe in. So, as Mr. Hutton has said, his mind made for itself a dwelling-place midway between the two, equally remote from both. some interstellar region, some cold, clear place— Pinnacled dim in the intense inane— which he peopled with ideal shapes and abstractions, wonderful or weird, beautiful or fantastic, all woven out of his own dreaming phantasy. This was the world in which he was at home; he was not at home with any reality known to other men. No real human characters appear in his poetry; his own pulsations, desires, aspirations, sup­ plied the place of these. Hardly any actual human feeling is in them; only some phase of evanescent emotion, or the shadow of it, is seized—not even the flower of human feeling, but the bloom of the flower or the dream of the bloom. A real landscape he has seldom described, only his own impression of it, or some momentarv gleam, some tender light, that has fleeted vanishingly over earth and sea he has caught. Nature he used mainly to cull from it some of its most delicate tints, some faint hues of the dawn or the sunset clouds, to weave in and colour the web of his abstract dream. So entirely at home is he in this abstract shadowv world of his own making, that when he would describe common visible things he does so bv likening them to those phantoms of the brain, as though with these last alone he was familiar. A irgil likens the ghosts bv the banks of Styx to falling leaves— Quani mulxa in silvis auciumni frigore prime Lapsa cadunx folia. Shelley likens falling leaves to ghosts. leaves, he says— Before the wind the dead Are driven. like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. Others have compared thought to a breeze. With Shelley the breeze is like thought; the pilot spirit of the blast, he savs— �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 45 Wakens the leaves and waves, ere it hath past, To such brief unison as on the brain One tone which never can recur has cast One accent, never to return again. We see thus that nature as it actually exists has little place in Shelley’s poetry. And man, as he really is, may be said to have no place at all. Neither is the world of moral or spiritual truth there—not the living laws by which the world is governed—no presence of a Sove­ reign Will, no all-wise Personality, behind the fleeting shows of time. The abstract world which his imagination dwelt in is a cold, weird, unearthly, inhuman place, peopled with shapes which we may wonder at, but cannot love. When we first encounter these we are fain to exclaim, Earth we know, and Heaven we know, but who and what are ye ? Ye belong neither to things human nor to things divine. After a very brief sojourn in Shelley’s ideal world, with its pale abstractions, most men are ready to say with another poet, after a voyage among the stars— Then back to earth, the dear green earth; Whole ages though I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be : I’ve left my heart at home. In that dear green earth, and the men who have lived or still live on it, in their human hopes and fears, in their faiths and aspi­ rations, lies the truest field for the highest imagination to work in. That I believe to be the haunt and main region for the songs of the greatest poets. The real is the true world for a great poet, but it was not Shelley’s world. Yet Shelley, while the imaginative mood was on him, felt this ideal world of his as real as most men feel the solid earth, and through the pallid lips of its phantom people and dim abstractions he pours as warm a flood of emotion as ever poet did through the rosiest lips and brightest eyes of earth-born creatures. Not more real to Burns were his bonny Jean and his Highland Mary, than to Shelley were the visions of Asia and Panthea, and the Lady of the Sen­ sitive Plant, while he gazed on them. And when his affections did light, not on these abstractions, but on creatures of flesh and blood, yet so penetrated was his thought with his own idealism, that he lifted them up from earth into that rarefied atmosphere, and de­ scribed them in the same style of imagery and language as that with which he clothes the phantasms of his mind. Thus it will be seen that it was a narrow and limited tract over which Shelley’s imagina­ tion ranged—that it took little or no note of reality, and that bound­ less as was its fertility and power of resource within its own chosen circle, yet the widest realm of mere brain creation must be thin and �46 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [juiy small compared with existing reality both in the seen and the unseen worlds. We can now see the reason why Shelley’s long poems are such absolute failures, his short lyrics so strangely succeed. Mere thrills of soul were weak as connecting bonds for long poems. Dis­ tilled essences and personified qualities were poor material out of which to build up great works. These things could give neither unity, nor motive power, • nor human interest to long poems. Hence the incoherence which all but a few devoted admirers find in Shelley’s long poems, -despite their grand passages and their splen­ did imagery. In fact, if the long poems were to be broken up and thrown into a heap, and the lyric portions riddled out of them and preserved, the world would lose nothing, and would get rid of not a little offensive stuff. An exception to this judgment is generally made in favour of the ‘ Cenci ’; but that tragedy turns on an incident so repulsive that, notwithstanding its acknowedged power, it can hardly give pleasure to any healthy mind. On the other hand, single thrills of rapture, which are such in­ sufficient stuff to make long poems out of, supply the very inspiration for the true lyric. It is this predominance of emotion, so unhappy to himself, which made Shelley the lyrist that he was. When he sings his lyric strains, whatever is most unpleasant in him is softened down, if it does not wholly disappear. Whatever is most unique and excellent in him comes out at its best—his eye for abstract beauty, the subtlety of his thought, the rush of bis eager pursuing de­ sire, the splendour of his imagery, the delicate rhythm, the matchless music. These lyrics are gales of melody blown from a far-off region, that looks fair in the distance. Perhaps those enjoy them most who do not inquire too closely what is the nature of that land, or know too exactly the theories and views of life of which these songs are the effluence; for if we come too near we might find that there was poison in the air. Many a one has read those lyrics and felt their fascination without thought of the unhappy experience out of which they have come. They understood ‘ a beauty in the words, but not the words.’ I doubt whether any one after very early youth, any one who has known the realities of life, can continue to take Shelley’s best songs to heart, as he can those of Shakespeare or the best of Burns. For, however we may continue to wonder at the genius that is in them, no healthy mind will find in them the expression of its truest and best thoughts. Other lyric poets, it has been said, sing of what they feel. Shelley in his lyrics sings of what he wants to feel. The thrills of desire, the gushes of emotion, are all straining after something seen afar but unat­ tained, something distant or future ; or they are passionate despair, utter despondency for something hopelessly gone. Yet it must be owned that those bursts of passionate desire after ideal beauty set our pulses a-throbbing with a strange vibration even when we do not really sympathise with them. Even his desolate wails make �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 4.7 those seem for a moment to share his despair who do not really share it. Such is the charm of his impassioned eloquence and the witchery of his music. Let us turn now to look at some of his lyrics in detail. The earliest of them, those of 1814, were written while Shelley was under the depressing spell of materialistic belief, and at the time when he was abandoning’ poor Harriet Wbstbrook. For a time he lived under the spell of that ghastly faith, hugging it, yet hating it; and its progeny are seen in the lyrics of that time, such as ‘ Death,’ e Mutability,’ ‘ Lines in a Country Churchyard.’ These have a cold, clammy feel. They are full of ‘ wormy horrors,’ as though the poet were one who had made his bed In charnels and on coffins, where black Death Keeps record of the trophies •won from Life, as though by dwelling amid these things he had hoped to force some lone ghost to render up the tale Of what we are. And what does it all come to ?—what is the lesson he reads there ?__ Lift not the painted veil which those who live Call life. . . . Behind lurk Fear And Hope, twin destinies, who ever weave Their shadows o’er the chasm, sightless and drear. That is all that the belief in mere matter taught Shelley, or ever will teach anyone. As he passed on, the clayey, clammy sensation is less present. Even Hume’s impressions are better than mere dust, and the Platonic ideas are better than Hume’s impressions. When he came under the influence of Plato his doctrine of ideas, as eternal existences and the only realities, exercised over Shelley the charm it always has had for imaginative minds; and it furnished him with a form under which he figured to himself his favourite belief in the Spirit of Love and Beauty as the animating spirit of the universe—that for which the human soul pants. It is the passion for this ideal which leads Alastor through his long wanderings to die at last in the Caucasian wilderness without attaining it. It is this which he apos­ trophises in the ‘ Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,’ as the power which consecrates all it shines on, as the awful loveliness to which he looks to free this world from its dark slavery. It is this vision which reappears in its highest form in ‘Prometheus Unbound,’ the greatest and most attractive of all Shelley’s longer poems. That drama is from beginning to end a great lyrical poem, or I should rather say a congeries of lyrics, in which perhaps more than anywhere else Shelley’s lyrical power has reached its highest flight. The whole poem is exalted by a grand pervading idea, one which in �48 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [July its truest and deepest form is the grandest we can conceive—the idea of the ultimate renovation of man and the world. And although the powers and processes and personified abstractions which Shelley invoked to effect this end are ludicrously inadequate, as irrational as it would be to try to build a solid house out of shadows and moon­ beams, yet the end in view does impart to the poem something of its own elevation. Prometheus, the representative of suffering and struggling humanity, is to be redeemed and perfected by union with Asia, who is the ideal of beauty, the light of life, the spirit of love. To this spirit Shelley looked to rid the world of all its evil and bring in the diviner day. The lyric poetry, which is exquisite throughout, perhaps culminates in the well-known exquisite song in which Panthea, one of the nymphs, hails her sister Asia, as Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles, before they dwindle, Make the cold air fire ; then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them; As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds, ere they divide them ; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe’er thou shinest. Lamp of Earth 1 where’er thou movest The dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing. The reply of Asia to this song is hardly less exquisite. Everyone here will remember it:— My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm, conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing ; It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon the many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses ! Till, like one in slumber bound, Borne to the ocean, I float down, around Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound. �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 49 Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music’s most serene dominions, Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. And we sail on, away, afar Without a course, without a star, But, by the instinct of sweet music driven; Till through Elysian garden islets By thee, most beautiful of pilots, Where never mortal pinnace glided, The boat of my desire is guided : Realms where the air we breathe is love, Which in the winds on the waves doth move, Harmonising this earth with what we feel above. In these two lyrics you have Shelley at his highest perfection. Exquisitely beautiful as they are, they are, however, beautiful as the mirage is beautiful, and as unsubstantial. There is nothing in the reality of things answering to Asia. She is not human, she is not divine. There is nothing moral in her—no will, no power to subdue evil; only an exquisite essence, a melting loveliness. There is in her no law, no righteousness ; something to enervate, nothing to brace the sold. After her you long for one bracing look on the stern, severe countenance of Duty, of whom another poet sang— Stern lawgiver I yet thou dost wear The Godhead’s most benignant grace; Nor know I anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee in their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong. Perfect as is the workmanship of those lyrics in 4 Prometheus ’ and many another, their excellence is lessened by the material out of which they are woven being fantastic, not substantial, truth. Few of them lay hold of real sentiments which are catholic to humanity. They do not deal with permanent emotions which belong to all men and are for all time, but appeal rather to minds in a particular stage of culture, and that not a healthy stage. They are not of such stuff as life is made of. They will not interest all healthy and truthful minds in all stages of culture and in all ages. To do this, however, is, I believe, a note of the highest style of lyric poem. Another thing to be observed is, that while the imagery of Shelley’s lyrics is so splendid and the music of their language so magical, both of these are at that point of over-bloom which is on the verge of decay. The imagery, for all its splendour, is too ornate, too redundant, too much overlays the thought, which has not strength enough to uphold such a weight. Then, as to the music of the words, wonderful as it is, all but exclusive admirers of Shelley must have felt at times as if the sound runs away with the sense. In some of the 4 Prometheus’ lyrics No. 595 (no. cxv. n. s.) E �50 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [Juiy the poet, according to Mr. Symonds, seems to have ‘realised the miracle of making words, detached from meaning, the substance of a new ethereal music.’ This is, to say the least, a dangerous miracle to practise. Even Shelley, overbome by the power of melodious words, would at times seem to approach perilously near the borders of the unintelligible, not to say the nonsensical. What it comes to, when adopted as a style, has been seen plainly enough in some of Shelley’s chief followers in our own day. Cloyed with overloaded imagery, and satiated almost to sickening with alliterative music, we turn for re­ invigoration to poetry that is severe even to baldness. The ‘ Prometheus Unbound ’ was written in Italy, and during his four Italian years Shelley’s lyric stream flowed on unremittingly, and enriched England’s poetry with many lyrics unrivalled in their kind, and evoked from its language a new power. These lyrics are on the whole his best poetic work. To go over them in detail would be im­ possible, besides being needless. Perhaps his year most prolific in lyrics was 1820, just two years before his death. Among the products of this year were, the ‘ Sensitive Plant,’ more than half lyrical, the ‘ Cloud,’ the ‘ Skylark,’ ‘ Love’s Philosophy,’ ‘ Arethusa,’ 4 Hymns of Pan and Apollo,’ all in his best manner, with many besides these. About the lyrics of this time two things are noticeable : more of them are about things of nature than heretofore, and there are several on Greek subjects. Of all modem attempts to reinstate Greek subjects I know nothing equal to these, except perhaps one or two of the Laureate’s happiest efforts. They take the Greek forms and mythologies, and fill them with modem thought and spirit. And perhaps this is the only way to make Greek subjects real and interesting to us; for if we want the very Greek spirit we had better go to the originals and not to any reproductions. You remember how he makes Pan sing— From the forests and highlands We come, we come ; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. * * * * Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded with my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and SyIvans, and Fauns, And the nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend or follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 5i I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal Earth, And of Heaven, and the giant wars, And Love, and Death, and Birth, And then I changed my pipings— Singing how down the vale of Menalus I pursued a maiden and clasped a weed. Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed : All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. Of the lyrics on natural objects the two supreme ones are the 4 Ode on the West Wind ’ and the 4 Skylark.’ Of this last nothing need be said. Artistically and poetically it is unique, has a place of its own in poetry; yet may I be allowed to express a misgiving about it which I have long felt, and others may feel too ? For all its beauty,, perhaps one would rather not recall it when hearing the skylark’s song in the fields on a bright spring morning. The poem is not in tune with the bird’s song and the feelings it does and ought to awaken. The rapture with which the strain springs up at first dies down before the close into Shelley’s ever-haunting morbidity. Who wishes, when hearing the real skylark, to be told that We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ? If personal feeling is to be inwrought into the living powers of nature, let it be such feeling as is in keeping with the object, ap­ propriate to the theme in hand. Such is that personal invocation with which Shelley closes his grand 4 Ode to the West Wind,’ written the previous year, 1819— Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are fallen like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit I be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! 0 Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? e 2 �Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 52 [July This ode ends with some vigour, some hope ; but that is not usual with Shelley. Everyone must have noticed how almost habitually his intensest lyrics—those which have started with the fullest swing of rapture—die down before they close into a wail of despair. It is as though, when the strong gush of emotion had spent itself, there was no more behind, nothing to fall back upon, but blank emptiness and desolation. It is this that makes Shelley’s poetry so unspeakably sad—sad with a hopeless sorrow that is like none other. You feel as though he were a wanderer who has lost his way hopelessly in the wilderness of a blank universe. His cry is, as Mr. Carlyle long since said, like ‘ the infinite inarticulate wailing of for­ saken infants.’ In the wail of his desolation there are many tones— some wild and weird, some defiant, some full of despondent pathos. The lines written in ‘ Dejection,’ on the Bay of Naples, in 1818, are perhaps the most touching of all his wails : the words are so sweet they seem, by their very sweetness, to lighten the load of heart­ loneliness :— I see the Deep’s untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : I sit upon the sands alone ; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion. How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas ! I have nor hope, nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found. * * * * Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are ; I would lie down like a tired child, And weep away this life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and heai’ the sea Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony. Who that reads these sighing lines but must feel for the heart that breathed them ! Yet how can we be surprised that he should have felt so desolate ? Every heart needs some real stay. And a heart so sensitive, a spirit so finely touched, as Shelley’s needs, far more than unsympathetic and narrow natures, a refuge amid the storms of life. But he knew of none. His universe was a home­ less one, had no centre of repose. His universal essence of love, �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 53 diffused throughout it, contained nothing substantial—no will that could control and support his own. While a soul owns no law, is without awe, lives wholly by impulse, what rest, what central peace, is possible for it ? When the ardours of emotion have died down, what remains for it but weakness, exhaustion, despair ? The feeling of his weakness woke in Shelley no contriteness or brokenness of spirit, no self-abasement, no reverence. Nature was to him really the whole, and he saw in it nothing but ‘ a revelation of death, a sepulchral picture, generation after generation disappearing and being heard of and seen no more.’ He rejected utterly that other ‘ consolatory revelation which tells us that we are spiritual beings, and have a spiritual source of life,’ and strength, above and beyond the material system. Such a belief, or rather no belief, as his can engender only infinite sadness, infinite despair. And this is the deep under­ tone of all Shelley’s poetry. I have dwelt on his lyrics because they contain little of the offen­ sive and nothing of the revolting which here and there obtrudes itself in the longer poems. And one may speak of these lyrics without agitating too deeply questions which at present I would rather avoid. Yet even the lyrics bear some impress of the source whence they come. Beautiful though they be, they are like those fine pearls which, we are told, are the products of disease in the parent shell. All Shelley’s poetry is, as it were, a gale blown from a richly gifted but unwholesome land ; and the taint, though not so percep­ tible in the lyrics, still hangs more or less over many of the finest. Besides this defect, they are very limited in their range of influ­ ence. They cannot reach the hearts of all men. They fascinate only some of the educated, and that probably only while they are young. The time comes when these pass out of that peculiar sphere of thought and find little interest in such poetry. Probably the rare exquisiteness of their workmanship will always preserve Shelley’s lyrics, even after the world has lost, as we may hope it will lose, sympathy with their substance. But better, stronger, more vital far are those lyrics which lay hold on the permanent, unchanging emotions of man—those emotions which all healthy natures have felt and always will feel, and which no new stage of thought or civilisa­ tion can ever bury out of sight. J. C. Shairp. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Shelley as a lyric poet Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Shairp, J.C. Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [s.l.] Collation: p. 38-53 ; 22 cm. Notes: Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Fraser's Magazine 20 (July 1879). Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country was a general and literary journal published in London from 1830 to 1882, which initially took a strong Tory line in politics. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1879 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT43 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Shelley as a lyric poet), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley Poetry in English Romantic Poetry https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/995cfdef9fff98f3139dcecedb8abee6.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=JdZs0zKY56-3932Q4JcdlrLGAj46a9o4bbYyzswlpQZQkkxsTbhP4jvcf25ukfWqb6%7EhKvXhCOsWdlSZRP7je3Q65uMo1UZH-tu0Scx%7Eh%7Ezmv64XY3tW9dCnV1Xie58NOU7wDR9cLfFIQcPir%7EG6bHoAkD78Qg7GWKAXWPl3H6R1-oUmBIqsqwx2tFSMhyV4v42r%7EYt8fc2Ju3pOCj7s2FT-xWsmrhyQuPoIoi62-JCXf-Bw25%7EuEeehpQsa2PfXF3PLDabsQ6vOzqWItcuMxSnjtKZJsAtxac1--M4aTp2I3N97kkM4AR4jQCcix8I8ZPCbf-zt0of61vVnnvybLA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 540dcab72c2b71e6941c9af1d2f09421 PDF Text Text NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY Spoken on Memorable ©ccaoíono W JOHN HEYWOOD, RIDGEFIELD & DEANSGATE, MANCHESTER ii Paternoster Buildings, London. Price Twopence. �The Destroyer of Weeds, Thistles, and Thorns is a Benefactor, 'whether he soweth grain or not. Interpolations are the foundation Stones of every orthodox church. let the Ghosts go. We will worship them no more. Let them cover their eyeless sockets with theirfleshlcss hands, andfade forever from the imaginations of men. Liberty sustains the same relation to Mind that Space does to Matter. To Plough is to Pray, to Plant is to Prophesy, and the Harvest answers andfulfils. �Zbc Ipaet rises before me like a Dream, EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH DELIVERED AT TIIE SOLDIERS’ REUNION AT INDIANAPOLIS, 1876, HE past rises before me like a dream. Again we •L are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation—the music of boisterous drums—the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators ; we see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men ; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walk­ ing for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the bless­ ings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and kisses—divine mingling of agony and love ! And �(4) some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We ee the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms—standing in the sunlight sobbing—at the turn of the road a hand waves—she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever. We see them all as they march away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war—marching down the streets of the great cities— through the towns and across the prairies—down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields—in all the hospitals of pain —on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood—in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell us what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash—we see them bound hand and foot—we hear the strokes of cruel whips—we see the hounds tracking women through �(5) tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable ! Outrage infinite ! Four million bodies in chains—four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child are trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes died. