text:
The Inn Album/I

I

"That oblong book's the Album; hand it here! Exactly! page on page of gratitude For breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view! I praise these poets: they leave margin-space; Each stanza seems to gather skirts around, And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine, Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'er-sprawls And straddling stops the path from left to right. Since I want space to do my cipher-work, Which poem spares a corner? What comes first?  'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'  (Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!) Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold—  'If a fellow can dine On rumpsteaks and port wine, He needs not despair Of dining well here—'  'Here!'  I myself could find a better rhyme! That bard's a Browning; he neglects the form: But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense! Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide! I'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt. A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work! Three little columns hold the whole account: Ecarté, after which Blind Hookey, then Cutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut. 'Tis easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."

Two personages occupy this room Shabby-genteel, that's parlor to the inn Perched on a view-commanding eminence; ———— -Inn which may be a veritable house Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste Till tourists found his coign of vantage out, And fingered blunt the individual mark And vulgarized things comfortably smooth. On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag; His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds; They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World. Grim o'er the mirror on the mantlepiece, Varnished and coffined, Salmo ferox glares —Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

So much describes the stuffy little room— Vulgar flat smooth respectability: Not so the burst of landscape surging in, Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair Is, plain enough, the younger personage Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall Shutter and shutter, shows you England's best. He leans into a living glory-bath Of air and light where seems to float and move The wooded watered country, hill and dale And steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist, A-sparkle with May morning, diamond drift O' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed patch Of half a dozen dwellings that, crept close For hill-side shelter, make the village-clump This inn is perched above to dominate— Except such sign of human neighborhood, (And this surmised rather than sensible) There's nothing to disturb absolute peace, The reign of English nature—which mean art And civilized existence. Wildness' self Is just the cultured triumph. Presently Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place That knows the right way to defend itself: Silence hems round a burning spot of life. Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood, And where a village broods, an inn should boast— Close and convenient: here you have them both. This inn, the Something-arms—the family's— (Don't trouble Guillim; heralds leave our half!) Is dear to lovers of the picturesque, And epics have been planned here; but who plan Take holy orders and find work to do. Painters are more productive, stop a week, Declare the prospect quite a Corot,—ay, For tender sentiment,—themselves incline Rather to handsweep large and liberal; Then go, but not without success achieved —Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech, Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole, On this a slug, on that a butterfly. Nay, he who hooked the salmo pendent here, Also exhibited, this same May-month,  'Foxgloves: a study' —so inspires the scene, The air, which now the younger personage Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir Even those tufts of tree-tops to the South I' the distance where the green dies off to grey, Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place; He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek. His fellow, the much older—either say A youngish-old man or man oldish-young— Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep In wax, to detriment of plated ware; Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards, Counters and all that's proper for a game. He sets down, rubs out figures in the book, Adds and subtracts, puts back here, carries there. Until the summed-up satisfaction stands Apparent, and he pauses o'er the work: Soothes what of brain was busy under brow. By passage of the hard palm, curing so Wrinkle and crowfoot for a second's space; Then lays down book and laughs out. No mistake. Such the sum-total—ask Colenso else!

Roused by which laugh, the other turns, laughs too— The youth, the good strong fellow, rough perhaps.

"Well, what's the damage—three, or four, or five? How many figures in a row! Hand here! Come now, there's one expense all yours not mine— Scribbling the people's Album over, leaf The first and foremost too! You think, perhaps, They'll only charge you for a brand-new book Nor estimate the literary loss? Wait till the small account comes! To one night's  Lodging—for  'beds,'  they can't say,— 'pound or so;  Dinner, Apollinaris,—what they please, Attendance not included;'  last looms large  'Defacement of our Album, late enriched  With' —let's see what! Here, at the window, though! Ay, breathe the morning and forgive your luck! Fine enough country for a fool like me To own, as next month I suppose I shall! Eh? True fool's-fortune! so console yourself. Let's see, however—hand the book, I say! Well, you've improved the classic by romance. Queer reading! Verse with parenthetic prose  'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'  (Three-two fives )  'life how profitably spent'  (Five-naught, five-nine fives)  'yonder humble cot'  (More and more naughts and fives)  'in mild content; And did my feelings find the natural vent In friendship and in love, how blest my lot!'  Then follow the dread figures—five!  'Content!'  That's apposite! Are you content as he— Simpkin the sonneteer? Ten thousand pounds Give point to his effusion—by so much Leave me the richer and the poorer you After our night's play; who's content the most, I, you, or Simpkin?"

So the polished snob, The elder man, refinement every inch From brow to boot-end, quietly replies:

"Simpkin's no name I know. I had my whim."

"Ay, had you! And such things make friendship thick. Intimates I may boast we were; henceforth, Friends—shall it not be?—who discard reserve, Use plain words, put each dot upon each i, Till death us twain do part? The bargain's struck! Old fellow, if you fancy—(to begin—) I felled to penetrate your scheme last week, You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs! Because you happen to be twice my age And twenty times my master, must perforce No blink of daylight struggle through the web There's no unwinding? You entoil my legs, And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no! A very pretty piece of shuttle-work Was that—your mere chance question at the club— Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide? I'm off for Paris, there's the Opera—there's The Salon, there's a china-sale,—beside Chantilly; and, for good companionship, There's Such-and-such and So-and-so. Suppose We start together?' 'No such holiday! I told you: 'Paris and the rest be hanged! Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights? I'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours? ''On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowse'' The week away down with the Aunt and Niece? No help: it's leisure, loneliness and love. Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,— A man of much newspaper-paragraph, You scare domestic circles; and beside Would not you like your lot, that second taste Of nature and approval of the grounds! You might walk early or lie late, so shirk Week-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er, And morning church is obligatory: No mundane garb permissible, or dread ''The butler's privileged monition! No!'' Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!' Whereon how artlessly the happy flash Followed, by inspiration!  'Tell you what— Let's turn their flank, try things on t'other side! ''Inns for my money! Liberty's the life!'' We'll lie in hiding: there's the crow-nest nook, The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about, Inn that's out—out of sight and out of mind And out of mischief to all four of us— ''Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive;'' At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-view Of my friend's Land of Promise; then depart. And while I'm whizzing onward by first train, Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulks And says I shun him like the plague) yourself— Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gay Despite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,— Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, wait ''The faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,' '' Said I to you; said I to mine own self:  'Does he believe I fail to comprehend He wants just one more final friendly snack At friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth, Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?'  And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave? Your pupil does you better credit! No! I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pair At the big balance in my banker's hands,— Folded a cheque cigar-case-shape,—just wants Filling and signing,—and took train, resolved To execute myself with decency And let you win—if not Ten thousand quite, Something by way of wind-up-farewell burst Of firework-nosegay! Where's your fortune fled? Or is not fortune constant after all? You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost half Or half that, I should bite my lips, I think. You man of marble! Strut and stretch my best On tiptoe, I shall never reach your height. How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"