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and school-houses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear we see the faces of the free. These heroes are dead. They died for liberty— they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they made stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars—they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of con­ flict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead : Cheers for the living ; tears for the dead. �Ube Volunteer Soldiers of tbe Union Hrmp; “ I ¡’hose Valour and Patriotism gave to the world a Government of the people, by the people, for the people. ” RESPONSE TO THE TOAST AT THE GRAND BANQUET OE THE RE-UNION OF THE ARMY OF THE TENNESSEE, CHICAGO, NOV, I3TH, 1878. HEN the savagery of the lash, the barbarism of the chain, and the insanity of secession con­ fronted the civilisation of our century, the question, “ Will the great Republic defend itself?” trembled on tlie lips of every lover of mankind. The North, filled with intelligence and wealth, products of liberty, mar­ shalled her hosts and asked only for a leader. From civil life a man, silent, thoughtful, poised, and calm, stepped forth, and with the lips of victory voiced the nation’s first and last demand : “ Unconditional and immediate surrender. ” From that moment the end was known. That utterance was the real declaration of real war, and in accordance with the dramatic unities of mighty events, the great soldier who made it received the final sword of the rebellion. The soldiers of therepublic were not seekers after vulgar glory ; they were W �(7) not animated by the hope of plunder or the love of conquest. They fought to preserve the homestead of liberty, and that their children might have peace. They were the defenders of humanity, the destroyers of pre­ judice, the breakers of chains, and in the name of the future they saluted the monsters of their time. They finished what the soldiers of the Revolution commenced. They relighted the torch that fell from their august hands, and filled the world again with light. They blotted from the statute-books the laws that had been passed by hypocrites at the instigation of robbers, and tore with indignant hands from the Constitution that infamous clause that made men the catchers of their fellow-men. They made it possible for judges to be just and statesmen to be human. They broke the shackles from the limbs of slaves, from the souls of masters, and from the Northern brain. They kept our country on the map of the world and our flag in heaven. They rolled the stone from the sepulchre of progress, and found therein two angels clad in shining gar­ ments—nationality and liberty. The soldiers were the saviours of the nation. They were the liberators of man. In writing the proclama­ tion of emancipation, Lincoln, greatest of our mighty dead, whose memory is as gentle as the summer air when reapers sing ’mid gathered sheaves, copied with the pen what Grant and his brave comrades wrote with swords. Grander than the Greek, nobler than the Roman, the soldiers of the Republic, with patriotism as shore­ less as the air, battled for the rights of others, for the nobility of labour; fought that mothers might own their babes, that arrogant idleness should not scar the back of patient toil, that our country should not be a �(8) many-headed monster, made of warring States, but a nation—sovereign, great and free. Blood was water, money was leaves, and life was only common air, until one flag floated over the Repub­ lic without a master and without a slave. Then was asked the question: Will a free people tax themselves to pay the nation’s debt ? The soldiers went home to their waiting wives, to their glad children, and to the girls they loved. They went back to the fields, the shops, and mines. They had not been demoralized. They had been ennobled. They were as honest in peace as they were brave in war. Mocking at poverty, laughing at reverses, they made a friend of toil. They said, “We saved the nation’s life, and what is life with­ out honour ? ” They worked and wrought with all of labour’s royal sons that every pledge the nation gave might be redeemed. And their great leader, having put a shining band of friendship, a girdle of clasped and happy hands around the globe, comes home and finds that every promise made in war has now the ring and gleam of gold. And now let us drink to the volunteers. To those who sleep in unknown, sunken graves ; whose names are only in the hearts of those they loved and left, of those who often hear in happy dreams the footsteps of return. Let us drink to those who died while lipless famine mocked. One to all the maimed whose scars give modesty a tongue, and all who dared and gave to chance the care, the keeping of their lives ; to all the dead ; to Sherman, to Sheridan, and to Grant, the foremost soldier of the world ; and last, to Lincoln, whose loving life, like a bow of peace, spans and arches all the clouds of war. �1776. ^Declaration of Jnbepenbence. ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO OUR FATHERS RETIRED THE GODS FROM POLITICS. T has been a favourite idea with me that our fore­ fathers were educated by Nature; that they grew grand as the continent upon which they landed ; that the great rivers—the wide plains—the splendid lakes —the lonely forests—the sublime mountains—that all these things stole into and became a part of their be­ ing, and they grew great as the country in which they lived. - They began to hate the narrow, contracted views of Europe. They were educated by their sur­ roundings, and every little colony had to be, to a cer­ tain extent, a republic. The kings of the old world endeavoured to parcel out this land to their favourites. But there were too many Indians. There was too much courage required for them to take and keep it, and so men had to come here who were dissatisfied with the old country—who were dissatisfied with Eng­ land, dissatisfied with France, with Germany, with Ireland, and Holland. The king’s favourites stayed at home. Men came here for liberty, and on account of certain principles they entertained and held dearer than life. And they were willing to work, willing to fell the forests, to fight the savages, willing to go through all I �10) the hardships, perils and dangers of a new country, of a new land; and the consequence was that our country was settled by brave and adventurous spirits, by men who had opinions of their own and were willing to live in the wild forests for the sake of expressing those opinions, even if they expressed them only to trees, rocks, and savage men. The best blood of the old world came to the new. These grand men were enthusiasts ; and the world has only been raised by enthusiasts. In every country there have been a few who have given a national aspir­ ation to the people. The enthusiasts of 1776 were the builders and framers of this great and splendid govern­ ment ; and they were the men who saw, although others did not, the golden fringe of the mantle of glory that will finally cover this world. They knew, they felt, they believed that they would give a new constel­ lation to the political heavens—that they would make the Americans a grand people—grand as the continent on which they lived. . Only a few days ago I stood in Independence Hall —in that little room where was signed the immortal paper, A little room, like any other; and it did not seem possible that from that room went forth ideas, like cherubim and seraphim, spreading their wings over a continent, and touching as with holy fire, the hearts of men. In a few minutes I was in the park, where are gath­ ered the accomplishments of a century. Our fathers never dreamed of the things I saw. There were hun­ dreds of locomotives, with their nerves of steel and breath of flame—every kind of machine, with whirling wheels and curious cogs and cranks, and the myriad thoughts of men that have been wrought in iron, brass �(11) and steel. And going out from- one little building were wires in the air, stretching to every civilized na­ tion, and they could send a shining messenger in a moment to any part of the world, and it would go sweeping under the waves of the sea with thoughts and words within its glowing heart. I saw all that had been achieved by this nation, and I wished that the signers of the Declaration—the soldiers of the revolution—could see what a century of freedom has produced. I wished they could see the fields we culti­ vate—the rivers we navigate—the railroads running over the Alleghanies, far into what was then the un­ known forest—on over the broad prairies—on over the vast plains—away over the mountains of the W est, to the Golden Gate of the Pacific. What has made this country- ? I say again, liberty and labour. What would we be without labour ? I want every farmer, when ploughing the rustling corn of June—while mowing in the perfumed fields—to feel that he is adding to the wealth and glory of the United States. I want every mechanic—every man of toil, to know and feel that he is keeping the cars running, the telegraph wires in the air; that he is making the statues and painting the pictures; that he is writing and print­ ing the books ; that he is helping to fill the world with honour, with happiness, with love and law. Our country is founded upon the dignity of labour— upon the equality of man. Ours is the first real repub­ lic in the history of the world. Beneath our flag the people are free. We have retired the gods from po­ litics. We have found that man is the only source of political power, and that the governed should govern. We have disfranchised the aristocrats of the air, and have given one country to mankind. �Ht a brother's (Brave» HON. EBON C. INGERSOLL, DIED AT WASHINGTON, JUNE 2ND, 1879. Y FRIENDS : I am going to do that which the dead often promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood’s morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the West. He had not passed on life’s highway the stone that marks the highest point, but being weary for a moment he laid down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust. Yet, after all, it may be best; just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar— a sunken ship. For, whether in mid-sea or among the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck must mark at last the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love, and every moment jewelled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy, as sad, and deep, and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock, but in the sunshine he was vine and flower. M �(13) He was the friend of all heroic souls. He climbed the heights and left all superstitions far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of a grander day. He loved the beautiful, and was with colour, form and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak, and with a willing hand gave alms ; with loyal heart and with the purest mind he faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshipper of liberty and a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote the words : “ For justice all place a temple, and all season summer.” He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worshipper, humanity the only religion, and love the priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one for whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word ; but in the night of death hope sees a star, and listening love hears the rustle of a wing. He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the ap­ proach of death for the return of health, whispered’with his latest breath, “ I am better now.” Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas and fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was—there is—no gentler, stronger, manlier man. �Whence and Whither, SPOKEN AT THE GRAVE OF A CHILD. JAN. 1882. /T Y FRIENDS : I know how vain it is to gild a ' X grief with words, and yet I wish to take from every grave its fear. Here, in this world, where life and death' are equal kings, all should be brave enough to meet what all the dead have met. The future has been filled with fear, stained and polluted by the heart­ less past. From the wondrous tree of life the buds fall with ripened fruit, and in the common bed of earth the patriarchs and babes sleep side by side. Why should we fear that which will come to all that is ? We cannot tell; we do not know which is the greater bless­ ing—life or death. We cannot say that death is not a good. We do not know whether the grave is the end of this life or the door of another, or whether the night here is not somewhere else a dawn. Neither can we tell which is the more fortunate—the child dying in its mother’s arms, before its lips have learned to form a word, or he who journeys all the length of life’s uneven road, painfully taking the last slow steps with staff and crutch. Every cradle asks us, “ Whence ? ” and every coffin, “ Whither ? ” The poor barbarian, weeping above his dead, can answer these questions as intelligently and K �(15) satisfactorily as the robed priest of the most authentic creed. The tearful ignorance of the one is just as con­ soling as the learned and unmeaning words of the other. No man, standing where the horizon of life has touched a grave, has any right to prophesy a future filled with pain and tears. It may be that death gives all there is of worth to life. If those we press and strain against our hearts could never die, perhaps that love would wither from the earth. May be this com­ mon fate treads from out the paths between our hearts the weeds of selfishness and hate, and I had rather live and love where death is king than have eternal life where love is not. Another life is naught unless we know and love again the ones who love us here. They who’stand here with breaking hearts around this little grave need have no fear. The larger and nobler faith in all that is and is to be, tells us that death, even at its worst, is only perfect rest. We know that through the common wants of life—the needs and duties of each hour—their grief will lessen day by day, until this grave will be to them a place of rest and peace—almost of joy. There is for them this consolation: the dead do not suffer. If they live again, their lives will surely be as good as ours. We have no fear. We are all children of the same mother, and the same fate awaits us all. We, too, have our religion, and it is this: Help for the living— Hope for the dead. �Ube ZJlbost IRematbable discourses ot tbe da&. BY COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL, America's Greatest Orator. MISTAKES OF MOSES....................................... 3^ GODS; PAST AND PRESENT........................... id GREAT INFIDELS..................................................id SALVATION; HERE AND HEREAFTER....id SPIRIT OF THE AGE, or, modern thinkers...id COL. INGERSOLL AT HOME........................... id REPLY TO TALMAGE......................................... 2d PROSE POEMS......................................................... 2d HELL........................................................................... 2d ------------------ —COO----------------— Also a limited number of Copies, Handsome Edition, 64 pages, Price Sixpence. Ube (Sboets, FUwo studies in ^Biblical Rumour, BY D. M. BENNETT, Editor of the New-York “ Truthseeker.” THE GREAT WRESTLING MATCH.............. id DIVINE PYROTECHNY...................................... id '• fo. TRADE SUPPLIED BY JOHN KEYWOOD, Ridgefield & Deansgate, Manchester. 11 Paternoster Buildpngs, London. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Prose poems : spoken on memorable occasions Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899] Description An account of the resource Place of publication: Manchester; London Collation: 15 p. ; 18 cm. Notes: This ed. not listed by Stein, but cf his Item 314. Contents: The past rises before me like a dream (extract from a speech delivered at the Soldiers' Reunion at Indianapolis, 1876) -- The Volunteer soldiers of the Union army (response to the toast at the grand banquet of the re-union of the Army of the Tennessee, Chicago, Nov. 13th, 1878) -- 1776 Declaration of Independence --At a brother's grave (Hon. Eron C. Ingersoll. Died at Washington, June 2nd, 1879) -- Whence and whither (spoken at the grave of a child. Jan. 1882). Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available John Heywood, Ridgefield & Deansgate Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [n.d.] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context N386 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Prose poems : spoken on memorable occasions), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English NSS Poetry Speeches https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/16d13d808ea179b946d3f78bf31c91f1.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=TIGcsOLT3tSOUkTjnC-smGes7SbL-zf1V-DKNj6t571GtucksZQhWQ9WyO9EmPHir6zmhiYj13Pr5Tb6PCdryAx-T4x4EhTldQTdvI6G22FbbrLFU8XXFnJpOTc2h7eufE4syv8IvNmtPoiHh%7Elws9otbAI7XCtC94ZSQFNzaKbpkXw4mFhhMb07T%7EV1g2f5PqyLtpGQ4P-o4RyhMygSejQc4WfjTie2biK13tV2Rr72oiB%7ENGcEKkBH9nE417MFQ0ZtpGtZW19e3IuW5r1Pby0LhRf9xy3tFm6nkOpup9LnPwpWbkEphAYUFgLGWqwfk3pl3nc6CvOHtGwV4ajHQA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 165988dbce21eb09b628c864420be1bd PDF Text Text NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY “_________________ -^££0 I WREATHE THE LIVING BROWS. I ORATION ON BY COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL. Price Threepence. ■ * ^onbon: i PROGRESSIVE PUBLISHING COMPANY,! 28 Stonecutter Street, E.C. OL 1890. 2 ��# i2 I Hi'S 8*2 WREATHE THE LIVING- BROWS. AN ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN BY COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL. LONDON: PROGRESSIVE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 28 Stonecutter Street, E.O. 1890. �INTRODUCTION. The following oration by Colonel Ingersoll was delivered in the Horticultural Hall, New York, on October 21, 1890. Although the object of the meeting was to raise a testimonial for Walt Whitman in his old age, several halls had been refused, the proprietors and lessees being too bigoted to allow the greatest orator in the United States to enter their doors. Walt Whatman sat in an easy wheeled chair on the platform. Before the crowded assembly broke up he spoke the following characteristic words :— “ Only a word, my friends, only a word. After all, the main factor, my friends, is in meeting, being face to face and meeting like this. I thought I would like to come forward with my living voice and thank you for coming and thank Robert Ingersoll for speaking, and that is about all. With such brief thanks to you and him and showing myself to bear testimony—I think that is the Quaker term—face to face, I bid you all hail and farewell.” �AN ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. I. In the year 1855 the American people knew but little of books. Their ideals, their models, were English. Young and Pollok, Addison and Watts were regarded as great poets. Some of the more reckless read Thom­ son’ s Seasons and the poems and novels of Sir Walter Scott. A few, not quite orthodox, delighted in the mechanical monotony of Pope, and the really wicked __those lost to all religious shame—were worshippers of Shakespeare. The really orthodox Protestant, un­ troubled by doubts, considered Milton the greatest poet of them all. Byron and Shelley were hardly respect­ able—not to be read by young persons. It was admitted on all hands that Burns was a child of nature of whom his mother was ashamed and proud. In the blessed year aforesaid, candor, free and sincere speech, were under the ban. Creeds at that time were entrenched behind statutes, prejudice, custom, ignor­ ance, stupidity, Puritanism and slavery ; that is to say, slavery of mind and body. Of course it always has been, and for ever, will be, impossible for slavery, or any kind or form of injustice, to produce a great poet. There are hundreds of verse makers and writers on the side of wrong—enemies of progress—-but they are not poets, they are not men of genius. ,. At this time a young man—he to whom tins testi­ monial is given—he upon whose head have fallen the snows of more than seventy winters—this man, born within the sound of the sea, gave to the world a book, Leaves of Grass. This book was, and is, the true transcript of a soul. The man is unmasked. No drapery of hypocrisy, no pretence, no fear. The book was as original in form as in thought. All customs �4 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. were forgotten or disregarded, all rules broken—nothing mechanical—no imitation—spontaneous, running and winding like a river, multitudinous in its thoughts as the waves of the sea—nothing mathematical or measured. In everything a touch of chaos—lacking what is called form as clouds lack form, but not lacking the splendor of sunrise or the glory of sunset. It was a marvellous collection and aggregation of fragments, hints, suggestions, memories and prophecies, weeds and flowers, clouds and clods, sights and sounds, emotions and passions, waves, shadows and constellations. His book was received by many with disdain, with horror, with indignation and protest—by the few as a marvellous, almost miraculous, message to the world— full of thought, philosophy, poetry and music. In the republic of mediocrity genius is dangerous. A great soul appears and fills the world with new and marvellous harmonies. In his words is the old Pro­ methean flame. The heart of nature beats and throbs in his line. The respectable prudes and pedagogues sound the alarm, and cry, or rather screech : “ Is this a book for a young person ?” A poem true to life as a Greek statue—candid as nature—fills these barren souls with fear. Drapery about the perfect was suggested by im­ modesty. The provincial prudes, and others of like mould, pretend that love is a duty rather than a passion—a kind of self-denial—not an overmastering joy. They preach the gospel of pretence and pantalettes. In the presence of sincerity, of truth, they cast down their eyes and endeavor to feel immodest. To them the most beautiful thing is hypocrisy adorned with a blush. . They have no idea of an honest, pure passion, glorying in its strength—intense, intoxicated with the beautiful—giving even to inanimate things pulse and motion, and that transfigures, ennobles and idealises the object of its adoration. They do not walk the streets of the city of life— they explore the sewers ; they stand in the gutters and cry “ Unclean !” They pretend that beauty is a snare ; that love is a Delilah ; that the highway of joy is the �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 5 broad road, lined with flowers and filled with perfume, leading to the city of eternal sorrow. Since the year 1855 the American people have de­ veloped ; they are somewhat acquainted with the litera­ ture of the world. They have witnessed the most tremendous of revolutions, not only upon the fields of battle, but in the world of thought. The American citizen has concluded that it is hardly worth while being a sovereign unless he has the right to think for himself. And now, from this height, with the vantage-ground of to-day, I propose to examine this book and to state, in a general way, what Walt Whitman has done, what he has accomplished, and the place he has won in the world of thought. II. THE RELIGION OF THE BODY. Walt Whitman stood, when he published his book, where all stand to-night—on the perpetually moving line where history ends and prophecy begins. He was full of life to the very tips of his fingers—brave, eager, candid, joyous with health. He was acquainted with the past. He knew something of song and story, of philosophy and art—much of the heroic dead, of brave suffering, of the thoughts of men, the habits of the peOple_rich as well as poor—familiar with labor, a friend of wind and wave, touched by love and friend­ ship—liking the open road, enjoying the fields and paths, the crags—friend of the forest—feeling that he was free—neither master nor slave—willing that all should know his thoughts—open as the sky, candid as nature—and he gave his thoughts, his dreams, his con­ clusions, his hopes, and his mental portrait to his fellow-men. Walt Whitman announced the gospel of the body. He confronted the people. He denied the depravity of man. He insisted that love is not a crime ; that men and women should be proudly natural; that they need not grovel on the earth and cover their faces for shame. �6 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. He taught the dignity and glory of the father and mother ; the sacredness of maternity. Maternity, tender and pure as the tear of pity, holy as suffering—the crown, the flower, the ecstasy of love. People had been taught from Bibles and from creeds that maternity was a kind of crime ; that the woman should be purified by some ceremony in some temple built in honor of some god. This barbarism was attacked in Leaves of Grass. The glory of simple life was sung ; a declaration of independence was made for each and all. And yet this appeal to manhood and to womanhood was misunderstood. It was denounced simply because it was in harmony with the great trend of nature. To me, the most obscene word in our language is celibacy. It was not the fashion for people to speak or write their thoughts. We were flooded with the literature of hypocrisy. The writers did not faithfully describe the worlds in which they lived. They endeavored to make a fashionable world. They pretended that the cottage or the hut in which they dwelt was a palace, and they called the little area in which they threw their slops their domain, their realm, their empire. They were ashamed of the real, of what their world actually was. They imitated ; that is to say, they told lies, and these lies filled the literature of most lands. Walt Whitman defended the sacredness of love, the purity of passion—the passion that builds every home and fills the world with art and song. They cried out: “ He is a defender of passion— he is a libertine ! He lives in the mire. He lacks spirituality !” Whoever differs with the multitude, especially with a led multitude—that is to say, with a multitude of taggers—will find out from their leaders that he has committed an unpardonable sin. It is a crime to travel a road of your own, especially if you put up guide-boards for the information of others. Many centuries ago Epicurus, the greatest man of his century, and of many centuries before and after, said : “ Happiness is the only good : happiness is the �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 7 supreme end.” This man was temperate, frugal, generous, noble—and yet through all these years he has been denounced by the hypocrites of the world as a mere eater and drinker. It was said that Whitman had exaggerated the importance of love—that he had made too much of this passion. Let me say that no poet—not excepting Shakespeare—has had imagination enough to exagge­ rate the importance of human love—a passion that contains all heights and all depths—ample as space, with a sky in which glitter all constellations, and that has within it all storms, all lightnings, all wrecks and ruins, all griefs, all sorrows, all shadows, and all the joy and sunshine of which the heart and brain are capable. No writer must be measured by a word or line or paragraph. He is to be measured by his work—by the tendency, not of one line, but by the tendency of all. Which way does the great stream tend ? Is it for good or evil ? Are the motives high and noble, or low and infamous ? We cannot measure Shakespeare by a few lines, neither can we measure the Bible by a few chapters, nor Leaves of Grass by a few paragraphs. In each there are many things that I neither approve nor believe—but in all books you will find a mingling of wisdom and foolishness, of prophecies and mistakes— in other words, among the excellencies there will be defects. The mine is not all gold, or all silver, or all diamonds—there are baser metals. The trees of the forest are not all of one size. On some of the highest there are dead and useless limbs, and and there may be growing beneath the bushes, weeds, and now and then a poisonous vine. If I were to edit the great books of the world, I might leave out some lines and I might leave out the best. I have no right to make of my brain a sieve and say that only that which passes through belongs to the rest of the human race. I claim the right to choose. I give that right to all. Walt Whitman had the courage to express his �8 OKATION ON WALT WHITMAN. thought—the candor to tell the truth. And here let me say it gives me joy—a kind of perfect satisfaction —to look above the bigoted bats, the satisfied owls and wrens and chickadees, and see the great eagle poised, circling higher and higher, unconscious of their exist­ ence. And it gives me joy, a kind of perfect satisfaction, to look above the petty passions and jealousies of small and respectable people—above the considerations of place and power and reputation, and see a brave, intrepid man. It must be remembered that the American people had separated from the Old World—that we had declared not only the independence of colonies, but the independence of the individual. We had done more—we had declared that the State could no longer be ruled by the Church, and that the Church could not be ruled by the State, and that the individual could not be ruled by the Church. These declarations were in danger of being forgotten. We needed a new voice, sonorous, loud, and clear, a new poet for America for the new epoch, somebody to chant the morning song of the new day. The great man who gives a true transcript of his mind, fascinates and instructs. Most writers suppress individuality. They wish to please the public. They flatter the stupid and pander to the prejudice of their readers. They write for the market—making books as other mechanics make shoes. They have no message—they bear no torch—they are simply the slaves of customers. The books they manufacture are handled by “ the trade ” ; they are regarded as harmless. The pulpit does not object ; the young person can read the monotonous pages without a blush—or a thought. On the title-pages of these books you will find the im­ print of the great publishers—on the rest of the pages, nothing. These books might be prescribed for insomnia. III. Men of talent, men of business, touch life upon few sides. They travel but the beaten path. The creative spirit is not in them. They regard with suspicion a poet who touches life on every side. They have little �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 9 confidence in that divine thing called sympathy, and they do not and cannot understand the man who enters into the hopes, the aims, and the feelings of all others. In all genius there is the touch of chaos—a little of the vagabond ; and the successful tradesman, the man who buys and sells, or manages a bank, does not care to deal with a person who has only poems for collaterals —they have a little fear of such people, and _ regard them as the awkward country man does a sleight-ofhand performer. In every age in which books have been produced the governing class, the respectable, have been opposed to the works of real genius. If what are known as. the best people could have their way, if the pulpit had been consulted—the provincial moralists — the works . of Shakespeare would have been suppressed. Not a line would have reached our time. And the same may be said of every dramatist of his age. If the Scotch Kirk could have decided, nothing would have been known of Robert Burns. If the good people, the orthodox, could have had their say, not one line of Voltaire would now be known. All the plates of the French Encyclopedia would have been destroyed with the thousands that were destroyed. Nothing would have been known of D’Alembert, Grimm, Diderot, or any of the Titans who warred against the thrones and altars and laid the foundation of modern literature not only, but what is of far greater moment, universal education. It is not too much to say that every book now held in high esteem would have been destroyed, if those in authority could have had their will. Every book of modern times, that has a real value, that has enlarged the intellectual horizon of mankind, that has de­ veloped the brain, that has furnished real food for thought, can be found in the Index Expurgatorius of the Papacy, and nearly every one has been commended to the free minds of men by the denunciations of Protestants. If the guardians of society, the protectors of “ young persons,” could have had their way, we should have known nothing of Byron or Shelley. The voices that �10 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. thrill the world would now be silent. If authority could have had its way, the world would have been as ignorant now as it was when our ancestors lived in holes or hung from dead limbs by their prehensile tails. But we are not forced to go very far back. If Shake­ speare had been published for the first time now, those divine plays, greater than continents and seas, greater even than the constellations of the midnight sky— would be excluded from the mails by the decision of the present enlightened postmaster-general. The poets have always lived in an ideal world, and that ideal world has always been far better than the real world. As a consequence, they have forever roused, not simply the imagination, but the energies— the enthusiasm of the human race. The great poets have been on the side of the oppressed —of the downtrodden. They have suffered with the imprisoned and the enslaved, and whenever and wherever man has suffered for the right, wherever the hero has been stricken down—whether on field or scaffold—some man of genius has walked by his side, and some poet has given form and expression, not simply to his deeds, but to his aspirations. From the Greek and Roman world we still hear the voices of a few. The poets, the philosophers, the artists, and the orators still speak. Countless millions have been covered by the waves of oblivion, but the few who uttered the elemental truths, who had sympathy for the whole human race, and who were great enough to prophesy a grander day, are as alive to-night as when they roused, by their bodily presence, by their living voices, by their works of art, the enthusiasm of their fellow men. Think of the respectable people, of the men of wealth and position, those who dwelt in mansions, children of success, who went down to the grave voiceless, and whose names we do not know. Think of the vast multitudes, the endless processions, that entered the caverns of eternal light—leaving no thought—no truth as a legacy to mankind ! The great poets have| sympathised; with the people. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN, 11 They have uttered in all ages the human cry. Un­ bought by gold, unawed by power, they have lifted high the torch that illuminates the world'. IV. Walt Whitman is in the highest sense a believer in democracy. He knows that there is but one excuse for government—the preservation of liberty ; to the end that man may be happy. He knows that there is but one excuse for any institution, secular and religious —the preservation of liberty ; and there is but one ex­ cuse for schools, for universal education, for the ascer­ tainment of facts, namely, the preservation of liberty. He resents the arrogance and cruelty of power. He has sworn never to be tyrant or slave. He has solemnly declared : I speak the password primeval—I give the’sign of democracy. By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms. This one declaration covers the entire ground. It is a declaration of independence, and it is also a declara­ tion of justice, that is to say, a declaration of the independence of the individual, and a declaration that all shall be free. The man who has this spirit can truthfully say : I have taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, I swear I am for those that have never been mastered. There is in Whitman what he calls “ The boundless impatience of restraint ”—together with that sense of justice which compelled him to say “Neithera servant nor a master, am I.” He was wise enough to know that giving others the same rights that he claims for himself could not harm him, and he was great enough to say: “ As if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same.” He felt as all should feel, that the liberty of no man is safe unless the liberty of each is safe. There is in our country a little of the old servile spirit a little of the bowing and cringing to others. Many �12 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. Americans do not understand that the officers of the government are simply the servants of the people. Nothing is so demoralising as the worship of place. Whitman has reminded the people of this countay that they are supreme, and he has said to them : The President is there in the White House for you—it is not you who are here for him. The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you—not you here for them. All doctrines, all politics and civilisation exurge from you. All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed any­ where are tallied in you. He describes the ideal American citizen—the one Who says, indifferently and alike, “ How are you friend?” to the President at his levee. And he says, “ Good day, my brother,” to the slave that hoes in the sugar field. Long ago, when the politicians were wrong, when the judges were subservient, when the pulpit was coward, Walt Whitman shouted: Man shall not hold property in man. The least developed person on earth is just as important and to himself or herself as the most developed person is to himself or herself. • This is the very soul of true democracy. Beauty is not all there is of poetry. It must contain the truth. It is not simply an oak, rude and grand, neither is it simply a vine. It is both. Around the oak of truth runs the vine of beauty. Walt Whitman utters the elemental truths and is the poet of democracy. He is also the poet of individuality. V. INDIVIDUALITY. In order to protect the liberties of a nation, we must protect the individual. A democracy is a nation of free individuals. The individuals are not to be sacri­ ficed to the nation. The nation exists only for the pur­ �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 13 pose of guarding and protecting the individuality of men and women. Walt Whitman has told us that : » The whole theory of the universe is directed to one single individual—namely to you.” And he has also told us that the greatest city—the greatest nation—is “ where the citizen is the head and the ideal.” And that The greatest city is that which has the greatest man. or woman. ... . . If it be but a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city m the whole world. By this test, maybe the greatest city on the continent to-night is Camden. This poet has asked of us this question : What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior ? The man who asks this question has leftyio impress of his lips in the dust, and has no dirt upon his knees. He carries the idea of individuality to its utmost height: What do you suppose I have intimated to you in a hundred ways But that man or woman is as good as God ? And that there is no God any more divine than yourself ? Glorying in individuality, in the freedom of the soul, he cries out: Oh, the joy of suffering ! To struggle against great odds ; To meet enemies undaunted ; To be entirely alone with them—to find out how much I can stand; To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face; £ •,, To mount the scaffold—to advance to the muzzle of guns with perfect nonchalance— To be indeed a god. Walt Whitman is willing to stand alone. sufficient unto himself, and he says : He is �14 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. Henceforth I ask not good fortune—I am good fortune. Strong and content I travel the open road. I am one of those who look carelessly into faces of Presidents and Governors as to say, “ Who are you P” And not only this, but he has the courage to say, “ Nothing—not God—is greater to one than oneself.’’’ Walt Whitman is the poet of Individuality, the defender of the rights of each for the sake of all—and his sympathies are as wide as the world. He is the defender of the whole race. VI. HUMANITY. The great poet is intensely human—infinitely sym­ pathetic-entering into the joys and griefs of others, bearing their burdens, knowing their sorrows. Brain without heart is not much; they must act together. When the respectable people of the North, the rich, the successful, were willing to carry out the Fugitive Slave Law, Walt Whitman said : I am the wounded slave—I wince at the bite of the dogs. Hell and despair are upon me—“ Crack,” and again “ crack ” the marksmen; ’ I clutch the rails of the fence—my blood drips, thinned with the ooze of my skin ; I fall on the weeds and stones; The riders spur their unwilling horses—haul close ; Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me with the butts of their whips. Agonies are one of my changes of garment. I do not ask the wounded person how he feels. I, myself, become the wounded person. ’ I see myself in prison shaped like another man ; And feel the dull unintermitted pain. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch. It is I, let out in the morning and barred at night Not a prisoner walks handcuffed to the jail but I am hand­ cuffed to him and walk by his side. Judge not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling upon a helpless thing. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 15 Of the very worst he had the infinite tenderness to say : “ Not until the sun excludes you will I exclude In this age of greed, when houses and lands, and stocks and bonds, outrank human life ; when gold is more of value than blood, these words should be read by all : When, the psalm sings, instead of the singer; When the script preaches, instead of the preacher; When the pulpit descends and goes, instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk; When I can touch the body of books, by night or by day, and when they touch my body back again; When the holy vessels, or the bits of Eucharist, or lath and plast procreate as effectually as the young silversmiths or bakers or the masons in their overalls; When the university convinces like a slumbering woman and child convince; When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night watchman’s daughter; When warranty deeds loaf in chairs opposite, and are my friendly companions; I intend to reach them my hand and make as much of them as I do of men and women like you! VII. The poet is also a painter, a sculptor—he, too, deals in form and color. The great poet is of necessity a great artist. With a few words he creates pictures, filling his canvas with living men and women—with those who feel and speak. Have you ever read the account of the stage driver’s funeral ? Let me. read it: Cold dash of waves at the ferry wharf—posh of ice in the river—half-frozen mud in the street—a gray discouraged sky overhead—short-lasting daylight of twelfth month. A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver—the cortege mostly drivers. Steady the trot to the cemetery—duly rattles the deathbell—the gate is passed—the new-dug grave is hollowed out —the living alight—the hearse uncloses. The coffin is passed out—lowered and settled—the whip is laid on the coffin—the earth is softly shoveled in. The mound above is flattened with the spades. �16 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. Silence : and among them no one moves or speaks. It is done. He is decently laid away. Is there anything more ? He was a good fellow—free mouthed—quick tempered— not bad looking—able to take his own part—witty—sensitive to a slight—ready with life or death foi’ a friend—fond of women—gambled—ate hearty—drank hearty—had known what it was to be flush—grew low spirited toward the lastsickened—was helped by a contribution—died aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral. Let me read you another description—one of a woman: Behold a woman ! She looks out from her Quaker cap, her face is clear and. more beautiful than the sky. She sits in an arm-chair under the shaded porch of the farm-house. The sun just shines on her old, white head. Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen. Her grandsons raised the flax and her granddaughters spun, it with the distaff and the wheel. The melodious charactei’ of the earth. The finished—beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go. The justified mother of men. Would you hear of an old-time sea fight ? Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars ? List to the yarn as my grandmother’s father, the sailor, told it to me : Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, said he. His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was and never will be. Long the lower eve he came, horribly raking us. We closed with him; the yards entangled, the cannon touched. My captain lashed fast with his own hands. We had received some eighteen pound shots under the water, and on our lower gun deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. Fighting at sundown; fighting at dark. Ten o’clock at night; the full moon well up; our leaks on the gain; five feet of water reported. The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the hold to give them a chance for themselves. �17 ORATION WALT WHITMAN. The transit to and from the magazine is now stopped by the sentinels. They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. Our frigate takes fire. The other asks if we demand quarter, If our colors are struck and the fighting done. Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little Captain, “ We have not struck,” he composedly cries, “ we have just begun our part of the fighting.” Only three guns in use. One is directed by the Captain himself against the enemy’s mainmast. Two, well served with grape and canister, silences his mus­ ketry and clears his decks. The taps alone second the fire of his little battery, especially the maintop. They hold out bravely during the whole of the action, Not a moment’s cease. The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder magazine; one of the pumps has been shot away; it is thought we are sinking. Serene stands the little Captain, He is not hurried; his voice neither high nor low. His eyes give more light to us than our battle lanterns. Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they sur­ render to us. Stretched and still lies the midnight, Two great hulks motionless on the breast of the darkness, Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquered. The captain on the quarter-deck coolly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet; Near by, the corpse of the child that served in the cabin; The dead face of an old salt, with long white hair and care­ fully curled whiskers. The flames, spite of all that can be done, flecked aloft and below, The husky voices of the two officers yet fit for duty. Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars; Cut of cordage, tangle of rigging, slight shock of the sooth of waves; Black and impassive guns, litter of powder parcels, strong scent. A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful, shining; delicate sniffs of sea breeze, smells of sedge grass and fields by the shore; death messages given in charge to survivors. B �18 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. The hiss of the surgeon’s knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw, Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short, wild scream, long, dull, tapering groan. Some people say that this is not poetry—that it lacks measure and rhyme. VIII. WHAT IS POETRY ? The whole world is engaged in the invisible com­ merce of thought. That is to say, in the exchange of thoughts by words, symbols, sounds, colors and forms. The motions of the silent, invisible world, where feeling glows and thought flames—that contains all seeds of action—are made known only by sounds and colors, forms, objects, relations, uses and qualities—so that the visible universe is a dictionary, an aggregation of symbols, by which and through which is carried on the invisible commerce of thought. Each object is capable of many meanings, or of being used in many ways to convey ideas or states of feeling or of facts that take place in the world of the brain. The greatest poet is the one who selects the best, the most appropriate symbols to convey the best, the highest, the sublimest thoughts. Each man occupies a world of his own. He is the only citizen of his world. He is subject and sovereign, and the best he can do is to give the facts concerning the world in which he lives to the citizens of other worlds. No two of these worlds are alike. They are of all kinds, from the flat, barren and uninteresting—from the small and shrivelled and worthless—to those whose rivers and mountains and seas and constellations belittle and cheapen the visible world. The inhabitants of these marvellous worlds have been the singers of songs, utterers of great speech—the creators of art. And here lies the difference between creators and imitators : the creator tells what passes in his own world—thé imitator does not. The imitator abdicates, and by the fact of imitation falls upon his knees. He is like one who, hearing a traveller talk, pretends to others that he has travelled. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 19 In nearly all lands, the poet has been privileged—for the sake of beanty, they have allowed him to speak, and for that reason he has told the story of the oppressed, and has excited the indignation of honest men and even the pity of tyrants. He, above all others, has added to the intellectual beauty of the world. He has been the true creator of language, and has left his impress on mankind. What I have said is not only true of poetry—it is true of all speech. All are compelled to use the visible world as a dictionary. Words have been invented and are being invented—for the reason that new powers are found in the old symbols, new qualities, relations, uses, and meanings. The growth of language is necessary on account of the development of the human mind. The savage needs but few symbols—the civil­ ised many—the poet most of all. The old idea was, however, that the poet must be a rhymer. Before printing was known, it was said : the rhyme assists the memory. That excuse no longer exists. Is rhyme a necessary part of poetry ? In my judgment, rhyme is a hindrance to expression. The rhymer is compelled to wander from his subject—to say more or less than hemeans—to introduce irrelevant matter that interferes continually with the dramatic action and is a perpetual obstruction to sincere utterance. All poems, of necessity, must be short. The highly and purely poetic is the sudden bursting into blossom of a great and tender thought. The planting of the seed, the growth, the bud and flower must be rapid. The spring must be quick and warm—the soil perfect, the sunshine and rain enough—everything should tend to hasten, nothing to delay. In poetry, as in wit, the crystallisation must be sudden. , The greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme is a hindrance, rhythm seems to be the comrade of the poetic. Rhythm has a natural foundation. Under emotion, the blood rises and falls, the muscles contract and relax, and this action of the blood is as rhythmical as the rise and fall of the sea. In the highest form of expression, the thought should be in harmony with this natural ebb and flow. �20 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. The highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical form. I have sometimes thought that an idea selects its own words, chooses its own garments, and that when the thought has possession, absolutely, of the speaker or writer, he unconsciously allows the thought to clothe itself. The great poetry of the world keeps time with the winds and the waves. I do not mean by rhythm a recurring accent at accurately measured intervals. Perfect time is the death of music. There should always be room for eager haste and delicious delay, and whatever change there may be in the rhythm or time, the action itself should suggest perfect freedom. A word more about rhythm. I believe that certain feelings and passions—joy, grief, emulation, revenge, produce certain molecular movements in the brain—• that every thought is accompanied by certain physical phenomena. Now it may be that certain sounds, colors, and forms produce the same molecular action in the brain that accompanies certain feelings, and that these sounds, colors, and forms produce first, the molecular movements, and these in their turn reproduce the feel­ ings in motions and states of mind capable of producing the same or like molecular movements. So that what we call heroic music, produces the same molecular action in the brain — the same physical changes — that are produced by the real feeling of heroism ; that the sounds we call plaintive produce the same molecular movement in the brain that grief, or the twilight of grief, actually produces. There may be a rhythmical molecular movement belonging to each state of mind, that accompanies each thought or passion, and it may be that music, or paint­ ing, or sculpture, produces the same state of mind or feeling that produces the music or painting or sculp­ ture, by producing the same molecular movements. All arts are born of the same spirit, and express like thoughts in different ways—that is to say, they produce like states of mind and feeling. The sculptor, the painter, the composer, the poet, the orator, work to the same end, with different materials. The painter �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 21 expresses through form and color and relation ; the sculptor through form and relation. The poet also paints and chisels—his words give form, relation, and color. His statues and his paintings do not crumble, neither do they fade, nor will they as long as language endures. The composer touches the passions, produces the very states of feeling produced by the painter and' sculptor, and poet and orator. In all these there must be rhythm—that is to say, proportion—that is to say, harmony, melody. So that the greatest poet is the one who idealizes the common, who gives new meanings to old symbols, who transfigures the ordinary things of life. He must deal with the hopes and fears, and with the experiences of the people. The poetic is not the exceptional. A perfect poem, is like a perfect day. It has the undefinable charm of naturalness and ease. It must not appear to be the result of great labor. We feel, in spite of ourselves, that man does best that which he does easiest. The great poet is the instrumentality, not always of his time, but of the best of his time, and he must be in. unison and accord with the ideals of his race. The sublimer he is the simpler he is. The thoughts of the people must be clad in the garments of feeling—the words must be known, apt, familiar. The height must be in the thought, in the sympathy. In the olden time they used to have May day parties, and the prettiest child was crowned Queen of May. Imagine an old blacksmith and his wife looking at their little daughter clad in white and crowned with roses. They would wonder while they looked at her, how they ever came to have so beautiful a child. It is thus that the poet clothes the intellectual children or ideals of the people. They must not be gemmed and garlanded beyond the recognition of their parents. Out from all the flowers and beauty must look the eyes of the child they know. We have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art. Milton’s heavenly militia excites our laughter. Light­ houses have driven sirens from the dangerous coasts. We have found that we do not depend on the imagina­ �22 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. tion for wonders—there are millions of miracles under our feet. Nothing can be more marvellous than the common and every day facts of life. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men and women are enough for men and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that they can comprehend. The painter no longer crowds his canvas with the ■winged and impossible —he paints life as he sees it, people as he knows them, and in whom he is interested. “ The Angelus,” the perfection of pathos, is nothing but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness as they hear the solemn sound of the distant* bell—two peasants, who have nothing to be thankful for—nothing but weariness and want, nothing but the crusts that they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you look at that picture you feel that they have something besides to be thankful for—that they have life, love and hope—and so th.e distant bell makes music in their simple hearts. IX. The attitude of Whitman toward religion has not been understood. Towards all forms of worship, towards all creeds, he has maintained the attitude of absolute fairness. He does not believe that nature has given her last message to man. He does not believe that all has been ascertained/ He denies that any sect has written down the entire truth. He believes in progress, and, so believing, he says : We can consider bibles and religions divine. I do not say they are not divine. I say they have all grown out of us and may grow out of us still. It is not they who give the life. It is you who give the life. My thoughts are hymns of the praise of things ; In the dispute on God and eternity I am silent. Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme ? There can be any number of Supremes. One does not countervail another any more than one eyesight countervails another. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 23 Upon the great questions, as to the great problems, he feels only the serenity of a great and well-poised soul. No array of terms can. say how much I am at peace about God and about death. I hear and behold God in every object, not understanding God, not in the least. Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my face in the glass. I find letters from God dropped in the street and every one is signed by God’s name. The whole visible world is regarded by him as a revelation, and so is the invisible world, and with this feeling he writes : Not objecting to special revelations—considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation. The creeds do not satisfy, the old mythologies are not enough ; they are too narrow at best, giving only hints and suggestions ; and feeling this lack in that which has been written and preached, Whitman says : Magnifying and applying come I; Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters ; Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah; Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son and Herkules his grand­ son ; Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahm, and Buddha; In my portfolio placing Manito alone—Alah on a leaf—the crucifix engraved x With Odin and the hideous face of Mexitli and every ido 1 and image— Taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more. Whitman keeps open house. He is intellectually hospitable. He extends his hand to a new idea. He does not accept a creed because it is wrinkled and old and has a long white beard. He knows that hypocrisy has a venerable look, and that it relies on looks and masks— on stupidity—and fear. Neither does h e rej ect �24 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN, or accept the new because it is new. He wants the truth, and so he welcomes all until he knows just who and what they are. PHILOSOPHY. Walt Whitman is a philosopher. The more a man has thought, the more he has studied, the more he has travelled intellectually, the less certain he is. Only the very ignorant are perfectly satisfied that they know, To the common man the great problems are easy, He has no trouble in accounting for the universe. He can tell you the origin and destiny of man and the why and the wherefore of things. As a rule, he is a believer in special providence, and is egoistic enough to suppose that everything that happens in the universe happens in reference to him. A colony of red ants lived at the foot of the Alps. It happened one day, that an avalanche destroyed the hill; and one of the ants was heard to remark : “ Who could have taken so much trouble to destroy our home ? ” Walt Whitman walked by the side of the sea “ where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,” and endeavoured to think out, to fathom the mystery of being ? and he says : I too, but signify, at the utmost, a little washed up drift, A few sands and dead leaves gathered together—merging myself as part of the sands and drift. Aware, now, that amid all the blab whose echoes recoil upon me, I have not once had the least idea of who or what I am. But that for all my insolent poems, the real me still stands untouched, untold, altogether unreached, Withdrawn afar, mocking me with mock congratulatory signs and voices, With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written or shall write, Striking me with insults as I fall helpless on the sand. I perceive I have not understood anything, not a single object; and that no man ever can. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 25 There is in our language no profounder poem than the one entitled “ Elemental Drifts.'’ The effort to find the origin of things has ever been, and will forever be, fruitless. Those who endeavour to find the secret of life resemble a man looking in the mirror, who thinks that if he only could be quick enough he could grasp the image that he sees behind the glass. The latest word of this poet upon this subject is as follows : (e To me this life with all its realities and functions is finally a mystery, the real something yet to be evolved, and the stamp and shape and life here some­ how given an important, perhaps the main, outline to something further. Somehow this hangs over every­ thing else, and stands behind it, is inside of all facts, and the concrete and material and the worldly affairs of life and sense. That is the purport and meaning behind all the other meanings, of Leaves of Grass’' As a matter of fact the questions of origin and destiny are beyond the grasp of the human mind. We can see a certain distance ; beyond that everything is only indistinct; and beyond the indistinct is the unseen. In the presence of these mysteries—and everything is a mystery so far as origin, destiny, and nature are con­ cerned—the intelligent, honest man is compelled to say, “ I do not know.” In the great midnight a few truths like stars shine on forever—and from the brain of man come a few struggling gleams of light—a few momentary sparks. Some have contended that everything is spirit; others that everything is matter ; and again, others who maintained that a part is matter and 9. part is spirit; some that spirit was first and matter after; others that matter was first and spirit after ; and others that matter and spirit have existed together. But none of these people can by any possibility tell what matter is, or what spirit is, or what the difference is between spirit and matter. The materialists look upon the spiritualists as sub­ stantially crazy ; and the spiritualists regard the materialists as low and groveling. These spiritualistic �26 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. people hold matter in contempt ; but, after all, matter is quite a mystery. You take in your hand a little earth—a little dust. Do you know what it is ? In this dust you put a seed ; the rain falls upon it; the light strikes it; the seed grows ; it bursts into blossom ; it produces fruit. What is this dust—this womb ? Do you understand it? Is there anything in the wide universe more wonderful than this ? Take a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take the smallest possible particle, look at it with a microscope, contemplate its every part for days, and it remains the citadel of a secret—an impregnable fortress. Bring all the theologians, philosophers, and scientists in serried ranks against it; let them attack on every side with all the arts and arms of thought and force. The citadel does not fall. Over the battlements floats the flag and the victorious secret smiles at the baffled hosts. Walt Whitman did not and does not imagine that he has reached the limit—the end of the road travelled by the human race. He knows that every victory over nature is but the preparation for another battle. This truth was in his mind when he said : “ Understand me well; it is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.” This is the generalisation of all history. XI. THE TWO POEMS. There are two of these poems to which I have time to call special attention. The first is entitled, “ A Word Out of the Sea.” The boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering over the sands and fields, up from the mystic play of shadows, out of the patches of briers and blackberries —from the memories of birds—from the thousand responses of his heart—goes back to the sea and his childhood, and sings a reminiscence. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 27 Two guests from Alabama—two birds—build their nest, and there were four light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for joy : Shine, shine, Pour down your warmth together, great sun! While we bask, we two together. Two together—< Windsblow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, If we two but keep together. In a little while one of the birds is missed and never appeared again, and all through the summer the mate, the solitary guest, was singing of the lost: Blow, blow, Blow up, sea winds, along Paumanok’s shore; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. And the boy that night, blending himself with the shadows, with bare feet, went down to the sea, where the white arms out in the breakers were tirelessly tossing ; listening to the songs and translating the notes. And the singing bird called loud and high for the mate, wondering what the dusky spot was in the brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever way he looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping that the mate might hear his cry ; stopping that he might not lose her answer ; waiting and then •crying again : “Here I am!” And this gentle call is for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind ; those are the shadows ; and at last crying : 0 past, 0 joy ! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved! loved! loved ! Loved—but no more with me— We two togethei* no more. And then the boy, understanding the song that had awakened in his breast a thousand songs clearer and louder and more sorrowful than the bird’s, knowing �28 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all, and asking of the sea the final word, and the sea answering, delaying not and hurrying not, spoke the low delicious word “ Death !” “ ever Death !” The next poem, one that will live as long as our language, entitled, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed,” is on the death of Lincoln. The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands. . One who reads this will never forget the odor of the lilac, “lustrous western star” and “the grey-brown bird singing in the pines and cedars.” In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly pre­ served, the atmosphere and climate in harmony with every event. Never will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, nor the pomp of inlooped flags, the procession long and winding, the flambeaus of night, the torches’ flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads, the thousand voices, rising strong and solemn, the dirges, the shuddering organs, the tolling bells—and the sprig of lilac. And then for a moment they will hear the grey­ brown bird singing in the cedars, bashful and tender, while the lustrous star lingers in the West, and they will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to adorn the burial house—pictures of spring and farms and homes and the grey smoke, lucid and bright, and the floods of yellow gold—of the gorgeous indolent sinking sun—the sweet herbage under foot— the green leaves of the trees prolific—the breast of the river with the wind-dapple here and there, and the varied and ample land—and the most excellent sun so calm and haughty—the violet and purple morn with just felt breezes. The gentle, soft-born measureless light—the miracle spreading, bathing all—the fulfilled noon—the coming eve delicious and the welcome night and the stars. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 29 And then again they will hear the song of the grey­ brown bird in the limitless dusk amid the cedars and pines. Again they will remember the star and again the odor of the lilac. But most of all, the song of the bird translated and becoming the chant for death: THE CHANT FOE DEATH. Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate ’round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death. Praised be the fathomless universe, Por life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love—but praise ! praise! praise ! For the sure enwinding arms of cool enfolding death. Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome p Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, 0 death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are flitting. And life and the fields, and the bright and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death," And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and I ■«. the prairies wide, Over the dense-packed cities all—and the teeming wharves and waves, I float this carol to thee, with joy to thee, 0 death. �30 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN, This poem, in memory of “ the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and lands,” and for whose sake lilac and star and bird were entwined, will last as long as the memory of Lincoln. XII. OLD AGE. Walt Whitman- is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood, but, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or petrified by preju­ dice ; neither calumny nor flattery has made him re­ vengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of life, His jocund heart still beating in his breast, he is just as brave and calm and kind as in his man­ hood’s proudest days, when roses blossomed in his cheeks. He has taken life’s seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, “ on velvet.” He is enjoying “ old age expanded, broad, with the haughty breadth of the universe ; old age, flowing free, with the delicious, near-by freedom of death ; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the ineffable aggregation of dying days.” He is taking the “ loftiest look at last,” and before he goes he utters thanks “ for health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life ; for precious ever lingering memories of mother, father, brothers, sisters, friends ; for all his days, for gentle words, carresses, gifts from foreign lands, for shelter, wine and meat, for sweet appreciation, for beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books ; for colors, forms ; for all the brave, strong men who forward sprung in freedom’s help—all years—in all lands ; the cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists, the foremost leaders, captains of the soul.” It is a great thing to preach philosophy—far greater to live it. The highest philosophy accepts the inevit­ able with a smile, and greets it as though it were desired. To be satisfied : This is wealth—success. �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 31 The real philosopher knows that everything has hap­ pened that could have happened—consequently he accepts. He is glad that he has lived—glad that he has had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman has accepted life. I shall go forth; I shall traverse these states, but I cannot tell whither or how iong. Perhaps soon, some day or night, while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease, O soul! Then all may arrive but to this : The glances of my eyes that swept the daylight, The unspeakable love I interchanged with women, My joys in the open air, My walks in the Mannahatta, The continual good will I have met, The curious attachments of young men to me, My reflections alone—the absorption into me from the land­ scape, stars, animals, thunder, rain, and snow in my interviews alone; The words of my mouth—rude, ignorant—my many faults and derelictions; The light touches on my lips of the lips of my comrades at parting, The tracks which I leave on the sidewalks and fields— May all arrive at but this beginning of me; This beginning of me—and yet it is enough, 0, soul! 0, soul, we have positively appeared; that is enough. Yes, Walt Whitman has appeared. He has his place upon the stage. The drama is not ended. His voice is still heard. He is the Poet of Democracy—of all people. He is the poet of the body and soul. He has sounded the note of Individuality. He has given the pass-word primeval. He is the Poet of Humanity—of Intellectual Hospitality. He has voiced the aspirations of America—and, above all, he is the poet of Love and Death. How grandly, how bravely he has given his thought, and how superb is his farewell—his leave-taking : After the supper and talk ; after the day is done. As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging. Good-bye and good-bye with emotional lips repeating. �32 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet— No more for.communion of sorrow and joy of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him to return no more. Shunning postponing severance, seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, Even at the exit dooi’ turning—charges superfluous calling back—even as he descends the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of night­ fall deepening, Farewell messages lessening, dimmer the forthgoer’s visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness; loth, oh, so loth to depart! And is this all ? Will the forthgoer be lost, and for ever ? Is death the end ? Over the grave bends Love sobbing, and by her side stands Hope and whispers : We shall meet again. Before all life is death, and after all death is life. The falling leaf, touched with the hectic flush, that testifies of autumn’s death, is, in a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring. Walt Whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great truths and uttered sublime thoughts. He has held aloft the torch and bravely led the way. As you read the marvellous book, or the person, called Leaves of Grass, you feel the freedom of the antique world ; you hear the voices of the morning, of the first great singers—voices elemental as those of sea and storm. The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are forgotten —the realisation of the will, the accomplishment of the ideal, seem to be within your power. Obstructions become petty and disappear. The chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost. The soul is in the open air, under the blue and stars —the flag of Nature. Creeds, theories, and philosophies ask to be examined, contradicted, reconstructed. Pre­ judices disappear, superstitions vanish, and custom abdicates. The sacred places become highways, duties and desires clasp hands and become comrades and friends. Authority drops the sceptre, the priest the mitre, and the purple falls from kings. The inanimate �ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. 33 becomes articulate, the meanest and humblest things utter speech, and the dumb and voiceless burst into song. A feeling of independence takes possession of the soul, the body expands, the blood flows full and free, superiors vanish, flattery is a lost art, and life becomes rich, royal and superb. The world becomes a personal possession, and the oceans, the continents and constellations belong to you. You are in the centre, everything radiates from you, and in your veins beats and throbs the pulse of all life. You become a rover, careless and free. You wander by the shores of all seas and hear the eternal psalm. You feel the silence of the wide forest, and stand beneath the intertwined and over-arching boughs, entranced with symphonies of winds and woods. You are borne on the tides of eager and swift rivers, hear the rush and roar of cataracts as they fall beneath the seven-hued arch, and watch the eagles as they circling soar. You traverse gorges dark and dim, and climb the scarred and threa­ tening cliffs. You stand in orchards where the blossoms fall like snow, where the birds nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless journeys through the happy air. You live the lives of those who till the earth, and walk amid the perfumed fields, hear the reapers’ song, and feel the breadth and scope of earth and sky. You are in the great cities, in the midst of multitudes, of the endless processions. You are on the wide plains—the prairies—with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, and you feel the soft grass yielding under your feet. You sail in many ships, and breathe the free air of the sea. You travel many roads, and countless paths. You visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts ; you pity kings and convicts, and your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and insane, the oppressed and enslaved, and even to the infamous. You hear the din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of all tools, instruments, and machines. You become familiar with men and women of all employments, trades, and professions—with birth and burial, with wedding feast and funeral chant. You see the cloud and flame of war, and you enjoy the ineffable perfect days of peace. �34 ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN. In?hls°ne book’ in these wondrous Leaves of Grass yi>n1r?.d hmts and suggestions, touches and fragments’ of all there is of life, that lies between the babe, whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother’s laughing oving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with a smile, extends his hand to death. And we have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of Leaves of Grass. Printed and Published by G. W. Foote, at 28 Stonecutter Street London, E.O. ’ �WORKS BY COLONEL R. G. INGERSOLL s. d. x 0 j g MISTAKES OF MOSES ... ... ... Superior edition, in cloth ... ... ... 