The more refined man smiles a frown away.

"The lesson shall be—only boys like you Put such a question at the present stage. I had a ball lodge in my shoulder once. And, full five minutes, never guessed the fact; Next day, I felt decidedly: and still. At twelve years' distance, when I lift my arm A twinge reminds me of the surgeon's probe. Ask me, this day month, how I feel my luck! And meantime please to stop impertinence. For—don't I know its object? All this chaff Covers the corn, this preface leads to speech. This boy stands forth a hero.  'There, my lord! Our play was true play, fun not earnest! I  Empty your purse, inside out, while my poke  Bulges to bursting? Tou can badly spare  A doit, confess now, Duke though brother be!  While I'm gold-daubed so thickly, spangles drop   'And show my father's warehouse-apron: pshaw!  Enough! We've had a palpitating night!  ''Good morning! Breakfast and forget our dreams!  My mouth's shut, mind! I tell nor man nor mouse.' '' There, see! He don't deny it! Thanks, my boy! Hero and welcome—only, not on me Make trial of your 'prentice-hand! Enough! We've played, I've lost and owe ten thousand pounds, Whereof I muster, at the moment,—well, What's for the bill here and the back to town. Still, I've my little character to keep: You may expect your money at month's end."

The young man at the window turns round quick— A clumsy giant handsome creature; grasps In his large red the little lean white hand Of the other, looks him in the sallow face.

"I say now—is it right to so mistake A fellow, force him in mere self-defence To spout like Mister Mild Acclivity In album-language? You know well enough Whether I like you—like 's no album-word Anyhow: point me to one soul beside In the wide world I care one straw about! I first set eyes on you a year ago; Since when you've done me good—I'll stick to it— More than I got in the whole twenty-five That make my life up, Oxford years and all— Throw in the three I fooled away abroad. Seeing myself and nobody more sage Until I met you, and you made me man Such as the sort is and the fates allow. I do think, since we two kept company, I've learnt to know a little—all through you! It's nature if I like you. Taunt away! As if I need you teaching me my place— The snob I am, the Duke your brother is. When just the good you did was—teaching me My own trade, how a snob and millionaire May lead his life and let the Duke's alone, Clap wings, free jackdaw, on his steeple-perch, Burnish his black to gold in sun and air, Nor pick up stray plumes, strive to match in strut Regular peacocks who can't fly an inch Over the courtyard-paling. Head and heart (That's album-style) are older than you know. For all your knowledge: boy, perhaps—ay, boy Had his adventure, just as he were man— His ball-experience in the shoulder-blade, His bit of life-long ache to recognize, Although he bears it cheerily about. Because you came and clapped him on the back. Advised him  'Walk and wear the aching off!'  Why, I was minded to sit down for life Just in Dalmatia, build a sea-side tower High on a rock, and so expend my days Pursuing chemistry or botany Or, very like, astronomy because I noticed stars shone when I passed the place: Letting my cash accumulate the while In England—to lay out in lump at last As Ruskin should direct me! All or some Of which should I have done or tried to do, And preciously repented, one fine day, Had you discovered Timon, climbed his rock And scaled his tower, some ten years thence, suppose, And coaxed his story from him! Don't I see The pair conversing! It's a novel writ Already, I'll be bound,—our dialogue!  'What?' cried the elder and yet youthful man— So did the eye flash 'neath the lordly front,  And the imposing presence swell with scorn,  As the haught high-bred bearing and dispose  Contrasted with his interlocutor  The flabby low-born who, of bulk before,  Had steadily increased, one stone per week,  Since his abstention from horse-exercise:— '' 'What? you, as rich as Rothschild, left, you say, '' London the very year you came of age,  Because your father manufactured goods— Commission-agent hight of Manchester— Partly, and partly through a baby case  Of disappointment I've pumped out at last— And here you spend life's prime in gaining flesh  And giving science one more asteroid?'  Brief, my dear fellow, you instructed me. At Alfred's and not Istria! proved a snob May turn a million to account although His brother be no Duke, and see good days Without the girl he lost and some one gained. The end is, after one year's tutelage. Having, by your help, touched society. Polo, Tent-pegging, Hurlingham, the Rink— I leave all these delights, by your advice, And marry my young pretty cousin here Whose place, whose oaks ancestral you behold. (Her father was in partnership with mine— Does not his purchase look a pedigree?) My million will be tails and tassels smart To this plump-bodied kite, this house and land Which, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep, Along life's pleasant meadow,—arm left free To lock a friend's in,—whose but yours, old boy? Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth, While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards. Now, if you don't esteem ten thousand pounds (—Which I shall probably discover snug Hid somewhere in the column-corner capped With  'Credit,'  based on  'Balance,' —which, I swear, By this time next month I shall quite forget Whether I lost or won—ten thousand pounds, Which at this instant I would give . . . let's see. For Galopin—nay, for that Gainsborough Sir Richard won't sell, and, if bought by me, Would get my glance and praise some twice a year,— Well, if you don't esteem that price dirt-cheap For teaching me Dalmatia was mistake— Why then, my last illusion-bubble breaks, My one discovered phœnix proves a goose, My cleverest of all companions—oh, Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds! Come! Be yourself again! So endeth here The morning's lesson! Never while life lasts Do I touch card again. To breakfast now! To bed—I can't say, since you needs must start For station early—oh, the down-train still, First plan and best plan—townward trip be hanged! You're due at your big brother's—pay that debt. Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs— And who knows but there's trout obtainable?" The fine man looks well-nigh malignant: then—

"Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts: I pay mine—debts of this sort—certainly. What do I care how you regard your gains. Want them or want them not? The thing I want Is—not to have a story circulate From club to club—how, bent on clearing out Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me, Then set the empty kennel flush again. Ignored advantage and forgave his friend— For why? There was no wringing blood from stone! Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue, Bite it in two, as man may; but those small Hours in the smoking-room, when instance apt Rises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip, And the thinned company consists of six Capital well-known fellows one may trust! Next week, it's in the 'World.' No, thank you much. I owe ten thousand pounds: I'll pay them!"

"Now,— This becomes funny. You've made friends with me? I can't help knowing of the ways and means! Or stay! they say your brother closets up Correggio's long-lost Leda: if he means To give you that, and if you give it me . . ."

"I polished snob off to aristocrat? You compliment me! father's apron still Sticks out from son's court-vesture: still silk purse Roughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born! Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart! I owe you and shall pay you: which premised, Why should what follows sound like flattery? The fact is—you do compliment too much Your humble master, as I own I am; You owe me no such thanks as you protest. The polisher needs precious stone no less Than precious stone needs polisher: believe I struck no tint from out you but I found Snug lying first 'neath surface hair-breadth-deep! Beside, I liked the exercise: with skill Goes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see, I'm old and understand things: too absurd It were you pitched and tossed away your life. As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more, That I myself misused a stone of price. Born and bred clever—people used to say Clever as most men, if not something more— Yet here I stand a failure, cut awry Or left opaque,—no brilliant named and known, Whatever my inner stuff, my outside's blank: I'm nobody—or rather, look that same— I'm—who I am—and know it; but I hold What in my hand out for the world to see? What ministry, what mission, or what book I'll say, book even? Not a sign of these! I began—laughing— 'All these when I like!'  I end with—well, you've hit it!— 'This boy's cheque For just as many thousands as he he'll spare!'  The first—I could, and would not; your spare cash I would, and could not: have no scruple, pray, But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine —When you are able!"

"Which is—when to be? I've heard, great characters require a fall Of fortune to show greatness by uprise: They touch the ground to jollily rebound, Add to the Album! Let a fellow share Your secret of superiority! I know, my banker makes the money breed Money; I eat and sleep, he simply takes The dividends and cuts the coupons off, Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash, While I do nothing but receive and spend. But you, spontaneous generator, hatch A wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts Capital As Interest to me from egg of gold. I am grown curious: pay me by all means! How will you make the money?"

"Mind your own— Not my affair. Enough: or money, or Money's worth, as the case may be, expect Ere month's end,—keep but patient for a month! Who's for a stroll to station? Ten's the time; Your man, with my things, follow in the trap; At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrived On platform, and you'll show the due fatigue Of the night-journey,—not much sleep,—perhaps, Your thoughts were on before you—yes, indeed. You join them, being happily awake With thought's sole object as she smiling sits At breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantime In and out station-precinct, wile away The hour till up my engine pants and smokes. No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear! She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"

title: The Inn Album/I


text:
Page:Memoirs of Sir Isaac Newton's life.djvu/150

 some having more some fewer concomitant planets, one by the side of another, in the boundless extent of space, for light is the only thing that dos not diminish in proportion to its distance.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
Translation:Shulchan Aruch/Orach Chaim/682

 The Law of "For the Miracles" On Hanukkah

דין על הנסים בחנוכה

Paragraph 1 — All eight days of Hanukkah one says "For the miracles…" in Grace After Meals in the Benediction of the Land, and in the [Standing] Prayer in the benediction of Thanksgiving, and if one did not say [it] we do not make him go back. (And see above Section 294 Paragraph 4 and 5.) However if he remembers [while he is still] in that benediction, as long as he has not mentioned God's Name [in the conclusion], even if he remembers between "You" and "God," he should go back.
 * Rem"a: There are some who say that when one forgot "For the miracles…" in Grace After Meals, when he reaches "May the Merciful One…," he should say "May the Merciful One perform for us miracles and wonders, just as You did for our fathers in those days at this season, in the days of Matityahu… etc." (Kol Bo, and already explained in Section 187 Paragraph 4)

סעיף א — כל שמונת ימי חנוכה אומר על הנסים בברכת המזון בברכת הארץ, ובתפלה בברכת מודים, ואם לא אמר אין מחזירין אותו. (וע"ל סימן רצ"ד סעיף ד' וה'.) ומיהו אם נזכר באותה ברכה, כל זמן שלא הזכיר את השם, אפילו נזכר בין אתה להשם, חוזר.
 * הגה: י"א כששכח על הניסים בברכות המזון, כשמגיע להרחמן, יאמר הרחמן יעשה לנו נסים ונפלאות כשם שעשית לאבותינו בימים ההם בזמן הזה בימי מתתיהו כו'. (כל בו וכבר נתבאר סי' קפ"ז ס"ד)

Paragraph 2 — Even in the Mussaf of Sabbath and of the New Moon, one needs to mention Hanukkah, even though there is no Mussaf for Hanukkah.

סעיף ב — גם במוסף של שבת ושל ר"ח, צריך להזכיר של חנוכה, אע"פ שאין מוסף בחנוכה.

Paragraph 3 — We do not say "…just as you performed… etc."; rather one concludes "…and you performed for them miracles and feats in those days at this time." And there are those that say that we do say it.

סעיף ג — אין אומרים כשם שעשית וכו', אלא מסיים ועשית עמהם נסים וגבורות בימים ההם בעת הזאת. ויש אומרים שאומרים אותו.
 * }

שולחן ערוך אורח חיים תרפב


text:
Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1861/Justinian

world is weary of idolatries: Pan and Apollo and great Zeus are dead, And Jesus Christ hangs cold upon the cross. Nay more, the light of science newly born Hath slain the night of the divine idea, So that, for calm assurance of our souls, We mathematically demonstrate Infinite God as infinitely false To infinite impossibility. Henceforth a grievous shadow quits the earth, While man, the fruitage and the flower of things, Walks fetterless and free.” Thus much and more, With many hints of cell and protoplasm, And of the dusk beginnings of the brain, The mild professor said.

Professor Day, A little gentleman with soft gray eyes, Whose spectacles had faced the very Sphinx And read the cosmic riddle wrought therein, He, having lived to thirty years of age, Had hate for nought but ambiguity; Knew all that science and the schools could teach, Lived for truth only, and, had these been days Of any necessary martyrdom, Would cheerfully have given his life for truth. Meantime, he served her cause. How wrathfully He rose his height, while angry pulpits wail'd, And from the platforms of the great reviews Demolish'd the theistic fallacy, Pluck'd the bright mantle from the verbal form And show'd the syllogistic skeleton! Dear gentle heart, he who could be so fierce In hating what he did not deem to be, Was full of love for all the things that are; Wherefore God loved him for his unbelief And sent a ministering angel down. . ..

He often thought, “If I should have a child, If ever life should issue out of mine, I shall uprear it on the gracious food Of knowledge only. Superstition haunts Our very cradles: in our nurses' hands Dangle the fetish and the crucifix That darken us forever till we die. No child of mine, if I should have a child, Shall know the legend of the lie divine, Or lisp the words of folly that profane The wish of wisdom. Prayer is cowardice: No child of mine shall pray. Worship is fear: My child shall never know the name of fear. But when its eyes are ready to behold, Its ears to hear, my child shall wander forth, Fearlessly leaning on its father's strength, Serene in innocence and mastery.”

And so he wedded, hoping for a child, A tender toy to cut his creed upon, And wedded wisely: a virgin not too young, And not too good, and not too beautiful, But gently reared, and of a learned race Who held that over-learning suits but ill The creed and need of women. To his side She came not trembling, trusting in his strength, And wise enough to dimly comprehend Her gentle lords superiority. Two years they grew together, as two trees Blending their branches; then a child was born, Which, flickering like a taper thro' the night, Went out ere dawn; but when the mother wept, And reach'd her thin hands down the darkness, whither The little life had fallen like a spark, The pale Professor (though his eyes were dim) Sat by the bedside presently, and proved — As gently as a poor man praying to God — That what had never known potential life, In all its qualities and faculties, Had never absolutely lived at all. Nay, 'twere as wise, perchance, he thought, to mourn Some faint albuminous product of the deep, As weep for something which had ne'er achieved The motions and the mysteries of mind, Which things are life itself. The mother moaned: And creeping thence to his laboratory, The wise man wiped away a foolish dew That shamed the gloss of his philosophy.

But comfort came a little later on; Another crying life arose and bloom'd, And faded not upon the mother's breast, But drew its milk with feeble lips, and breathed, It was a boy, and when they brought him down, And placed him in the pale professors arms, He laugh'd and reached his little rosy hands To greet his father; and the wise man said, Holding the babe and blushing awkwardly, “How naturally mammals love their young! Thus, even thus, the archetypal ape Dandled its rough first-born! Whereat the nurse Exclaim'd, — not comprehending, pious soul, — “Thank God for sending you so fine a boy!” And when the wise man thro' his spectacles Look'd lightnings of philosophy and scorn, She took the babe and murmur'd, kissing it, “Now God Almighty grant the pretty dear A long and merry life!” The wise mans cheek Grew pallid, for already, ere he knew, It seem'd that Superstition's skinny hand Was clutching at his pearl of innocence. He fled into his study, and therein Added a fragment to a fierce review Upholding Haeckel, proving Tyndall tame, And rating Virchow and Agnosticism. And having thus refreshed his learned soul, He sat by the bedside of his pale wife, Holding her hand in silence for an hour, Feeling a nameless fear upon his heart, Blent with a sense of blessing one less wise Might have mistaken for a sense of prayer.

Thenceforward, with a curious scrutiny, Such as he brought to bear on things minute Dredged from the fishpond or the rivers bed, He watch'd the tiny life expand and grow, Stretching sensorial tendrils softly forth, Sucking its mothers milk with rosy lips, As tiny creatures of albumen suck Their nurture from the tidal ooze and foam. Then with a span he measured the small head, And watch'd the soft pink circle, where the skin Closed on the milk-white matter of the brain, Hardening slowly into skull and bone; And all the while the little azure orbs Look'd upward meaningless as flowers or stars Full of a faint flame issuing from within. Then thought he, “It is well; a goodly child; A brain of weight above the average, And phrenologically excellent! And yet how helpless in their dim beginnings The higher mammals seem, this babe of mine Nor less nor more; a feeble crying thing, Feeling with blind progressions like a plant To the full sunshine of potential life. Prick the grey cells, it dies, and has not lived; Deny it nurture, as of sun and rain, And even as a leaf it withers up, Without a sign that it hath ever been. Yea, what we bring it, it absorbs, and turns To highest use and issue; as we train Its tendrils, so it grows and if denied Such nurture as the nobler species need, Would surely, slowly, dwindle back to beast, As is the wont of many human types Stunted and starven in their infancy. But this one, bone of mine and flesh of mine, This will I watch with ministering care, Till it rewards my patience and becomes Perfect in knowledge and in mastery, The living apex and the crown of things.”