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FORDER, 28 Stonecutter Street, London, E.C. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. 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Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource An oration on Walt Whitman Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899] Description An account of the resource Place of publication: London Collation: 34, 8 p. ; 18 cm. Notes: Printed and published by G.W. Foote. Publisher's catalogue (8 p.), dated September 1890, at end. No. 45g in Stein checklist. "The following oration by Colonel Ingersoll was delivered in the Horticultural Hall, New York, on October 21, 1890". Essays previously published in a variety of journals and books, which are listed in the Acknowledgements section. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Progressive Publishing Company Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1890 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context N382 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (An oration on Walt Whitman), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English American Poetry NSS Poetry Poetry in English Walt Whitman https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/9f39efedbb56fc7e3105be8eb8281f1c.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=mFo7uGAsGivz81Tiwj90DBJcke3gCIaVEfT8no275rDzby92d-GYDoNgkW3OVusFWNoBP2Tr3SnDtKs4GESN8uLwiUzwqTmCwsYguM28EKOU60yv6fq7plv7OeJeT1ssGsUlgFcRzXLuF5hd3A8LU9WwyBUIs9O8w7XRwjui86cDfwg2zHXAyORNYpx26VjeniXEu5ZitSjZwAVf%7E-kETBvAETi6JDcoVBG2-0aCOrzsB6BdpGSfIZBxDnaah%7EsJOWNnC1mYxPgeAh3CK%7EF2S06pUZ5NBceRKjye0FyaJfbxdnv1MjkfUpFnA33h8uUd9iiFMB7grCrHq5baSarSUA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 3284ec17ecab9d34114f4f43c47f2981 PDF Text Text 378 [September THE POET-KING OF SCOTLAND. HE tragic fate of David, Duke of Rotliesay, eldest son of Robert III. of Scotland, is known to every reader of Scott, as it forms perhaps the most startling incident in The Fair Maid of Perth. The youthful prince, like many other heirs ap­ parent, and the more that he had a feeble and doting father, yielded himself without restraint to the impulses of youthful blood, and rioted in all manner of insolence and debauchery. He and Jack Falstaff’s Prince Hal were simul­ taneously pursuing similar courses. Displeasing as this was to the State at large, it was emphati­ cally so to the haughty Earl of Douglas, whose daughter Marjory was the prince’s wife, and who na­ turally resented the dishonour done to his blood. Here, then, was one powerful and dangerous enemy. But an enemy more powerful and more dangerous still was his uncle, the Duke of Albany, a man cruel, crafty, unscrupulous, and ambitious, who had set his heart on the throne for himself and his family. Rothe­ say being entrusted by the feeble king to his artful brother, as old Boece says, ‘ to leir him honest and civill maneris,’ was brought to Falkland and thrown into a dun­ geon without meat or drink. He was subjected to that most tedious, terrible, and revolting of all violent deaths—starvation ; and we need not wonder that round such a ‘ strange eventful history ’ much circumstantial romance should have gathered. For instance, a woman moved with compassion for the un­ happy prince is said to have let meal fall down through the loft of the tower, by which his life was pro­ longed several days ; but her action having been discovered she was put to death. Another supplied him with milk from her own bosom, through a long reed, and as soon T as it was known ‘ she was slain with great cruelty.’ At length the captive was reduced to such straits that he devoured the filth of his dungeon, and gnawed his own fin­ gers. A death so tragic necessarily had miraculous consequences; and his body having been buried at Lindores, miracles were performed there for many years after; until, indeed, his brother, James I., began to pu­ nish his slayers, ‘ and fra that time furth,’ says the chronicler, ‘ the miraclis ceissit.’ There can be little doubt in the mind of the competent enquirer that both Al­ bany and Douglas, the prince’s brother-in-law, were, as the Scot­ tish law-phrase has it, ‘ art and part ’ in this foul murder, though probably not to an equal degree, for in the Remission that they after­ wards received at the hands of the feeble monarch their condonation was in terms as ample as if they had been the actual murderers. Robert was advised to provide for the safety of his remaining son James by sending him for education and protection to his ally the King of France. The prince, then only eleven years of age, sailed from the Bass with his tutor, the Earl of Ork­ ney, and a suitable attendance, in March 1405. In direct violation of a truce then existing between the two kingdoms, an English ship of war captured the Scottish vessel off Flamborough Head, on the 12th of April. To argue in such a case would have been unavailing: besides, it was known to the English that Al­ bany would not be displeased that his nephew and hisattendants should be treated as prisoners of war; and in fact it is surmised that he gave hints for the capture, that the only remain­ ing obstacle between himself and the throne might be in a fair way of being altogether removed. James’s own ac­ count of the capture is as follows: �;1874] The Poet-King of S&itlaml. Upon the wevis weltering to and fro, So infortunate was we that fremyt day, That maugre plainly quethir we wold or no, With strong hand by forse sehortly to say, . Of inymyis taken and led away, We weren all, and brought in thaire contree, Fortune it schupe non othir wayis to be. For nineteen years he was the prisoner first of Henry IV., and then of his son Henry V. In the treatment of ‘ his captive guest,’ says John Hill Burton, Henry V. showed a nature in which jea­ lousies and crooked policy had no place. Had he desired to train an able statesman to support his own throne, he could not have better accomplished his end. The King of Scots had everything that England could give to store his naturally active intellect with learning and accomplishments ; and he had opportunities of seeing the practice of English politics, and of observing and dis­ coursing with the great statesmen of the day, both in England and in France, where Henry had also a court. He would bo sent back all the abler governor of his own people, and more formidable foe to her enemies, for his sojourn at the Court of England. It may be so ; but though there is an over-ruling Providence From seeming evil still educing good, it is a spurious liberality that credits violence and breach of faith with happy results that were certainly not contemplated. It has often been asked why Henry IV. captured and detained the youthful prince, and above all why he was kept in captivity so long. If Albany had been the instigator, why was James detained nearly five years after his uncle’s death ? and if, as it has been said, James was detained because there was a refugee monk at Stir­ ling believed to be Richard the Second of England, who had escaped from Pontefract, why was he not liberated on the death of that per­ sonage, whoever he was, which occurred in 1419, when there .was no longer the shadow of a claimant to the English throne ? These questions are more easily asked VOL. X.—NO. LVII. NEW SERIES. 379 than answered. A royal captive was too tempting a prize to be lightly parted with: and it was natural that England should not restore the sovereign of her trouble­ some neighbour till she had taken what precautions she could to secure amity between the twTo nations. In this case the fetters of love strengthened the bands of policy. A marriage with the blood­ royal of England was the most ob­ vious expedient, and James had already lost his heart to the nearest choice, Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and cousingerman of the English king. Romance and policy went hand in hand, and the aspirations of the royal lover were in unison with the wishes and the plans of politicians. The story of his love is told with singular sweetness and beauty in ‘ The King’s Quair ’(i.e. Quire,— Book), to which we now turn with­ out prosecuting the narrative of his subsequent busy, energetic, and use­ ful life. This beautiful and graceful poem, one of the bright consummate flowers of romance, and therefore singular as the production of one whose whole after life, instead of being a romantic dream, was a sage, practical, far-sighted, stern reality, was inspired by his passion for the ‘lady of his love,’ the beautiful granddaughter of ‘ Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster.’ The royal captive, an adept in all knightly accomplishments, a musi­ cian, a scholar, a philosopher, and a poet, in the heyday of his blood, found himself, contrary to all the dictates of justice and hospitality, ‘ in strait ward and in strong prison ’ in a strange land. For nearly eighteen years he had be­ wailed a ‘ deadly life,’ or a living­ death, contrasting his own wretched fate with the freedom that each had in his kind, The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea. D D �380 The Poet-King of Scotland. He was tempted to question the Divine goodness, seeing that he more than others had had hard measure dealt him, and thus days and nights were spent in unavailing lamentation. As a solace amid his woes, it was his wont to rise early as day and indulge in exercise, by which he found joy out of torment. Looking from his chamber window in a tower of Windsor Castle, out on a small flower-garden, occupying the site of what had once been the moat, he saw walking beneath— The fairest or the freschest young floure That ever I saw, methought, before that houre—- a vision of loveliness. The solitary prisoner, with a poet’s eye and a poet’s heart, looking out on a garden fair and an arbour green, musical in the May morning with the notes of the nightingale, ‘ now soft now loud among,’ was in the mood to invest any comely daughter of Eve with the attributes of a god­ dess. When night is darkest the light is near; and when the heart of James was at the saddest the light of his life was about to dawn on him. Jane Beaufort, attended by two of her maidens, entered the garden to make her morning orisons, and the captive of the Tower was so over­ come with pleasure and delight, that 4 suddenly his heart became her thrall.’ Than gan I studye in myself and seyne, All! suete are ye a warldly creature, Or hevingly thing in likenesse of Nature ? Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse ? And cumyn are to loose me out of band, Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse ? That have depayntit with your hevinly band This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand ? Quhat sail I think, allace.' quhat rever­ ence Sall I mester unto your excellence ? He says she has— Beauty enough to make a world to dote. 4 The King’s Quair ’ would have been inevitably lost had it not been [September for the preservation of a single manuscript, which once belonged to Selden, and is now in the Bod­ leian Library at Oxford. That James was the author of several poems is a fact noted by all who have written of his life; but as printing was not introduced into Britain for a century after his age, it can scarcely be matter of sur­ prise that most of these should have been lost. As Mair, Dempster, and Tanner, Bishop of St. Asaph, all mentioned particularly James’s poem 4 upon his future wife,’ and as reference was made to its being among the Seldenian manuscripts in the Bodleian, Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, engaged an Oxford student to search for it; and this search having been successful, he further engaged him to make an accurate copy. Mr. Tytler pub­ lished it in 1783, prefixing a his­ torical and critical Dissertation on the Life of James I., and adding a Dissertation on Scottish Music. The text was illustrated by valu­ able philological and explanatory notes. 4 Christis Kirk of the Grene ’ was also included by Mr. Tytler in his publication, but we reserve what we have to say of this most humorous poem for the close of our paper. The title of the Seldenian manuscript above refer­ red to is 4 The Quair, maid be King James of Scotland the First, callit The King’s Quair. Maid qn. his Ma. was in England and at the end there is the colophon—4 Quod King James I.’ The transcript is said to be a very indifferent one, and contains not a few errors. George Chalmers published in 1824 The Poetic Remains of some of the Scottish Kings, in which what is defective in Tytler’s exemplar of 4 The Quair ’ has not been remedied. As James was taken to England when a mere boy, and wrote Ins poem there, and as he was a dili­ gent student of Gower and Chaucer, it is more than probable that it was �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. originally written in Southern or East-Midland English. The exist­ ing manuscript is not, however, in that dialect, but in the Northern English used in the Lowlands of Scotland; therefore it is probable that we have not got the first form, but that which it took at the hands of native scribes across the Tweed. For the ease of the reader Mr. Tytler divided the poem into six cantos, according to the various episodes contained in it. After the taste of the age, it is allegorical, a style of poetic composition probably derived from the Provencal writers, and continued in Britain to the end of the reign of Elizabeth. To us of the present day it is wearily, and perhaps drearily, prolix; but it ac­ corded well with an age of stately decorum and stilted compliment, and has all the elements of cum­ brous magnificence. Congruity was not aimed at by the allegorical poets, and in ‘ The Quair ’ there is an unseemly admixture of Chris­ tian and Pagan mythology. This cannot be ascribed to a want of knowledge, but it is to be set down to a defect of taste; for, except in the case of the very highest poets, who wrote entirely from inspira­ tion, and had no recourse to models, taste is a quality of culture, and the child of criticism. It may exist in a high degree with a mediocrity of genius, and be sought for in vain in the compositions of rich, original, inventive bards. James did not rise above the taste of his age, nor furnish a purer and more chastened model to his successors. But leav­ ing out of view the structure of his work, in individual passages he soars to an elevation, and revels in a sweet beauty, exceeded by none of his contemporaries, and admired even in this highly critical age, familiar with the chastened grace of Tennyson, by all possessed of catholic sympathies. Awaking from sleep in his prison, he consoles himself by reading 381 Boethius, and this suggests to him the instability of human affairs, and the misfortunes and calamities of his own unhappy life. Hearing the bell ring to matins, he rose from his couch, but could not divest himself of the idea that the bell was vocal, and was urging him to write his own chequered history. Our read­ ers will remember how often Charles Dickens avails himself of a similar fancy. James, therefore, ‘ took con­ clusion some new thing to write,’ and invoked, as was the custom, the Muses to his aid. He recounts the details of his capture and cap­ tivity ; at last his eye is delighted with the garden and its bowers, and his ear charmed with the song of the nightingale, of whose sweet harmony this was the text: Worshippe, ye that lovers been, this May, For of your bliss the Kalends are begun, And sing with us, Away, winter, away! Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun ; Awake, for shame ; that have your heavens won, And amorously lift up your heades all; Thank Love that list you to his mercy call. He now speculates on the nature of Love, to which he had hitherto been a stranger, and prays that he might enter his service, and ever­ more be one of those who serve him truly in weal and woe. His prayer is answered sooner than he expected, for in the garden appeared his future queen, as has been men­ tioned above, and falling under the dominion of love, suddenly — My wit and countenance, My heart, my will, my nature, and my mind, Was changed clean right in ane other kind. The personal beauty of the royal maiden was enhanced by all the art of the time : Off liir array the form gif I sal write, Toward hir golden haire and rich atyre, In fretwise couchit with perlis quhite, And grete balas lemyng as the fyre, With mony ane emerant and faire saphire, D D 2 �382 The Poet-King of Scotland. And on hir liede a chaplet fresch of hewe, Of plumys partit rede, and quhite, and blewe. To this tricolour, the chosen em­ blem of liberty, the royal youth succumbed in a willing bondage. About her neck, fair as the white enamel, was a goodly chain of gold, by which there hung a ruby shaped like a heart; it seemed burning wantonly on her white throat like a spark of love. But better and beyond all these were youth, beauty, humble port, bounty, and womanly feature—all sweet gifts and graces to such extent that Nature could ‘ no more her child advance.’ He is now under the law of Venus, and calls on the nightingale to resume her song. With that anon right she toke up a sang Where come anon mo birdis and alight; Bot than to here the mirth was tham amang, Ouer that to see the suete sicht Of hyr ymage, my spirit was so light, Methought 1 flawe for joy without arest, So were my wittis bound in all to fest. And to the nottis of the philomene, Quhilkis she sang the dittee there I maid Direct to hir that was my hertis quene, Withoutin quhom no songis may me glade, And to that sand walking in the schade, My bedis thus with humble hert entire Di'votly I said on this manere. There is an infinite delicacy in James’s expression of his love and hopes, which his seclusion may have fostered but could not have created, proving how pure and noble and knightly, in the highest sense— how ‘ tender and true ’ was this ex­ patriated flower of Scottish chivalry. His ‘hertis quene’ became his lovely, loving, and beloved wife : and when the daggers of the assassins drank his heart’s blood in the Dominican Monastery at Perth, she was twice stabbed in her frantic efforts to defend and save him. The chief interest of the poem gathers round James himself and his future queen. His pure heart, his ingenuousness, his sincerity, his brilliant fancy, his scholarly accom­ [September plishments, his deep and devoted love, win irresistibly our admiration, and make us forget the king and the captive in the loyal-hearted and warm-blooded man. His transportation to the Sphere of Love, and then to the Palace of Minerva, and his subsequent journey in quest of fortune, are very fanciful, and in the purest contemporary style of allegory. But to us, save in in­ dividual passages, they are of no great interest. Evidently these portions of his work were composed to conform to a conventional but objectionable ideal. His discussion of the vexed questions of Fate and Free-will might seem to moderns to be dragged in neck and heels to exhibit his proficiency in scholastic philosophy, but it is simply a com­ pliance with the vicious practice of the age. Gower and Chaucer were his ‘ masters dear; ’ and, though it would be heresy to place him on a level with Chaucer, one of those world-poets who mark an era, he exhibits a reverential delicacy in his description of the Lady of the Garden which is wanting to Chaucer in his enumeration of the charms of Rosial in his ‘ Court of Love.’ Mr. Ellis, however, one of the acutest of our critics, is more daring than we incline to be, for in his Specimens of the BaflgBiiglish Poets he says with­ out qualification that ‘“The King’s Quair ” is full of simplicity and feeling, and not inferior in poetical merit to any similar production of Chaucer.’ Before proceeding to describe and criticise ‘Christis Kirk of the Grene,’ ‘ a remarkable specimen of genuine humour and pleasantry,’ we will first attempt to establish the claim of the First James to its authorship, as this has been challenged in favour of his descendant James the Fifth. Mr. Paterson, in his Gudeman of Ballamgeich, is the latest propounder and defender of this latter opinion, and as he has stated his case intelligently and fully, we �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. will examine his arguments in detail. Meanwhile we will indicate, by way of preface, what we believe gave origin to the prevalent notion that the Fifth James alone could have produced such a graphic and humorous picture of peasant life, and we will do so in the words of Mr. Burton, than whom there is no higher authority on everything per­ taining to ancient Scotland: James V. was affectionately remembered by his people as ‘ the King of the Commons.’ History told that he had been no friend to the nobles, and tradition mixed him up with many tales of adventure among the pea­ santry, who not less enjoyed their memory that they were not always creditable to him. It was, perhaps, from these specialties of his popularity, that he long held a place in literary renown as the People’s Poet. ‘ Christ’s Kirk of the Green' and ‘ The Gaberlunzie Man ’ are rhymed pictures of Scottish peasant-life; so full of lively de­ scription, and broad, vigorous, national humour, that in popular esteem they could only be the works of ‘the King of the Commons ; ’ but this traditional belief lacks solid support. The first who may be regarded as attributing this poem to James V. is Dempster; for in his Ecclesiastical History of the Nation of the Scots, published in 162 7, two years after his death, he says that of the poems left by James V. testifying to his most delightful genius, he had seen only the vernacular epos ‘ On the Rustic Dances at Falkirk.’ Here there are two gross blunders—the poem is described as an epos, an heroic poem, such as the Greek and Latin poets rendered in hexameters, and English and Scottish poets in pentameters ; and he had seen it. No metric system is more opposed to what is known as the epic than that of the poem in question. Again, the dances are referred to Falkirk in­ stead of to Christ’s Kirk. These are damaging particulars, and the more so when we consider that Dempster is the most untrustworthy of his­ torians: Archbishop Ussher asserted that he would believe nothing on his evidence, unless he had himself 383 seen it. Though he could have had no critical or partisan object in assigning it to the one James more than to the other, yet when a legiti­ mate question of criticism and authorship arises, Dempster’s tes­ timony either way must simply be eliminated. If this finding be cor­ rect it nearly settles the dispute, for Gibson, Tanner, and Ruddiman are merely Dempster’s echoes. In 1691, Edmund Gibson, after­ wards the Bishop of London, published at Oxford a very in­ accurate edition, and introduced the poem as one ‘ composed, as is sup­ posed, by King James the Fifth.’ He gives no authority for his supposition, it being almost certain that he is relying on the testimony of Demp­ ster. The learned Ruddiman, in the preface to his edition of Gavin Douglas’s translation of Virgil’s fEneis, published in 1710 (Mr. Paterson says 1720), ascribes ‘Christ’s Kirk’ to James V., avow­ edly on the authority of the Oxford editor, and so does Tanner, Bishop of St. Asaph, in his Bibliotheca Britannico Hibernica, published in 1748. Thus four authorities that have been much relied on dwindle on examination to one, and that one no authority at all on any matter that admits of dispute. Bishops Gibson and Tanner are in this case foreigners, and their ‘ opinions,’ if their testimony de­ serves even this title, are those of persons whose ‘ opinions ’ carry no weight. The only piece of disin­ genuousness we have observed in­ Mr. Paterson’s advocacy, and it is surely a mere inadvertence, occurs, in reference to Watson’s ChoiceCollection of Scots Poems. In the first edition, published in 1706, Watson attributed the poem to James V. ; but Mr. Paterson does not add that in the second edition, published seven years later, he ascribed it to James I. For our­ selves we hold this change of opinion on the part of Watson as �384 The Poet-King of Scotland. of almost infinitesimal value in the settlement of the question. Neither do we attach much importance to the adhesion of the Earl of Orford, Percy, Warton, Ritson, and others to the vague recollection of Demp­ ster, and to the unauthoritative supposition of Bishop Gibson. Ab­ solutely there is no external evi­ dence in favour of the claims of the later James, ‘ the King of the Commons; ’ the whole external evidence—and it is not great—is in favour of his illustrious ancestor, as we shall now attempt to prove. In the latter part of 1568, George Bannatyne, a man of intelligence and some poetic power, made that invaluable transcript of Scottish poetry known as the Bannatyne manuscript, now in the Advocates’ Library. At the close of his copy of ‘ Christ’s Kirk ’ he adds the affida­ vit, q.,i.e. quoth, KingJames the First. This is not perfectly conclusive, but at any rate it counts for evidence, and far outweighs the presumption of Bishop Gibson and his followers. It is, in fact, the only external evidence we have to guide us in forming a conclusion. An attempt has been made to invalidate Bannatyne’s authority, because in the next poem but one he has written King James V. instead of King James IV. But that was a poem of no great mark—‘The Dregy of Dunbar maid to King James, being in Strivilling,’ of which Bannatyne could not but know that James IV., and not his son, was the object, and consequently the inference that his blunder was a mere lapsus pennee is not only probable, but necessary and inevitable. The presumption of a similar lapse in the case of ‘ Christ’s Kirk ’ is untenable. Had James V. been the author of a poem of so much humour and mark, it is incredible that in a MS. written only twenty-six years after his death by one who was almost a contemporary, it should have been ascribed to a king who had died a [September hundred and thirty-two years earlier. James V. had been too popular and too unfortunate to be lightly robbed of any credit to which he was justly entitled; on the contrary, it was long the custom to give him credit for much that was not his own. It is the internal evidence that is weak, and on it alone we could scarcely be justified in building any conclusion. If James I. wrote it, the language has undergone a modernisation. It is less antique than Henryson’s, and it ought not to be. But on the other hand, as a popular poem in every sense of the word, it was just the sort of piece to undergo a soft succession of living changes. This has been the case with the ancient ballads of Scotland especially. Had it been a closet poem, so to speak, it might have remained untouched. But how could it live on from age to age, except by a process of uncon­ scious transformation ? ‘ If there is not sufficient evidence,’ says Dr. Irving, ‘ for referring it to James I., there is no evidence whatsoever for referring it to James V.’ Irving, no doubt, was a dogmatic man, of strong prejudices; but he was specially wTell-informed, and meant to do justice to all. If the intimate knowledge of the peasantry dis­ played in the poem is held as pointing to the royal ‘ Gaberlunzie Man,’ we must remember that his more illustrious ancestor occasion­ ally mingled with the lower orders too, and that in a fashion after the Beggar-man’s own heart; so that tlie Second Charles owed as much of his roving disposition to the blood of the Stuarts in his veins, as to the modicum he held of that of Margaret Tudor, and of that of Henri Quatre. We think Mr. Paterson stultifies himself when, after attempting to discredit the authority of the Bannatyne MS., because the transcriber bad written Fifth for Fourth, he adds, ‘ Now, �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. this occurred in the reign of Queen Mary, daughter of James V. It is strange, therefore, that his memory should have been so treacherous in reference to the queen’s father or grandfather. We must conclude that the inaccuracies described were not the result of ignorance, but merely slips of the pen.’ We must con­ clude so too, and therefore the only external authority for the author­ ship, authority in the proper sense of the term, that can be discovered is fully vindicated. We have not noticed; Pebles to the Play, ’ for about the authorship of this we think there is small room for dispute. Mair or Major quotes the first two words of it as belonging to a poem of the First James, and Lord Hailes’s objection to it in connection with the 70th statute of James II. has, we think, been satisfactorily dis­ posed of. ‘ Christis Kirk of the Grene,’ to the subject and treatment of which we now turn, is, says Lord Kames, ‘ a ludicrous poem, representing low manners with no less propriety than spriglitliness.’ Its popularity had crossed the Border, and Pope no­ tices, sportively, that ‘ a Scot will fight for it.’ We question if an Englishman would fight for .any national poem. Being a native of a richer and more cosmopolitan country, he has greater self-com­ placency, and would scarcely stickle for what he might deem a trifle. The ‘ Kirk ’ is said to have been a village in the parish of Lesly, in Aberdeenshire. The best introduc­ tion to the poem is to quote the first two stanzas, and we beg our readers to note the frequent and systematic use of alliteration, a poetic characteristic of the humor­ ous poetry of the age : Wes nevir in Scotland hard nor sene Sec dancing nor deray, Nouthir at Falkland on the Grene, Ner Pebillis at the Play ; As wes of wowaris, as I wene, At Christis Kirk on ane day : 385 Thair came our Kitties, weshen clene, In thair new kirtillis of gray, Full gay, At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day. To dans thir damysellis thame dicht, Thir lasses licht of laitis, Thair gluvis war of the raffel rycht, Thair sliune wer of the straitis, Thair kirtillis were of Lynkome licht, Weil prest with monny plaitis, Thay wer sa nyss quhen men thame nicht, Thay squelit lyke ony gaitis, Sa loud, At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day. There are in all twenty-three stanzas, filled ‘ with a succession of highly ludicrous objects, and con­ taining many characteristic lines.’ ‘ Whoever reads the poem,’ says Mr. Tytler, ‘ simply as a piece of wit and humour, comes very far short, I imagine, of the patriotic design and intention of its author.’ And this he endeavours to illustrate. We confess we read it simply for its wit and humour, though on the supposition that it is James the First’s, the patriotic intention is highly intelligible, and affords strong internal evidence of his being the author. From the description of the rustic coquette Gillie, and Jock whom ‘ scho scornit,’ we find the same reference to, and preference for, yellow hair that the ancient poems testify— Fow zellow zcllow wes hir lieid. Tam Lutar was the village min­ strel ; Steven was a famous dancer who ‘ lap quhill he lay on his lendis and the quarrel was at last com­ menced by Kobin Itoy and Towny, but the laws of the ring were un­ known, for— God wait gif hair was ruggit Bethix thame, At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day. The patriotic purpose referred to by Tytler now appears, viz. to force the Scots to practise archery, by ridiculing their ineptitude. Their defeats by the English were in­ variably due to their deficiency in �386 The Poet-King of Scotland. this arm. When the one of the combatants referred to had bent a bow, he thought to have pierced his antagonist’s buttocks, but ‘by an acre-braid it cam’ not near him! ’ The weapons were also defective, for a friend’s bow flew in flinders when he had drawn it furiously to aid him. Harij and Lowry fared no better, for the arrow of the latter aimed at the breast hit the belly ; but so far from piercing burnished mail, like the cloth-yard shafts of England, the arrow rebounded like a bladder from the leathern doublet. The stricken man was, however, so stunned that he ‘ dusht doun to the eard,’ and his adversary, thinking him dead, fled from the town. The wives, coming forth, found life in the loun, and ‘ with three rowts up they reft him,’ and cured him of his swoon. A young man aiming at the breast sent his arrow over the byre, and being told that he had slain a priest a mile off, also fled from the town. The fight becomes general, and the women cry and clap, as usual on such occasions. The exploits of Hutchen, the Town Soutar, the Miller, and the Herds­ men, are described with inimitable humour; and the action of Dick, who, when all was done, came forth with an axe ‘ to fell a fuddir,’ or heap, gave both his wife and Meg, his mother, their paiks, is described with genuine Scotch pawkiness —keen observation and gift of satire hid under a seeming sim­ plicity. In a word, whoever may be the author of ‘ Christ’s Kirk,’ he stands in the foremost rank of Scottish humorous poets. If our hypothesis is correct, the captive of the Tower and the chronicler of the sports of Christ’s Kirk was a man of no common versatility, and could touch many strings of the harp, ranging at will from the deepest tenderness to the highest humour, from Allegory to Farce. Our sketch would be imperfect were we not to notice, however [September briefly, the singularly tragic end of this royal and most gifted child of song. Several causes led to it, for to no one in particular can it be clearly traced. His wise and strin­ gent laws protected property, fos­ tered industry, and emancipated the humbler classes from the tyranny of the great feudal lords. With the former, therefore, he was popular, while his searching enquiry into the titles of the latter to their estates had greatly frightened them. Se­ veral forfeitures that had been made, thoughin strict accord with the laws, intensified theirfears, and Sir Robert Graham, the prime motive power in the tragedy that had been planned, is said to have openly denounced Janies in Parliament as a tyrant, and to have made no secret of his conviction that he deserved death at the hand of the first who met him. The portents of superstition were likewise brought into play, and a Highland witch warned James of his coming doom. But threats and warnings lie despised alike, and his jests oil the last were long remembered. He had spent the Christmas of 1436 in the Black Friars’ Monastery in Perth, and was still there on the twentieth of the following February. On the even­ ing of that day he was conversing gaily with the queen and her ladies before retiring to rest, when three hundred of Graham’s Highlanders broke into the monastery. Escape by door or window was impossible, but the king raising a board of the flooring leapt into a vault below. A lady of the Douglas family thrust her arm through the staples to serve as a bolt, but it was soon crushed by the violence of the assassins. He might have escaped by an opening to the sewer, but three days before he had himself caused it to be built up, because the tennis balls entered it when he was playing in the gar­ den. Though at fault at first, the conspirators at last found his hiding­ place, and after a heroic and most �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. desperate resistance lie was des­ patched with sixteen dagger stabs. The conspirators were pursued and captured, and expiated their bloody crime by almost unimaginable tor­ tures. Since the time of CEdipus no royal line has equalled that of the Stuarts in its calamities. The First James, adorned with the graces of poetry and chivalry, a wise legislator, a sagacious and resolute king, perished, as we have seen, in his forty-fourth year. His son, the Second James, was killed in his thirtieth year at the siege of Rox­ burgh Castle, by the bursting of a cannon. The Third James, after the battle of Saucliieburn, in which his rebellious subjects were counte­ nanced and aided by his own son, was stabbed, in his thirty-sixth year, beneath a humble roof by a pretended priest. That son, the chivalrous madman of Flodden, compassed his own death and that of the flower of his kingdom, while only forty years of age, by a piece of foolish knight-errantry. At an age ten years younger his only son, James the Fifth, died of a broken heart. Over the sufferings and follies, if we may not say crimes, 387 and over the mournful and unwar­ rantable doom of the beauteous Mary, the world will never cease to debate. Her grandson ex­ piated at Whitehall, by a bloody death, the errors induced by his self-will and his pernicious educa­ tion. The Second Charles, the Merry Monarch, had a fate as sad as any of his ancestors ; for though he died in his bed, his life was that of a heartless voluptuary, who had found in his years of seeming pros­ perity neither truth in man nor fidelity in woman. His brother, the bigot James, lost three kingdoms, and disinherited his dynasty, for his blind adherence to a faith that failed to regulate his life. The Old Preten­ der was a cipher, and the Young Pretender, after a. youthful flash of promise, passed a useless life, and ended it as a drunken dotard. The last of the race, Henry, Cardinal York, died in 1804, a spiritless old man, and a pensioner of that House of Hanover against which his father and brother had waged war with no advantage to themselves, and with the forfeiture of life and lands, of liberty and country, to many of the noblest and most chivalrous in­ habitants of our island. W. G. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Poet-King of Scotland Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [s.l.] Collation: p. 378-387 ; 22 cm. Notes: From Fraser's Magazine 10 (September 1874). Printed in double columns. Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country was a general and literary journal published in London from 1830 to 1882, which initially took a strong Tory line in politics. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Article signed W.G. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1874 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT34 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Scotland Monarchy Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource W.G. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The Poet-King of Scotland), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry James I of Scotland Scotland https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/e36aa6bf6c2df870addda27677fb48ca.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=prhQlmZzFDw8ShrqlhP8QNuWzo67CyZ-bP4B478l1d4wK6RweK-PAdBq7bHec5gge2XpMYmxgbB32Zo0zEhiXvDYpnEryYjVKa0n5UrJt9Qtnon4WT6HPL%7EKW00HGJrmnhpqLJbhQFQgxoQBmpfYH2XibeJdxeavjg17miSxNDtcFdL8wOq4VnOSzESTfnESUpPE3u%7EUpn8bLdL0u5HmlysZWQwFtqinrl0%7E1NrzYRmXGmny7bGxu5kkDtXc8iOqESTa5PzfRlNzLjJ5CPXjHNYEBR%7E9u8O1vNQAlxJkjT-yfltWlV%7E-VZ%7EkEwPl4oRV%7EMW6uJ8yaMwtnSjtc-vRSg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM dce0f9d47910e75c5b33fe295d08c800 PDF Text Text 1870.] Rossetti, the Painter and Poet. found questions are introduced and handled, and its suggestiveness of pro­ found thinking and vast learning, “ Lo­ 95 thair ” stands alone worthy, in the realms of English fiction, to be named along­ side of “ Wilhelm Meister.” ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. The utmost efforts of English thought and imagination, aided by assiduous study of all precedent art, have not yet succeeded in establishing an art which merits the appellation of a school, or which, indeed, displays amongst its promoters a character which shall serve to link its individuals into any coher­ ence worthy of classification. Sporadic cases of artistic excellence continually occur, but leave no more effect on the art-production of the country than if they had been of foreign birth and sym­ pathy ; and no artist has yet succeeded in making a pupil, much less a school. As, therefore, with the exception of Turner, no man of remarkable power had appeared in the first half of the nineteenth century, the beginning of the second half showed, on the whole, the most pitifully hopeless state of ar­ tistic development which any country, with serious pretensions, has ever show­ ed. In figure-painting, Leslie, painter of pretty women and drawing-room comedy, had the highest pretension to genius, while around him flourished a multitude of painters of low genre, fus­ tian history, and pose plastique, with here and there a man of real purpose, but struggling against the most absolute want of appreciation and sympathy, either on the part of the profession or the public. In technical qualities and in use of the experience of other times and nations, an English Exhibition of 1849, was the most laughable gathering of misapplied brains which could be found in any country. Out of this degradation must come reformation, and, in 1849, three young reformers in art found themselves face to face with the English public on the question of artistic reform. These were the chiefs of the so-called pre-Raphaelite movement — Dante G. Rossetti, J. E. Millais, and W. Holman Hunt—Rossetti being the chief, of the chiefs, and an Italian, Millais of French descent, and only Hunt, the lesser of the three, an Englishman. The three reformers, like-minded in their disgust for the inanity of the pros­ perous art of the day, had yet no com­ mon ideal, nor was there any intention of organizing a school. The title long since known of “ Pre-Raphaelite Broth­ erhood ” being applied by the followers who soon gathered around them, and who, as is generally the case with disci­ ples, began to organize on the less im­ portant characteristics of the movement, and the term soon became applied to all minute realization of detail, though that was not the element which gave character to the reform, but rather de­ fiance of all thoughtless, conventional representation of nature, Rossetti differ­ ing widely in his ideal from his co-reformers, and the body of their follow­ ers adopted a diverging path, which has left him alone in the peculiar excellen­ cies, as in the aims, of his art. As is always the case in men of so peculiar and so consummate an art— Rossetti had slight hold on the English public, and, having always held general opinion in contempt, he has never, since 1850, been a contributor to the exhibi­ tions, so that even more than with Tur­ ner—his only intellectual peer in the English art of this century—his rank is the award of the profession and the learned few. Nor can he be classified. No school has shown any thing like him, and, like Turner, he has no fol­ lower. Italian by blood, English com­ monplace-ism had no root in his intel­ lect, while the tone of English life lift­ ed him above the slavishness which seems to paralyse art in Italy. The father, an Italian political refugee and �96 Putnam’s Magazine. poet, carried his passion for liberty and poetry into exile, and gave his son the name and worship of the great Tuscan, and a nature in which his own mysti­ cism and originality, and the exuberant sensuousness of his nation, mingled with the earnest religious nature of his wife (of mixed English and Italian race), and the sound, high-toned morality of an admirable English education. Cir­ cumstances more favorable for the de­ velopment of an exceptionally indi­ vidual artistic character could hardly have been combined. Rossetti is at once mystical, imaginative, individual, and intense; a colorist of the few great­ est ; designer at once weird, and of re­ markable range of subject and sympa­ thy ; devotional, humanitarian, satiric, and actual, and, by turns, mediaeval and modern; now approaching the religious intensity of the early Italian, now sati­ rizing a vice of to-day with a realism quite his own, and again painting images of sensuous beauty with a pas­ sionate fulness and purity which no other painter has ever rendered. His most remarkable gift is what, in the in­ completeness of artistic nomenclature, I must call spontaneity of composition —that imaginative faculty by which the completeness and coherence of a pic­ torial composition are preserved from the beginning, so that, to its least de­ tail, the picture bears the impress of having been painted from a complete conception. At times weird, at others grotesque, and again full of pathos, his pictures almost invariably possess this most precious quality of composition, in which Leys alone, of modern paint­ ers, is to be compared with him. Like all great colorists, Rossetti makes of color a means of expression, and only, in a lesser degree, of representa­ tion. Color is to him an art in itself, and the harmonies of his pictures are rather like sad strains of some perfect Eastern music, always pure and wellsought in tint, but with chords that have the quality of those most precious of fabrics—the Persian and Indian— something steals in always which is not of the seen or of earthly tones, a passage [July, which touches the eye as a minor strain does the ear, with a passionate sugges­ tion of something lost, and which, mated with his earnest and spiritual tone of thought, gives to his art, for those who know and appreciate it fully, an interest which certain morbid qualities, born of the over-intense and brooding imagina­ tion, and even certain deficiencies in power of expression, only make more deep. Amongst modem painters he is the most poetic; and, in his early life, painting and poetry seem to have dis­ puted the bent of his mind, and some early poems laid the foundation of a school of poetry, just as his early pic­ tures laid those of a school of art (if even this be worthy to be called a school). In a volume of poems just published there is a sonnet on one of his earliest designs, which, doubtless, expresses the creed of art of the reform. It is called “ St. Luke the Painter,” and represented St. Luke preaching and showing pictures of the Virgin and Christ. Give honor unto Luke Evangelist; Eor he it was (the aged legends say) Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray. Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist Of devious symbols: but soon, having wist How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day Are symbols also in some deeper way, She looked through these to God, and was God’s priest. And if, past noon, her toil began to irk, And she sought talismans, and turned in vain To soulless self-reflections of man’s skill; Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still Kneel in the latter grass to pray again, Ere the night confeth, and she may not work. Rossetti’s indifference to public opin­ ion was the same for picture or poem, for he only exhibited twice, and only two or three of his poems have been printed; but, as the former worked a reform amongst the painters, the latter gave a bent to some of the coming po­ ets, and the authors of the Earthly Para­ dise and Atalanta in Calydon, owe to Rossetti the direction of their thoughts. I remember seeing, in the exhibition, Rossetti’s first exhibited picture. The subject was “ Mary’s Girlhood.” It rep­ resented an interior, with the Virgin / �1870.] Rossetti, the Painter and Poet. Mary sitting by her mother’s side and embroidering from nature a lily, while an angel-child waters the flower which she copies. His sister Christina, the poetess, and her mother, were the models from whom he painted Mary and her mother, and the picture, full of intense feeling and mystic significance, was, for the painters, the picture of the exhibi­ tion (the long extinct “ National Insti­ tution”). It is commemorated in the volumes of poems by a sonnet with the same title. This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God’s virgin. Gone is a great 'while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God’s will she,brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. Prom her mother’s knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity ; Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all, yet wept till sunshine, and felt Because the fulness of the time was come. He exhibited again, in 1850, an An­ nunciation, well remembered amongst artists as “ the white picture,” both the angel and Mary being robed in white, in a white-walled room, the only masses of color being their hair, which was au­ burn. This was his last contribution to any exhibition, his disregard of pub­ lic approbation growing with the evi­ dence that appeared every day of the hold his works had taken on the artis­ tic and intellectual part of the public, so that to-day he is preeminently the painter of the painters and poets, as the character of the poetry stamps him the poet of the painters. Scarcely a note has he struck in his poems which has not its corresponding expression in his painting; and poem sometimes turns to a picture, and a picture sometimes reproduces itself as a poem. Amongst the most important of the poems thus involved is one which, con­ ceived in the old catholic spirit, Ros­ setti has illustrated by a series of pic­ tures and drawings, designed in the same tone. It is the “ Ave,” a hymn to the Virgin. It is full of the most ad­ 1 97 mirable word-painting, and follows the life of the Virgin from the annunciation to the assumption. The opening pic­ ture of the annunciation is in the spirit of his early art as the whole poem is of his early thought. Mind’st thou not (when June’s heavy breath Warmed the long days in Nazareth), That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live One faint night more amid the sands I Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky : the sea Sighed further off eternally, As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God’s secret ways: Until a folding sense, like prayer Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise, Being of the silence:—“ Hail 1 ’’ it said, “ Thou that art highly favored ; The Lord is with thee here and now, Blessed among all women thou 1 ” Another more purely imaginative and intensely pathetic picture, is of the life of Mary in the house of John, after Christ’s death. It represents the inte­ rior of the house of John, with a win­ dow- showing a twilight view of Jeru­ salem. Against the faint distance cut the window-bars, forming a cross, at the intersection of which hangs a lamp which Mary had risen to trim and light, having left her spinning, while John, who has been writing, and holds his tablets still on his knees, strikes a light with a flint and steel for Mary to use. Above the window hangs a net. The passage which is illustrated by it is one of the finest of the poem. Mind’st thou not (when the twilight gone Left darkness in the house of John) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of the stars! For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which never brought Sounds of His coming chariot, Wouldst lift, through cloud-waste unexplor’d, Those eyes which said, “ How long, O Lord 1 ” Then that disciple whom He loved, Well heeding, haply would be moved To ask thy blessing in His name; And that one thought in both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep together—tears long bound— Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. �A A 98 Putnam’s Magazine. The poem called the Blessed Damozel was one of those which were pub­ lished in an art-magazine, conducted by the literary confreres of the reformers in art, and amongst the younger Eng­ lish poets of the day was the key of a new poetic tendency. The writer of these lines has heard the author of the Earthly Paradise avow that the Blessed Damozel turned his mind to writing poetry. It is one of the more passionate, and, at the same time, pictorial, of all Rossetti’s poems, and full of the mystic religious sense in which all the new school began their work with symbolic accessories, as though it had been in­ tended for illustration. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary’s gift, For service meetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God’s choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o’er me—her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) ##**** “ I wish that he were come to me, For he will come,” she said. “ Have I not prayed in heaven ?—on earth, Hord, Hord, has he not pray’d ? Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? And shall I feel afraid ’ “ We two,” she said, “ will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, ****** “ He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. [July, “ Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. “There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:— Only to live as once on earth With Bove,—only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he.” She gazed and listened and then said, Bess sad of speech than mild,— “ All this is when he comes.” She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, fill’d With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) The influence of the study of Dante has been always perceptible in all the work of our painter-poet. The Vita Nuova has been an inexhaustible mine of picture-subject, and the poem, “ Dante at Verona,” one of the longest in the book, is also one of the most earnestly felt, and sympathetic. The Divina Commedia has furnished him only one picture, or rather triptych, from the story of Francesca di Rimini. In this the poets are in the central division; “ The Kiss,” on the right, full of the most intense passion, and the ghosts on the left, pale, dreamy, but dressed as in “ The Kiss,” and floating through an atmosphere filled with little flames, fall­ ing like rain. In dealing with material like this, of course a large measure of conventionalism is to be allowed in the treatment, and Rossetti never hesitates in employing all that his subject de­ mands, so that the Dante designs are, for the most part, at once mystic and typical in conception and treatment. An important picture of “ The Vision of Dante on the Day of Beatrice’s Death,” is most thoroughly studied and realized; two of the heads of Beatrice, and the lady who holds the veil over her at her head, are studied from two of the most celebrated beauties of London. Love leads Dante into the room, where the �1870.] Rossetti, the Paintee body lies, the floor of which is strewn with poppies, and kisses the dead face, in token of the final union—the spiritual kiss which death, the new life, permits to love. In anQther vein the painter employs a degree of realization which represents faculties of a very different nature. In a picture which he calls Hesterna Rosa —“yesterday’s rose”—two courtesans, with their lovers, are finishing a carouse in a tent, while the day is breaking out­ ride. One of them, debauched to utter degradation, riots in her shame and drunkenness, while the other, unused yet to her fallen state, turns, in awaking shame, from her companions. The men are throwing dice—the lover of the shame-faced girl, a low, ruffianly sharp­ er, bites his mistress’ finger abstractedly as he waits for the throw of his adver­ sary. A little girl, an attendant, holds a lute up to her ear and touches the strings, listening to the vibration in sheer indifference to the bacchanals, her purity making the one bright point in the drama, while a monkey—type of all uncleanness—sits at the other side scratching himself in idleness. Through the opening of the tent is seen the dawn through the orchard­ trees, mingling with the lamp-light. One, and perhaps the most powerful, cause of the deep hold which Rossetti, as painter and poet, has obtained on his contemporary painters and poets, is the intense subjectivity of his genius, which, while it gives to sympathetic apprecia­ tion an inexhaustible and inexplicable charm, to those who have no sympathy with his idiosyncrasy gives only an im­ pression of involved phantasy and far­ fetched symbolism. Yet not even Dante himself was more legitimately to this manner born. Not even Titian or Tur­ ner, or the painter of the fragment of Pita, was more involuntarily and uncon­ trollably subjective than their fellowcountryman Rossetti. Types evolved from his own nature run through all his work, and his ideals of beauty have a sisterly likeness which no one can fail to recognize, and which renders it im­ possible for him to render certain types and Poet. of character with satisfaction or com­ plete success. It was the Rossetti type of face and figure which, caricatured and exaggerated in ignorant enthusiasm by the followers of the painter, gave rise to the singular and certainly most un­ lovely ideal of the minor pre-Raphaelites—an ideal in which physical beauty was absolutely set at nought in the search of significance and the evi­ dence of passion. Even in his portraits Rossetti fails, unless the subject inclines more or less to the type which he re­ flects. This demands more than external beauty, be it ever so exquisite, and is only absolutely content with a certain gravity and intensity of character, deep, inscrutable, sphinx-like, or still more when these characteristics go with the expression of intense and restrained passion. Of this type the portrait of Mrs. Morris, wife of the author of the Earthly Paradise, is one of the most perfectly realized expressions. It repre­ sents a face of remarkable perfectness of proportion and nobility of intellec­ tual character, but with a depth of meaning, half-told, questioning eyes and mute lips, which make it, once seen, never to be forgotten; and, paint­ ed with a wealth of color and complete­ ness of power, unequalled by any mod­ ern work, so far as I know. It is one of those portraits which, like Raphael’s Julius Second, Titian’s “ Bella Donna,” and other singularly understood and rendered heads of almost all the great masters of portraiture, remain, perhaps, the highest expression of the painter’s qualities. A remarkable design of Rossetti’s is the Mary Magdalene at the House of Simon the Pharisee. She is passing the house at the head of a festal procession, crowned with flowers, and accompanied by her lover, when she sees Christ through the open door, and, tearing off the garlands, pushes her way into the chamber, against the efforts of the lover and one of her female companions. Far up the street may be seen the baccha­ nals, singing, waving their garlands and playing on musical instruments as they x �100 Putnam’s Magazine. [July, In “ The Portrait,” again—a poem come, and they stop, in amused surprise, at the eccentricity of Mary, who with full of sad and passionate color and pic­ her two immediate companions occupy torial quality—it is the portrait of his the centre of the composition. The dead love he monodizes. His love had head of Christ appears through the been told, in “ a dim, deep wood,” and window at the right, below which, out­ to commemorate it he paintg the por­ side, a vine climbs up on the wall, and trait. a deer nibbles at it. Next day the memories of these things, The whole picture, except the grave, Like leaves through which a bird has flown, Still vibrated with Love’s warm wings; passionate, and touching face of Mary, Till I must make them all my own turned to Christ, without any heed to And paint this picture. So, ’twixt ease the companions who hold her feet and Of talk and sweet long silences, She stood among the plants in bloom knees to prevent her entering, and the At windows of a summer room, responding face of Christ, who turns To feign the shadow of the trees. towards her as he sits at the table, is And as I wrought, while all above full of gayety and merriment; but the And all around was fragrant air, head of Mary, which is pictorially the In the sick burthen of my love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there key-note of it, gives to the ensemble Beat like a heart among the leaves. the pathetic tone which almost all of O heart that never beats nor heaves, Rossetti’s pictures have, and which seem In that one darkness lying still, * What now to thee my love’s great will to be the characteristic of his nature, for Or the fine web the sunshine weaves 1 scarcely one of his poems is conceived ****** in any other feeling than one approachHere with her face doth memory sit ing to sadness, so that, to those who Meanwhile, and wait the day’s decline, have not seen his painting, his poetry Till other eyes shall look from it, Eyes of the spirit’s Talestine, will give the clear idea of his individu­ Even than the old gaze tenderer: ality in art. In one of the most exqui­ While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side, site of his love-poems, “ The Stream’s Like tombs of pilgrims that have died Secret,” he demands of the stream what About the Holy Sepulchre. message it bears from his mistress, and, rehearsing the growth of their passion But enough, both of picture and to himself and the inexorable wave, he poem, to convey such idea as a brief comes, at last, to find that death alone article may, of one of the most singu­ can reply to his question. larly gifted and imaginative artists the world has ever seen, and whose unique Ah, by another wave, power, had it been supplemented by the On other airs, the hour must come, Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. training of such a school as that of Between the lips of the low cave, Venice, would have placed him at the Against that night the lapping waters lav head of painters of human passion. And the dark lips are dumb. Trained under the eye of a Veronese, But there Love’s self doth stand, his work would have gained in solidity And with Life’s weary wings far-flown, And with Death’s eyes that make the water moan, and drawing; and, may-be, with a pub­ Gathers the water in his hand: lic capable of fully appreciating his And they that drink know nought of sky or land genius, he might have painted less de­ But only love alone. fiantly of its opinion. His dramatic 0 soul-sequestered face power is not fully conveyed in any of Bar off,—0 were that night but now! So even beside that stream even I and thou his poems except the “ Last Confession,” Through thirsting lips should draw Love’s grace, which gives no idea of the versatility And in the zone of that supreme embrace with which he depicts passion’s rang­ Bind aching breast and brow. ing from the besotted huts of a Borgia O water whispering to the ecstatic exaltation of a Magda­ Still through the dark into mine ears,— As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers ?— lene, or the serenity of a Madonna. As Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, painter or poet, human passion and hu­ Wan water, wandering water weltering, man sorrow are the only themes which This hidden tide of tears. �A Disenchanted Republican. 1870.1 101 occupy his feeling ; and, though his pas- able, and he is often careless whether his sion sometimes passes the conventional­ picture is understood or not. He car­ ism’of art, and his grief becomes mor­ ries his indifference to mere physical bid, as,'in his pictures, the subjectivity beauty to such a degree as often to make of his treatment sometimes makes his his faces ugly, in the seeking, for intense work almost a riddle to the unlearned ; expression, and, in the action of his fig­ there is no affectation and no willing ures, passes the limits of the natural as weakness, as there is no unconscientious well as graceful, to obtain force. But, trifling with his art, but his tendency, with all his defects and peculiarities, on the contrary, is to neglect those he stands to-day, in general artistic means of success which would make power, first amongst the painters of his art much more widely felt and valu­ England. A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. LETTEE FEOM A GEEMAN TRAVELLER New York, 1869. Mon cher Ami : Do you remember standing with me, years ago, on a beautiful point of land, and gazing on the mountains and the sea ? How vast and exhilarating was the view, what picturesque grandeur and novel evidences of human thrift and science in the valley-dwellings, old churches, and careering sails ; while, at our feet, washed up by the tide, garb­ age, and bits of wreck, made the details around such a crude and dreary contrast to the scene beyond and above. Thus, my friend, is it here. When I think of the myriads who, in Europe, had no hope or prospect but drudgery and indigence, who, in the lands of the great West as farmers, and in the cities as mechanics, have attained competence, often wealth; and whose children are now educated, prosperous, and, best of all, progressive, citizens of this great Re­ public; when I see how free is the scope, how sure the harvest reaped by intelligence, industry, and temperance, in this land, I feel heart and brain ex­ panded and vivified with gratified hu­ man sympathies and limitless aspira­ tion. Yon may wonder at my including temperance as a condition of success: it is because intemperance is still the curse of the country; and, upon inves­ tigation, I find that smartness and tem­ perance, combined, have been and are the means whereby the poor and ambi­ tious have risen to social influence, wide activity, and political or professional honor. But when, drawing in both thought and vision from the broad scenes, from the human generalization, I look criti­ cally at what is going on immediately around me, often—to use a phrase of the native pioneer author—“ hope dark­ ness into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair; ” for this very smartness — a favorite and significant term—is often unscrupulous; this very temperance cold-blooded; and this very success unsoftened by sentiment, un­ elevated by aspiration, unredeemed by beneficence. The devotion to wealth, as such, the temporizing with fraud, the triumph of impudence, the material standard and style of life, make me look back upon the homely ways, the genial content, the cultured repose so often found in the Old World, with a kind of regretful admiration. And yet it is just and rational to bear constantly in mind the fact that here every thing comes to the surface; no polished absolutism guards from view the latent corruption; no system of espionage and censorship, of police and military despotism, keeps the outside fair, while private rights and public virtue are mined for destruction ; �102 Putnam’s Magazine. all is exposed and discussed; and the good and evil elements of society, poli­ tics, opinion, trade, speculation, pastime, and crime, have free play and frank ex­ position. But, you will ask, how is it with regard to the intellectual.life in its higher phase ? What are the tenden­ cies and triumphs of the mind, apart from the sphere of fashion, of com­ merce, of civic duty ? My answer is, audacious; no other word so well ex­ presses the animus of the would-be thinkers of the land. They despise pre­ cedents, ignore discipline, contemn the past; they serve up ideas as old as Plato, as familiar to scholars as Mon­ taigne, in new-fangled sentences, and delude themselves and their disciples with the pretence of originality. They espouse an opinion, a cause, a theory, and make capital thereof on the ros­ trum and through the press, without a particle of philosophic insight or moral consistency; in education, in religion, in what they call culture, with an ego­ tism that is at once melancholy and ridiculous, they maintain “ what is new but not true, and what is true but not new,” and, with a complacent hardihood that repudiates the laws of humanity, the pure and primal sentiments that lie at the basis of civilization and the con­ stitution of man and woman. Without reverence there is no insight; without sympathy there is no truth ; all is bold, self-asserting, conceited, unscrupulous, and, in the last analysis, vulgar; but there is, in all this perversion of har­ monious intellectual life and complete intellectual equipment, what takes with the half-informed — sensationalism, the love of letters, and speculative thought. Closely studied, the cause of this incon­ gruous development may be found in a certain lack of moral sensibility, which instinctively guards from paradox on the one hand and guides to truth on the other. It is, as you well know, essential to artistic perception; and those of American writers and thinkers, who have the sense and sentiment of art, like Irving and Bryant, Hawthorne and Longfellow, have been thereby protect­ ed from the reckless vagaries and the [July, mental effrontery which, under the plea of reform, of free thought, of progress, profanes the modest instincts of human­ ity, and desecrates the beautiful and the true in the interest of an eager, intoler­ ant vanity. While Mammon is widely worshipped, and Faith widely degraded, bright, be­ nign exceptions to this pagan spirit “give us pause.” I have never met more choice and charming illustrations of mental integrity, truth to personal conviction, heroic fidelity in legitimate individual development, than among the free and faithful citizens of this Republic; but they are unappreciated, except by the few who intimately know them; their influence is limited, and they are unambitious, as are all human beings who live intrinsically from with­ in, and not conventionally from with­ out. And, with all the deference to and passion for money, there never was a commercial city in the world where so much is given in charity, where so many rich men habitually devote a not inconsiderable portion of their income to the relief of distress, or where the response to appeals for aid in any hu­ mane or patriotic cause is more fre­ quent, prompt, and generous than in this same badly-governed, money-get­ ting, and money-spending city of New York. After all, perhaps, I must confess that the disappointment experienced grows out of extravagant anticipations. The American theory of government, the equality of citizens, the character of the early patriots, the absence of rank, kingcraft, and a terrible disparity of condition, had long endeared the coun­ try to me and mine; but the behavior of the people in the civil war, their cheerful self-sacrifice, their patient de­ votion, their contented return to pri­ vate life from the army and the field, their unparalleled triumph and magna­ nimity, had raised affection into admi­ ration ; I longed to tread so illustrious a land, to greet so noble a race, and to fraternize with such brave, wise, and true men. With the returning tide of peace, of course, habits of gain and �1870.] A Disenchanted Republican. luxury were resumed in. the populous centres, and the inevitable demoraliza­ tion of war left its traces ; the sal­ ient divisions between the patriotic and the disloyal, the martyrs and the mercenaries, which kept compact and imposing the army of noble and true citizens during the struggle, when it ceased, were obliterated, and society be­ came more heterogeneous than ever, its manifestations less characteristic, its su­ perficial traits more, and its talent and virtue less, apparent. Hence the Amer­ ica of my fond imagination seemed for­ ever vanished ; and, only by patient ob­ servation and fortunate rencontres, have I gradually learned to discriminate and recognize the soul of good in things evil. No, my friend, I will not expose Wil­ helmina to the precocious development, the premature self-assertion, incident to this social atmosphere. I daily see girls, in their teens, with all the airs and much of the way of thinking of old women of the world—confident, vain, self-indulgent, and, withal, ~blasé. True, the exceptions are charming. I find them chiefly among families in moderate circumstances, but of good connection, wherein the daughters have been reared in active, wholesome, and responsible duties — had, in short, to contribute, directly or indirectly, to their own support. With intellectual tastes and a religious education, this discipline in a land where the sex is held in respect,—these young women are noble, pure, brave, and conscien­ tious, as well as aspiring and intelligent. I have seen many such in the Normal schools, engaged in clerical work in the departments at Washington, and by the firesides of the inland towns, or in the most thoroughly respectable and least fashionable households of this metropo­ lis. But one is disenchanted, not only of his ideal of womanhood, but of the most homely and humble domestic illu­ sions, by the sight of crowds of gaylydressed females, with huge greasy mass­ es of hair on the back of their heads, and no modest shield to their brazen brows, draggling their long silken trains 103 through the dirt of Broadway, or crush­ ing, like half-inflated balloons, their am­ ple skirts through a densely-packed omnibus. The triumph of extravagant luxury may be seen, at certain seasons, at what looks like a palace—a huge, lofty marble building, in the principal thoroughfare of this city; it is not a royal residence, nor a gallery of art, nor a college—it is a drygoods shop. Im­ agine a thousand women there con­ vened, an army of clerks showing pat­ terns, measuring off goods, or rushing to and fro with change and orders. Every one of these females is dressed in silk ; at least one half, if attired accord­ ing to their means and station, would wear calico or homespun; perhaps an eighth out of the whole number of hus­ bands to these shopping wives are either bankrupt or at work in Wall-street, with fear and trembling, risking their all to supply the enormous current expenses of their families, whereof half relate to female dress. Carry the inference from these facts a little further; of course, the daughters marry for an establish­ ment, look abroad for enjoyment; byand-by go to Europe, ostensibly to edu­ cate their children (leaving papa to his club and counting-room), but really to gossip at Dresden, flirt at Rome, or shop in Paris. I have been surprised to find so many underbred men in society; but this is explained by the fact that so many who, in youth, have enjoyed few means of culture and no social training, in their prime have made a fortune, and are able to give dinners, and send their children to fashionable schools. Hence a sin­ gular incongruity in manners, ranging from the most refined to the most in­ tolerable in the same salon, or among the same class and circle. Remissness in answering notes, off-hand verbal in­ vitations to strangers without a prelimi­ nary call, forcing personal topics into conversation, stuffing unceremoniously at receptions, free and easy bearing to­ wards ladies, lounging, staring, asking impertinent questions, pushing into no­ tice, intruding on the talk and privacy of others—in a word, an utter absence �104 Putnam’s Magazine. of delicacy and consideration is mani­ fest in a sphere where you will, at the same time, recognize the highest type, both of character and breeding, in both sexes. This crude juxtaposition star­ tles a European ; but he is still more as­ tonished after hearing a man’s conduct stigmatized, and his character annihi­ lated at the club ; to encounter the in­ dividual thus condemned an accepted guest of the men who denounce him. In a word, there seems no social dis­ crimination; one’s pleasure in choice society is constantly spoiled by the presence of those reeking with the es­ sential oil of vulgarity, of foreign ad­ venturers without any credentials, and who succeed in effecting an entrée upon the most fallacious grounds. It is one of the most remarkable of social phe­ nomena here, that even cultivated and scrupulously honorable men and high­ bred women are so patient under social inflictions, so thoughtless in social rela­ tions ; not that they compromise their characters—they only degrade their hos­ pitality. Exclusiveness is, indeed, the opposite of republican principle ; but that refers to discrepancies of rank, of birth, and of fortune ; exclusiveness based on character, on culture, on the tone and traits of the individual, is and should be the guarantee of social vir­ tue, refinement, and self-respect. And yet, my friend, inconsistent as it may seem, I really think there never was a country where every man’s and woman’s true worth and claims are bet­ ter tested than this. I mean that when you turn from the fete or the fashion of the hour, and discuss character with the sensible people you happen to know, they invariably pierce the sham, recog­ nize the true, and justly estimate legiti­ mate claims. Sooner or later, in this free land, where the faculties are so keenly exercised, the scope for talent so wide ; where all kinds of people come together, and there is a chance for every one,—what there is of original power, of integrity, of kindness, of cunning, of genius, of rascality, and of faith in a human being, finds development, comes to the surface, and turns the balance [July, of public opinion by social analysis. There is an instinctive sagacity and sense of justice in the popular mind. If there was one confident idea I en­ tertained in regard to this country, be­ fore coming here, it was that I should find plenty of space. I expected an infinity of room. I said to myself, those straggling unwalled cities devour suburban vicinage so easily—have so much room to spread ; I had heard of the Capital’s “ magnificent distances,” and dreamed of the boundless prairies and the vastness of the continent. The same impression existed in regard to all social and economic arrangements ; “ there,” I said to myself, “ I shall ex­ pand at will ; every thing is new, un­ bounded, open, large, and free.” Well, thus far, I have found it just the reverse. Assigned a lofty and diminutive bed­ chamber at the hotels—having to stand up in the horse-cars, because all the seats are occupied—finding my friends’ pews full—not having elbow-room at the table d'hôte—tired of waiting for my turn to look at the paper at club and reading-room—being told the new novel is “ out ” at the library—standing in a line at the theatre box-office for an hour, to be told all the good places are taken—receiving hasty notes from edit­ ors that my article had been in type but that their columns were oversupplied— pressed to the wall at parties—jostled in Broadway and Wall-street—rushed upon at ferry-boat piers—interrupted in quiet talks—my neighbor, at dinner, ab­ stracted by observation of a distant guest—I never, in my life, had such a painful consciousness of being de trop, in the way, insignificant, overlooked, and crowded out, as here ; and I have to go, every now and then, to the country to breathe freely and realize my own in­ dividuality and independence. The security of life and property is altogether inadequate here. Consult a file of newspapers and you will find that massacres by rail, burglaries, murders, and conflagrations are more numerous, make less impression, and are less guard­ ed against and atoned for, by process of law, than in any other civilized land. �1870.] A Disenchanted Republican. These characteristics are, however, very unequally distributed. You must con­ tinually bear in mind that the facts I state, and the inferences thence drawn, often have but a local application. Thus, familiar with the admirable mu­ nicipal system whereby so many towns in Europe rose to power and prosperity of old, and with the civic sagacity and rectitude of the founders of this Repub­ lic, who, in colonial times, disciplined the people to self-goveniment, through the free and faithful administration of local affairs—I was the more disconcert­ ed at the awful abuses and patent frauds of the so-called government of this com­ mercial metropolis of the United States. In New England you find the munici­ pal system carried to perfection, unper­ verted, and effective,. In Vermont it exists in elevated simplicity and honor ; but in the large cities, owing to a larger influx of foreigners, so many of whom are poor and ignorant, it is degraded. You naturally ask, Why do not the honest and intelligent citizens produce a reform in what so nearly concerns both their reputation and their welfare ? My answer is, partly through indifference and partly through fear, added to utter want of faith in the practicability of success. There is a timidity native to riches ; the large estate-holders desire to conciliate the robber ; they deem it more safe to succumb than oppose ; they lack moral courage ; hence the social compromises I have noted, and hence, too, the ominous civic pusillanimity. Care is the bane of conscientious life here ; I mean that, when a man or wom­ an is upright and bent upon duty, the performance thereof is hampered and made irksome by the state of society and the circumstances of the people. Thus, in affairs when an honest man is associated with directors, trustees, or other corporate representatives, he is sure to be revolted by unscrupulous do­ ings or shameful neglect ; he has to fight for what is just in the manage­ ment, or withdraw in disgust therefrom. So a young man, who is wise enough to eschew alcoholic stimulants and games of hazard, has need of rare moral courvol. vi.