A little later, when the mother rose, And with the consecration of her pain Clothed softly still, sat pallid by the fire, She, after resting silent for a time And casting many a hesitating glance, Said softly, “Dear, have you reflected yet How we shall christen him?” Stung by the word, The wise man murmur'd, Christen? — christen him?” Then, flush'd with wrath, “The very word is rank With superstition and idolatry: Do not repeat it, as you love the child.” Whereat the mother, timorously firm, Said, smiling, “But the child must have a name! What shall we call him?” Puzzled for the time, The wise man pursed his lips and shook his head, And scrutinized the little rosy face, As if for inspiration and for help. Then one by one they named the names of men, From Adam down to Peter, Paul, and John, And scorning these as over-scriptural, They counted o'er the legion heathen names But found them fraught with superstition too. “Our infant,” the professor moralized, “Heathen no more than Christian, shall receive No gift from heathendom or Christendom, Not even that slightest of all shades, a name. Could I invent? — but no, invented names Ever sound barbarous — I will rack my books, And find one fitting; there is time to spare; Take thought, and wait!” So many a quiet night They talk'd it o'er, and after hovering long O'er Thales (Evolution's Morning Star,” The wise man styled him, while the mother's ear Was shock'd at the mere sound of Thales Day), Rejecting Bruno and Galileo, They found the thing they sought upon their shelves, And pausing at the famous “Institutes,” They chose the learned name — Justinian.

Not at the font with painted windows round, Not through the office of a priest in lawn Sprinkling with white hands the baptismal dew, The infant took his name; but quietly One Sunday morn, in the laboratory, With casts and fœtal forms around about, The wise man, kissing him upon the brow, Named him Justinian; and the mothers voice Echo'd “Justinian;” and the naming him Would have been wholly joyful and complete, But for a jangling sound of bells that rang Suddenly from the churches round about, Calling the folk of Christendom to prayer! Pass o'er the seasons when with baby lips The infant drew its nurture from the breast, And when with tottering steps he first began To walk erect upon the ground, and shape The first faint sounds, to mimic human speech. Behold him, then, at five years old, a child Large-eyed, large-brow'd, and somewhat pale, of cheek, Clutching a thin forefinger as he ran And prattled at the pale professor's side. Companions now they grew from day to day, For while within his study 'mong his books The wise man sat, the infant at his feet Sat looking up; or, on the table perch'd, Blinkd like a pretty gnome; and every morn When for a hurried constitutional The father trotted over Hampstead Heath, The little one would toddle by his side, Happy and garrulous, and looking up With question after question. — Thus the child Heard, at an age when other children feed On nursery rhymes and tales of fairyland, The wondrous song of science; how at first The nebulæ cohered, how this round orb Rose out of chaos, how it lay in space Eyeless and dark until the sun's red hand Touch'd it upon the heart, and made it live, And how the first faint protoplasmic forms, Amœbæ, infusoria, stirred and moved In troubled depths of some primeval ooze. All this, and more, translated tenderly Into soft words of just one syllable, Justinian heard, not understanding yet, But turning all the solemn cosmic fact To pretty fancy such as children love. What solemn truth, what sad solemnity, May not an infant turn to poesy? Instead of Gorgon and Chimæra dire, His fancy saw the monstrous mastodon; Instead of fairies of the moonlight wood, Strange shapes that lurk in strata or disport In some green waterdrop; instead of myths, He read the faery story of the world.

From childhood upward, till the end, he knew No teacher save his father, and, indeed, Since never teacher could be tenderer, He did not miss the lore of love itself. As patient as a woman, firm yet fond, Hoarding his very heart up in the boy, The father tended, taught him, watch'd him grow. At eight years old Justinian lisped in Greek, And readily construed Lucretius; Had read the great stone book whereon is writ The riddle of the world from age to age; Knew the fair marvels of the Zodiac, The stars and their processions; had by heart The elemental truths of chemistry. . . . And zealously, within a mental maze, As dense as that which covered Rosamond, His teacher guarded him against the creeds. For gospel, he had knowledge, and for God, His gentle human father; and indeed No child that lisps a heavenly Father's name Could lisp it with a fonder, fairer faith Than fill'd him when he named his earthly one.

Now when the boy was scarcely ten years old, Wise far beyond the wisdom of his years, The mother, wasting of a long disease, Died, leaving a great void within his heart Only the father's larger love could fill. The wise man sorrow'd little, having view'd His helpmate with a calm superior care, Approving her, but hoarded in his boy; And thenceforth, sire and son were all in all To one another. Oft the pair were seen Seated in scientific lecture-halls, The wise man blinking thro' his spectacles, The boy, his little image, by his side, Like small by greater owl; and evermore When, hastening home, they pass'd some shadowy shrine The father drew his treasure closer to him, Lest some dark phantom from within the porch Should mar the crystal mirror of his soul.

The seasons sped; at sixteen years of age Justinian was famous in the haunts Where wise men gather, and in deep debate Could hold his own among gray honor'd heads And pass with pedants for a prodigy. At seventeen, he wrote that bold review, Attributed for several weeks to Mill, Denuding Buckle and his theory Of history's four stages. How men smiled, When some one blabb'd and the strange truth was told, To find the grown man's pompous periods Dissected into folly by a boy!

Now for the first time on the father's heart There fell the shadow of a nameless fear Lest all this building of a noble mind Should fail and perilously come to nought. For lo! despite the glow of happy pride, Justinians cheek was pale, his gentle eyes Deep sunken, and he stoop'd beneath the weight Of too much wisdom; oftentimes his face, Tho' firm in faith and beautiful resolve, Seem'd set in silent sorrow. At last, one night, After a crowded meeting of the learned, A great physician and his father's friend Took him apart and whispered in his ear, — “Take care, my dear professor, of your boy! — I do not like that cough — he works too hard — His life is very precious to us all — Be sure to watch him well.” From that day forth The father's heart was burthen'd with a dread He never phrased to any human ear. Hungrily, with sick hunger of the soul, He watched his treasure, sleepless ev'n by night, Like some wan miser who forever hears The robbers foot upon the creaking stair Coming to take his gold. He watch'd and watch'd, Hiding his terror with a cheerless smile, Each light or shade that softly chased itself On the sweet boyish face. Was it a dream? — Or did Death pass, and with a finger-point Leave one deep crimson spot on either cheek As signal of decay? No, no, not Death! Not Death, but Life, now made the blue eyes gleam So marvellously bright; the small hands grow Thin and blue vein'd, with pink blood glimmering thro' Like light thro' alabaster; the brave brow So marble-cold and clear! — Yet presently He led him to the great physicians house And asked for counsel. “Take him to the sea,” Said the physician; keep away all books; Let brain and body rest for three months space — Then, when we know what sun and sea can do To make him rosy, come to me again.”

They went together to the sea, and there, Fann'd by the potent breath, the young mans cheek Grew brighter, and the father's heart took cheer. But one day, as they sat upon the beach, Watching the great smooth billows break themselves With solemn lapse upon the shell and sand, Justinian said, not loudly, in a voice As if communing softly with himself, “Father, if I should die! The very word Seem'd sad and terrible and fraught with fear. And starting at the sound, the wise man cried, “Die? and so young! — that is a foolish thought! You cannot, will not, die!” But with his eyes Fix'd on the ever-breaking line of foam, Justinian answer'd, Soon or late, death comes — A little earlier, or a little later, What matter? In the end we falter back Into the nothingness from which we rose. Well have you taught me, father, that our life Is but the climbing and the falling wave. I do not fear to die. No foolish tale Of priest or pope affrights me; I have read The secret of the world, and know indeed That death is silence and an end of all.”

“But you will live!” “For what? To read again A tale thrice told; to hear a few more years The same cold answer to my questionings; To be a little wiser possibly, And being so, a little sadder? Nay! I am weary of it all I — have lived my life!”

“Lived? cried the wise man holding the thin hand, Lived? you, a stripling still, not yet a man — You know not what you say. When you are well (And 'twill be soon) you'll laugh at these sad moods And gather up your force to face anew For many a merry year the shocks of time. Have comfort! — I am sixty years of age, And am not weary yet!”

The young man smiled, And press'd the gentle hand that held his own. “Dear father, since we do not measure time Merely by seasons past, 'tis I am old, And you that are the boy! How cheerfully You con the lesson you have learned by heart So many a busy year. Why were we born? To come into the sunlight and demand Whence come we, whither go we, then to pass Back into silence and to nothingness. You say that life is long—alas! that life Which ends at all, is far too brief for me. Sixty years hence, if I could live till then, I should be no less bitter to depart, To pass into a silence and a sleep, Than this day, or to-morrow. Dearest father, My faith is firm as yours. I know full well There is no God or gods, as mad folk dream, Beyond these echoes: that with man’s last breath All individual being ends for ever, And with the chemic crystals of the brain Dries up that gas the preachers christen soul. Were I to live an hundred years and ten, To realise old wives’ and prophets’ tales Of man’s longevity, what could I learn Not taught already? I could hear no more Than I have heard; than you have taught me, father, Almost with my first breath.”

Then, in a voice Broken and thick with tears, the wise man cried, “I have taught you over-much! — My son, my son, Forgive me for my love and over-zeal! I have been too cruel, placing on your strength, Too slight to bear it, such a weight of work As pales the cheek and rusts the wholesome blood. But you shall rest! throwing all books aside, We two will seek the breezes on the sea And on the mountains! Then you will be strong, And casting off these sad distemper’d fears, Become a man indeed!”

From that day forth The silken thread of love, that ran unseen Between the hearts of father and of son, Tighten’d with many a pang of hope and dread. Now for the first the father realized Parting was possible, and with sick suspense He watch’d the shadow and the sunbeam fight For victory on the pallid patient face. When winter came they flitted to the south, And there, amid a land of pine and vine, Under a sapphire sky, Justinian seem’d To gather strength and walk about renewed. Then ever in that fair land they heard the sound Of soft church-bells, and ever in their walks They came on rudely painted images Of Jesus and Madonna, and beheld At every step the shaven face of priests. Among these signs of blind and ignorant faith They walk’d like strangers in an alien clime, Wondering and pitying, pitied in their turn By all who saw them slowly pass along; The tall boy leaning on the father’s arm, The old man with a woman’s tender care Uplooking in his face, with sleepless eyes Watching his pearl of pearls. At last they came Unto a place most peaceful and most fair, Upon the margin of a crystal lake Set in the hollow of Italian hills. There an eternal summer seem’d to dwell, In an eternal calm. On every side The purple mountains rose, with filmy lights And slender scarfs of white and melting mist, While down below were happy orange groves And gleaming emerald slopes, and crimson crags Upon whose sides hung chalets white as snow Just peeping from deep fringe of flower and fern. And all, the crag and chalet, grove and wood, With snow-white gleams of silent cataracts For ever frozen in the act to fall, Were imaged, to the tiniest flower or leaf, In the cerulean mirror of the lake, — Save when across the stillness crystalline A gondola with purple shade crawl’d slowly And blurr’d the picture with its silvern trail.

Here then they rested, in a cottage set Upon the green edge of a promontory, Where, sitting side by side, with images Reflected in the azure sleeping lake, They often heard the boatman’s even-song Come from the distance like a sound in sleep; And often faintly from the crags o’erhead Tinkled the chapel bell. But day by day The young man felt the life-blood in his heart Fail more and more, till oftentimes his life Would seem as sad and faint and indistinct As those soft sounds. Once, as they linger’d there, A gentle Lutheran priest whose home was near Came, hearing that the youth was sick to death, And sought to give them comfort; but the sire, With something of a learned anger left, Tho’ gently, warn’d him from the sufferer’s side. Then coming to his son, “How far these priests Scent sorrow! — they would make the merry world A charnel-house to do their office in! I sent the preacher packing; he seemed vex’d To hear that you were growing strong and well And did not need his prayers;” and with a smile Of sad entreaty, “Yes, you are growing strong! And you will soon be well!”

Divinely blue The heavens were bending o’er the young man’s head, Blue lay the peaceful lake, and in its breast Another heaven as divinely blue Throbb’d through its own soft sunlight rapturously. Propp’d in his chair Justinian gazed around. “Father,” he said, “dear father, hold my hand — In all the world there is no comfort left Like feeling your kind touch. Now listen to me! I know I shall not leave this place alive — My time has almost come!” — “No, no!”