—7 105 age, or is forced to avoid the compan­ ionship of his reckless comrades. And, worst of all, a woman with a sentiment of family obligation, a principle of household duty, cannot regulate the servants, see to the providing of the table, the order and pleasantness of home-life, without a vigilance, a sacri­ fice of time, and an anxiety which takes the bloom from her cheek and plants a wrinkle on her brow. The lack of welltrained and contented “help,”—as the domestic servants are ironically called —the great expense of living, and the absence of that machinery which, once set up with judgment, goes on so regu­ larly in our Old World domiciles—are among the causes of weariness and care in the average female life of this coun­ try, in a manner and to a degree un­ known in Europe, where leisure and re­ pose are easily secured by competence and tact. I do not wonder that so many of the best-bred and most intelligent Ameri­ can girls prefer army and navy officers or diplomats for husbands to the “ danc­ ing men ” they meet in society, usually vapid-, if not dissipated ; whereas the education for the army, navy, and diplo­ macy, or the culture attained by the discipline thereof, where there is a par­ ticle of sense or character, insures a cer­ tain amount of manliness and knowl­ edge, such as are indispensable to a clever and refined woman in a life-com­ panion. The two classes I pity most here are the very old and the very young ; the former, because they are shamefully neglected, and the latter, because they are perverted. You see a gentleman of the old school snubbed by Young America ; a venerable wom­ an unattended to in a corner, while rude and complaisant girls push to the front rank ; and you see children, who ought to be kept in the fields or the nursery, fashionably arrayed and hold­ ing levées, or dancing the German, with all the extravagance of toilettes and consciousness of manner, that distin­ guish their elders, and a zest infinitely more solemn. It is painful to see age thus unprivileged and unhonored, and �106 Putnam’s Magazine. childhood thus profaned : a conserva­ tive is, in vulgar parlance, an old fogy ; a retired worthy, however eminent, is a “ fossil ; ” precocity in manner, mind, and aspect, is encouraged ; the mature and complete, the finished and the formed, are exceptional; crudity and pretension are in the ascendant. One of my most cherished puiposes, as you know, was to utilize my studies as a publicist, and my experience as a republican philosopher, through the press of this free land. In this design I have met with signal discouragement. While a few men, who have thought­ fully investigated the most imminent problems in modern political and social life, have listened to my views with the most sympathetic attention, and have recognized the importance of the facts of the past which I have so long labor­ ed to bring forward as practical illus­ trations of the present—those who con­ trol the press of these States, by virtue of proprietorship, avoid all but imme­ diate topics of public interest, declaring their exclusive discussion essential to the prosperity of their vocation, and failing to appreciate both historic par­ allels and philosophic comments. I have been surprised to note how soon even men of academic culture yield to the vulgar standard of the immediate, and ignore the vast inspiration of hu­ manity and truth as developed in the career of the race and the salient facts of historic civilization. Nor is this all. With few exceptions, popular journal­ ism and speech here is based upon the sensational element — not upon senti­ ment or reflection. It is difficult to se­ cure attention, except through a bizarre style or melodramatic incident ; the grotesque forms of American humor, seeking, by violation of orthography or ingenious slang, to catch the eye of readers or the ear of audiences, indicate the extremes to which these sensational experiments are carried. Nothing makes a newspaper sell like prurient details of crime, audacious personal attacks, or ex­ travagant inventions. A calm, thought­ ful discussion, however wise, original, and sincere, gains comparatively little [July, sympathy; a profound criticism, a forci­ ble but finished essay, an individual, earnest, and graceful utterance of the choicest experience, or the most charac­ teristic feeling, seem to be lost in the noisy material atmosphere of life in Ame­ rica. I find the best thinkers, the most loyal students, the most aspiring and ge­ nial minds, singularly isolated. I have come upon them accidentally, not in what is called society; I have marvelled to perceive how little they are known, even to familiar acquaintances; for there is no esprit du corps in letters or philosophy here ; few have the leisure to do justice to what is most auspicious in their fel­ lows ; few take a hearty interest in the intellectual efforts or idiosyncrasies of their best endowed comrades; each seems bent seemingly on personal ob­ jects ; there is no “ division of the records of the mind; ” people are too busy, too self-absorbed to sympathize with what is highest and most indi­ vidual in character ; all my most intelli­ gent and, I may say, most agreeable friends complain of this isolation. It may sometimes strengthen, but it more frequently narrows and chills. A sin­ gular and most unpropitious selfishness belongs to many of the cleverest men and women I have met in America; au­ thorship and art seem often merce­ nary or egotistic, instead of soulful pur­ suits; they seem to divide instead of fusing society; on the one hand are the fashionable and the wealthy, many of them pleasant and charitable, but un­ aspiring and material; on the other, poor scholars, professors, litterateurs— too many of the latter Bohemians; and, although these two classes sometimes come together, it is usually in a conven­ tional way—without any real sympathy or disinterested recognition. But it is not merely in the negative defect of repudiating the calm, finished, and considerate discussion of vital sub­ jects or aesthetic principles, that the American press and current literature disappoint me; the abuses of journal­ ism are flagrant. I have been disgust­ ed, beyond expression, at the vulgarity of its tone and the recklessness of its �1870.] A Disenchanted Republican. slanders. During my brief sojourn I have read the most infamous charges and the most scurrilous tirades against the most irreproachable and eminent citizens, from the Chief Magistrate to the modest litterateur ; and, when I have wondered at the apathy exhibited, I have been answered by a shrug or a laugh. The fact is, there is no redress for these vile abuses but resort to per­ sonal violence; the law of libel is prac­ tically a nullity, so expensive is the pro­ cess and uncertain the result; an elect­ ive judiciary—one of the most fatal changes in the constitution of the state —has created a class of corrupt judges. To expect justice in cases of slander, is vain. Unfortunately, there is not a suf­ ficient social organization to apply suc­ cessfully the punishment of ostracism; and a set of improvident, irresponsible writers are usually employed to do the blackguardism ; so that, with a few no­ ble exceptions, the press here is venal and vulgar, utterly reckless, and the organ, not of average intelligence, but of the lowest arts. The first time I dined out in New York was at the house of a very weal­ thy citizen, identified with fashionable society. The dinner was luxurious, and ■every thing thereat, from the plate and porcelain to the furniture and toilettes, indicated enormous means. My neigh­ bor at table was a chatty, elegantly dressed young man, to whom I had been formally presented by my host. Our conversation turned upon invest­ ments, and my companion seemed fa( miiiar with all the stocks in the mar­ ket, and spoke so highly of the pros­ pects of one, that I accepted his invita­ tion to call at his office the next day and examine the details of the scheme. These were given me in writing, with the names of the board of directors, among which I recognized several before suggested to me as those of gentlemen of probity and position. I accordingly invested; and discovered, a few weeks later, that the representations made to me were false; that the stock was worthless, and that the so-called “ Com­ pany,” consisting of half-a-dozen per­ 107 sons, among whom my adviser was one, had pocketed the amount advanced by those who, like myself, had been de­ luded by the fallacious programme and its respectable endorsement. Fraud may be practised in any country; but here the swindler was encountered in what is called good society ; and when I complained to his “ directors,” they declared they had allowed their names to be used inadvertently, and that they knew nothing of the matter. I insti­ tuted a suit, but failed to obtain a ver­ dict. My first morning’s walk down a fash­ ionable avenue was interrupted by a shout and sign of alarm from the oppo­ site side of the street. *1 had just time to rush up a flight of steps and ensconce myself in a friendly doorway, when by ran a mad ox, and gored a laborer be­ fore my sickened sight; nor was he captured until he had carried dismay and destraction for two miles through the heart of this populous city ! This rabid beast had escaped from a drove waiting to be slaughtered in the sub­ urbs. Such occurrences are not uncom­ mon here, and, apparently, make little impression and induce little effort for reform. The municipal magnates levied a tax of three hundred dollars on one of my friends, resident of a street they intend­ ed to re-pave. Now it so happened that the pavement of this street was in excellent order; I could see no reason for the expense and inconvenience pro­ posed. Upon inquiry I learned that an asphaltum was to be substituted for the stone-pavement. Going around among my neighbors, with a petition against this useless, costly, and annoying pro­ ceeding, my friend found that every resident of the street agreed with us in condemning the project. Moreover, we ascertained from the contractor that he offered to do the job for two dollars the square yard, but had been advised to charge four, the balance going into the pockets of the officials. In spite of the expressed wishes of those chiefly inter­ ested, in spite of this flagrant swindle, our excellent pavement was torn up; �108 Putnam’s Magazins. for weeks no vehicle could approach our doors; boiling tar and heaps of gravel and knots of laborers made the whole thoroughfare a nuisance, for which each victim, whose dwelling bor­ dered the way, had to pay three hun­ dred dollars; and now that the rubbish is cleared away, the composite pave­ ment laid, and the street open, owing to the bad quality, the unscientific preparation of the asphaltum, it is a mass of black clinging mud, which, after a rain, is a pitchy morass, and in dry weather a floating atmosphere of pulverized dirt and tar. The newspa­ pers call it a poultice. The universal law of vicissitude finds here the most signal illustration. Change is not only frequent, but rapid; not only comparative, but absolute. I came back to this city last autumn, after three months’ sojourn at the sea­ side, to find a new rector in the church I attend ; a new cAefin the journal for which I write; my favorite domestic nook for a leisure evening, the abode of intelligent and cordial hospitality, in the process of demolition, to give place to a block of stores; my club a scene of disorder, on account of repairs ; my broker a bankrupt; my belle a bride; my tailor, doctor, deutist, and laundress removed “up-town”—every body and every thing I had become familiar with and attached to changed, either locally or intrinsically; and life, as it were, to begin anew. It makes a head, with a large organ of adhesiveness, whirl and ache to thus perpetually forego the ac­ customed. I experienced, on first landing, a sen­ sation, as it were, of this precarious tenure. Scarcely had the exhilaration felt on. entering the beautiful harbor from a ten days’ sojourn on the “ mel­ ancholy waste ” of ocean subsided, when, as we drove up the dock and through the mud and squalor of the river-side, the commonplace style of edifice, and the sight of temporary and unsubstan­ tial architecture, depressed my spirits; then the innumerable and glaring ad­ vertisements of quack medicines on every curb-stone and pile of bricks sug­ [July, gested a reckless, experimental habit— which was confirmed by the careless driving of vociferous urchins in butcher­ carts or express-wagons. When we emerged into Broadway, the throng, the gilded signs, the cheerful rush, and curious variety of faces and vehicles, raised my spirits and quickened my ob­ servation, while a walk in Fifth avenue and through the Central Park, the next day, which was Sunday, and the weath­ er beautiful, impressed me cheerily with the feeling of prosperous and progres­ sive life. Despite these characteristic features, however, it is often difficult to realize that I am in America, so many traits and traces of Europe are visibly. The other morning, for instance, while at the pier, waiting to see a friend off in the French steamer, knots of sailors, like those we see at Havre and Brest, were eating soup in the open air, and huck­ sters tempting them to buy bead-bas­ kets and pin-cushions for their “ sweet­ hearts and wives ; ” the garb, the gab, the odor of garlic, the figure of a priest here and there, the very hats of some of the passengers, made the scene like one at a French quay. There are Ger­ man beer-gardens, Italian restaurants, journals in all the European languages, tables d'hote, where they only are spo­ ken ; churches, theatres, clubs, and co­ teries, distinctly national and repre­ sentative of the Old World. Do not rashly infer that my political principles have changed because of these critical complaints. No; they are the same, but my delight in them is chas­ tened. I feel that they involve self-sac­ rifice, even when triumphant democracy entails duty, and that of a nature to in­ terfere with private taste and individual enjoyment. Democracy, my friend, is no pastime, but a peril. Republican institutions demand the surrender of much that is pleasant in personal life, and include responsibilities so grave, that gayety is quelled and care inaugu­ rated—just as the man leaves behind him, in quitting his father’s roof to assert himself in the world, much of the liberty and nurture which made life �1870.] Editorial Notes. pleasant, in order to assume the serious business of independent existence—ex­ cellent as a discipline, noble as a des­ tiny, but solemn as a law of action. Disenchantment, my friend, does not inevitably imply renunciation; on the contrary, truth is often ushered in through a delusive pursuit, as the his­ tory of scientific discovery proves. The moment we regard the equalizing pro­ cess going on in the world, as a disci­ pline and a destiny, and accept it as a duty, we recognize what perhaps is, after all, the practical aim and end of Christianity—self-sacrifice, humanity, “ good-will to men,” in place of self­ 109 hood. Thus imbued and inspired, the welfare of the race becomes a great per­ sonal interest; we are content to suffer and forego for the advantage of our fellow-creatures; we look upon life not as the arena of private success, but of beneficent cooperation ; and, instead of complaining of privation and encroach­ ment, learn to regard them as a legiti­ mate element in the method and means whereby the mass of men, so long con­ demned to ignorance, want, and sordid labor, are to be raised and reared into a higher sphere, and harmonized by fellow­ ship, freedom, and faith, into a complete and auspicious development. EDITORIAL NOTES. - BRET HARTE OKCE MORE. Criticism is too often tame and timid in its reception of contemporary genius, because it is without hope; its distrust, its close and prolonged acquaintance with mediocrity and pretension, consti­ tutes its mental habit, and it is with difficulty that it drops its patronizing tone and ceases its frigid comment. But Bret Harte’s stories mean so much ; they are so terse, simple, searching, and unpretentious; they present the most difficult, novel, and bold situations with so much conciseness of expression, so much neatness and force; they take up and drop the subject with so sure a sense of dramatic fitness, that the usual reserve and the common tone of criti* cism before them is priggish and insuf­ ferable. It is not enough to say of them: This is good work. Something fervid and emphatic is called for. We must say: This is the work of a man of genius. It is something unforeseen ; it is some­ thing so natural and actual, so profound in its significance, so moving in its de­ velopment, that you must glow with the generous emotions which it excites, and respond to it as to the influences of nature, and as when heart answereth to heart in the actual intercourse of liv­ ing men and women. Just as we were all saying to each other, How much we need a story-writer who shall treat our American life in an artistic form, satisfying to the most ex­ acting sense of the highest literary merit—just as we were deploring that Irving, and Hawthorne, and Poe, men of another generation, who were retro­ spective, and not on a level with the present hour, were the only men of fine talent among our story-writers—Francis Bret Harte, in the newest and remotest part of our land, gives us an expres­ sion of its early, rude, and lawless life, at once unexpected and potent, and which shames our distrust of the genius of our race in its new home. It is an expression so honest, so free from cant, so exactly corresponding with its sub­ ject, so unsqueamish and hearty, so manly, that it is to be accepted like a bit of nature. His stories are like so many convincing facts; they need no argument; they lodge themselves in our minds, and germinate like living things. We are struck by the varied powei which he exhibits, and the diverse emo tions which he touches, in such narrow dramatic limits. Within the little frame of a sketch he is terse, graphic, vivid; his humor and pathos are irresistible; his sentiment delicate and true; his �110 Putnam’s Magazine. poetry magical and suggestive; his feel­ ing of out-of-door life constant and de­ lightful. His use of the minor key of nature, as a contrast to the soiled and troubled lives of his men and women, is comparable to the accidental influ­ ences which touch and soothe an un­ happy man when his attention is caught by sunlight in wood-paths, or by the sound of the wind in trees, or by any of the silencing and flood-like influ­ ences that sweep over us when we are open to the beautiful, the unnamable, and mysterious. Bret Harte’s genius is not unlike Rem­ brandt’s, so far as it is a matter of art. Take Miggles—Miggles telling her story at the feet of the paralytic Jim—take the description of his old face, with its solemn eyes; take the alternate gloom and light that hides or illuminates the group in Miggles’ cabin; and then con­ sider the gleam and grace with which the portrait of that racy and heroic boy­ woman is placed before you. Does it not touch your sense of the picturesque as, and is it not unexpected, and start­ ling, and admirable, like a sketch by Rembrandt ? But for the pathos, but for the “ tears that rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,” where shall we find any homely art to be compared with that ? Beauty in painting or sculpture may so touch a man. It did so touch Heine, at the feet of the Venus of Milo. It may be pathetic to us, as in Da Vinci’s wonderful heads. But no great plastic artist, no mere pictorial talent, is potent over the sources of our tears, as is the unheralded story-writer from the West­ ern shores. In this he employs a means beyond the reach of Holbein or Hogarth. We liken Bret Harte to Rembrandt, rather than to Hogarth or to Holbein— men of great and sincere genius, and therefore having an equally great and sincere trust in actual life—because of his magic touch, his certainty and sud­ denness of expression; his perfect trust in his subject; because he deals with the actual in its widest and commonest aspects, without infecting us with the dulness of the prosaic; because he is never formal, never trite; and because [July, —unlike Hogarth—he does not consider the vicious, the unfortunate, the weak, so as to “ put up the keerds on a chap from the start.” He makes us feel our kinship with the outcast; he draws us by our very hearts towards the feeble and reckless, and by a certain something—the felt inexplicableness of the difference and yet the equality of men—forbids us to execrate the sinner as we do the sin. One may say of him, as of Rembrandt, that he sees Christ not in the noble and consecrated, certainly not only in a type hallowed by centuries of human admi­ ration ; but he reveals a Saviour and friend in the forlorn, in the despised, in the outcast. ' Will the reader accuse us of extrava­ gance, if we say we cannot understand how a man can read these stories, and not believe in immortality and in God ?They touch one so profoundly; they ex­ alt one’s sense of the redemptive spirit that may live in a man, and they make one so humble ! They hush the Phari­ see and the materialist who lives so comfortably under his white shirt-front, in clean linen, under immaculate con­ ditions of self-righteousness. We com­ pare Bret Harte to the greatest name in modern art—Rembrandt—rather than to Hogarth, because there is no bru­ tality, no censure, no made-up mind for or against his subjects, as in Hogarth. Rembrandt’s poetry, his honest recep­ tion of his subject—all this is in Bret Harte; but also a grace unknown to the great Flemish master. Some have questioned the service he has done our poor human nature in its most despised forms, and some have censured him for not adopting the Hogarthian method. But it seems to us his instinct has been his best guide ; that his morality, his lesson to us, is as superior to Hogarth’s gross and mate­ rial one, as the Sermon on the Mount is superior to the prayer of the Phari­ see. “ Miggles,” “ Tennessee’s Partner,” and “ Stumpy,” and “Mother Shipton” —what significance, what life in these 1 —what “thoughts beyond the reaches � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Rossetti, the painter and poet Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Stillman, W.J. Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [New York, NY] Collation: 95-110 p. ; 24 cm. Notes: From Putnam's Magazine (16: July 1980, 95-110 p.) Attribution of magazine and author Information from Virginia Clark's catalogue. Issue also includes ' A disenchanted republican: letter from a German traveller'. Printed in double columns. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [G. P. Putnam's Sons] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1870] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5303 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Art Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Rossetti, the painter and poet), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts Dante Gabriel Rossetti English Poetry Painting Poetry in English Poets