“Dear father! When the faint flame of life is flickering low, They say that even mindless beasts and birds Know that the end is near; and lo, I know it, For all my sense grows dim. A little while, And I shall be a part of that soft sleep Upon the lake and on the purple hills And in the quiet grave where no shape stirs. But now it does not seem so hard to go, Since all life seems a dream within a dream And I myself the strangest dream of all. To those fair elements whence first I came — Water and earth and air — I shall return; And see! how tranquil and how beautiful They wait for me, the immortal ministers Of man and all that shares mortality!”

Then in a voice that seemed the very sound Of his own rending heart, the father cried, “My son! Justinian! child of mine old age! Sole comfort of my dark and dreary days! You cannot go! you cannot fade away! No, no, you must not die! How shall I live Bereft of you? Where shall my soul find rest, When all I cherish, all the loving mind That I have nurtured so, depart so soon? No, I will hold you — I will clasp you to me — Nothing shall part us, nay, not death itself; For if you die, my only boy, my pride, I will die too!” Then, as he clasped his son, And looked into the thin and tearful eyes, And felt the slight frame tremble through and through As if with chill of some cold blighting breath, He suddenly raised up his face to heaven And unaware, with a great gush of tears, Moaned “God! God! God!”

Startled at that strange cry, Justinian murmur’d, “Father!” — and the two Clung close to one another tremulously In pain too quick for speech; but when the storm Of sudden agony had passed away, There came a pause — a long and tearful pause — And each could feel the other’s beating heart And the quick coming of the other’s breath. Then presently their eyes met, and a light Of some new wonder fill’d Justinian’s eyes, While softly, quietly, he said, “My father! Since I was but a babe upon the breast, And ever upward through the happy years, Your eyes have been the source of all my seeing, Your mind the living font of all my thoughts. Tell me, dear father — now, before we part — And tell me firmly, with no thought of fear, Is it forever? Have I read, indeed, My lesson truly? Tell me, am I right? For you have taught me truth is best of all — Is this the utter end of all our love, And shall we never meet and know each other Again, as we have known each other here?”

Then sobbing like a child the old man cried, “Ask me not! — Pity me, and ask no more! For lo, I seem as one whose house has fallen About his feet in ruins, and who stands Living, aghast, with ashes on his head, Clouded with horror, half awaked from sleep. I know there is no God — Nature herself, More mighty and more terrible than God, Hath taught me that — but till this piteous hour I never craved for God or named his name. I asked not for him, craved no alms of heaven, Nor hunger’d for another better life Than this we live; all that I sought on earth Was you, my child, my son. Stay with me here, Let us remain a little more together — And I shall be content.” Then with a smile Angelically sad, Justinian said: “It is enough — torture your heart no more. Hold to our faith — be strong — for though I die Fairer than I shall live. Now, read to me That sweet preamble of Lucretius I always loved so much, — because it brought The very breath of fields and happy flocks, With that great animal content and joy Which fills the earth to which we all return.”

Then trembling, in a voice made thick with tears, The old man at the bidding of the boy Read the rich periods of the only bard Who faced with fearless front unconquerable That shape so many see, — a Skeleton Standing amid the universal snow Of seeds atomic, pointing dimly down.

“For of the mighty scheme of heaven and gods I now shall sing, unfolding to thy gaze The everlasting principles of things Whence Nature forms, increases, and sustains All forms that are, and whither as they die She evermore dissolves each form again. These principles we in our human speech Call matter or the generative seeds, Bodies primordial whence all things that be Were marvellously fashioned from the first.”

With eyes half closed, his face suffused with sunlight, The pale boy listen’d, while the verse flow’d on.

“This darkness, this deep shadow of the mind, Neither the sunrise nor the darts of day Have power to scatter; but it shall dissolve Before the light of reason and the face ''Of Nature’s self. First, for exordium,'' Lay thou to heart this first great principle — ''Nought e’er is form’d from nought by power divine. . . But when we have studied deep and comprehend'' That power divine can ne’er make nought from nought, Then shall we know that which we seek to know — How everything is fashion’d first and last, And all things wrought without the help of God!”

So far he read, and paused; and as he paused A change came o’er the face he gazed upon, As if a finger touch’d the brow and eyes. The father shriek’d and shudder’d, shrinking back In nameless awe, for in a moment’s space, Though all the air was sunny overhead, And all the lake was golden at their feet, The twain were cover’d with a shadow cast By some dark shape unseen. “Hold my hand, father, For I am dying!” Then the white face flash’d To one wild look of passionate farewell, And silently, without another word, The last sad breath was drawn. They bore him in — How and by whom the gentle deed was done The father knew not, being dazed and stunn’d, But follow’d moaning, while upon his bed They placed him down; and when that afternoon A pallid sister from the convent came To do the last sad offices of death, The old man only watch’d her in a trance And made no sign; but when, her kind task done, She touch’d him, saying in her own soft speech, “Signor, I trust he died in the full faith Of Christ our Lord!” he gave a laugh so strange, So terrible and yet so pitiful, She thought his wits were gone. Fair as a star, Justinian lay upon his bed of death, And seeing him so young and beautiful The sister gathered lilies in the garden And strew’d them on his breast; then reverently She bless’d him; and the old man look’d at her, Trembling as in a trance; but suddenly Uprising, in a hollow voice he cried, Pointing her to the door with quivering hands, “Begone! profane him not! from life to death I kept him safe from Superstition’s touch! My boy! you shall not take him from me now!”

The following is the original text of the passages of Lucretius translated in the text and printed in italics: —

Nam tibi de summa coeli ratione deûmque Disserere incipiam, et rerum primordia pandam; Unde omnes natura creet res, auctet alatque; Quove eadem rursum natura perempta resolvat; Quæ nos materiem, et genitalia corpora rebus Reddenda in ratione vocare, et semina rerum Appellare suëmus, et hæc eadem usurpare Corpora prima, quod ex illis sunt omnia primis. ''De Rer. Nat''., Book i. 54-62.

Hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necesse est Non radii solis, neque lucida tela diei Discutiant, sed naturæ species, ratioque: Principium hinc cujus nobis exordia sumet, Nullam rem e nihilo gigni divinitus unquam. . . . Quas ob res, ubi viderimus nil posse creari De nihilo, tum, quod sequimur, jam rectius inde Perspiciemus, et unde queat res quæque creari, Et quo quæque modo fiant opera sine divûm. ''De Rer. Nat''., Book i. 147-151, 155-159.


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Page:Familiar letters of Henry David Thoreau.djvu/19

Rh from the Shawsheen and Assabet could compete with the traveled scholar or elegant versifier who commanded the homage of drawing-rooms and magazines, for the prize of lasting remembrance; yet who now are forgotten, or live a shadowy life in the alcoves of libraries, piping forth an ineffective voice, like the shades in Virgil's. But Thoreau was wiser when he wrote at the end of his poem, "Inspiration,"

He strove but little for glory, either immediate or posthumous, well knowing that it is the inevitable and unpursued result of what men do or say,—

The Letters of Thoreau, though not less remarkable in some aspects than what he wrote carefully for publication, have thus far scarcely had justice done them. The selection made for a small volume in 1865 was designedly done to exhibit one phase of his character,—the most striking, if you will, but not the most native


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The Inn Album/II

II

So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, depart Amid profuse acknowledgment from host Who well knows what may bring the younger back. They light cigar, descend in twenty steps The  'calm acclivity,'  inhale—beyond Tobacco's balm—the better smoke of turf And wood fire,—cottages at cookery I' the morning,—reach the main road straitening on 'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of night Slow to disperse, though mists thin fast before The advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fine Each speck with its fire-sparkle. Presently The road's end with the sky's beginning mix In one magnificence of glare, due East, So high the sun rides,—May's the merry month. They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt. Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.

"All right; the station comes in view at end; Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are! I say: let's halt, let's borrow yonder gate Of its two magpies, sit and have a talk! Do let a fellow speak a moment! More I think about and less I like the thing— No, you must let me! Now, be good for once! Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned! We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hate Thinking you beg or borrow or reduce To strychnine some poor devil of a lord Licked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cash To lose—you knew that!—lose and none the less Whistle to-morrow: it's not every chap Affords to take his punishment so well! Now, don't be angry with a friend whose fault Is that he thinks—upon my soul, I do— Your head the best head going. Oh, one sees Names in the newspaper—great this, great that, Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:—much I care! Others have their opinion, I keep mine: Which means—by right you ought to have the things I want a head for. Here's a pretty place, My cousin's place, and presently my place. Not yours! I'll tell you how it strikes a man. My cousin's fond of music and of course Plays the piano (it won't be for long!) A brand-new bore she calls a  'semi-grand,'  Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room. And cost no end of money. Twice a week Down comes Herr Somebody and seats himself. Sets to work teaching—with his teeth on edge— I've watched the rascal.  'Does he play first-rate?'  I ask:  'I rather think so,'  answers she—  'He's What's-his-Name!'—'Why give you lessons then?'—  'I pay three guineas and the train beside.'—   'This instrument, has he one such at home?'—  '' 'He? Has to practise on a table-top, '' '' When he can't hire the proper thing.'—'I see!  You've the piano, he the skill, and God '' The distribution of such gifts.'  So here: After your teaching, I shall sit and strum Polkas on this piano of a Place You'd make resound with Rule Britannia!"

"Thanks! I don't say but this pretty cousin's place, Appendaged with your million, tempts my hand As key-board I might touch with some effect."

"Then, why not have obtained the like? House, land, Money, are things obtainable, you see. By clever head-work: ask my father else! You, who teach me, why not have learned, yourself? Played like Herr Somebody with power to thump And flourish and the rest, not bend demure Pointing out blunders—' Sharp, not natural!  Permit me—on the black key use the thumb!'  There's some fatality, I'm sure! You say  'Marry the cousin, that's your proper move!'  And I do use the thumb and hit the sharp: You should have listened to your own head's hint. As I to you! The puzzle's past my power. How you have managed—with such stuff, such means— Not to be rich nor great nor happy man: Of which three good things where's a sign at all? Just look at Dizzy! Come,—what tripped your heels? Instruct a goose that boasts wings and can't fly! I wager I have guessed it!—never found The old solution of the riddle fail!  'Who was the Woman?'  I don't ask, but—' Where I' the path of life stood she who tripped you?'  "

"Goose You truly are! I own to fifty years. Why don't I interpose and cut out—you? Compete with five-and-twenty? Age, my boy!"

"Old man, no nonsense!—even to a boy That's ripe at least for rationality Rapped into him, as may be mine was, once! I've had my small adventure lesson me Over the knuckles!—likely, I forget The sort of figure youth cuts now and then, Competing with old shoulders but young head Despite the fifty grizzling years!"

"Aha? Then that means—just the bullet in the blade Which brought Dalmatia on the brain,—that, too. Came of a fatal creature? Can't pretend Now for the first time to surmise as much! Make a clean breast! Recount! a secret's safe 'Twixt you, me and the gate-post!"

"—Can't pretend, Neither, to never have surmised your wish! It's no use,—case of unextracted ball— Winces at finger-touching. Let things be!"

"Ah, if you love your love still! I hate mine."

"I can't hate."

"I won't teach you; and won't tell You, therefore, what you please to ask of me: As if I, also, may not have my ache!"

"My sort of ache? No, no! and yet—perhaps! All comes of thinking you superior still. But live and learn! I say! Time 's up! Good jump! You old, indeed! I fancy there's a cut Across the wood, a grass path: shall we try? It's venturesome, however!"

"Stop, my boy! Don't think I'm stingy of experience! Life —It's like this wood we leave. Should you and I Go wandering about there, though the gaps We went in and came out by were opposed As the two poles, still, somehow, all the same, By nightfall we should probably have chanced On much the same main points of interest— Both of us measured girth of mossy trunk, Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow, And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt. So in our lives; allow I entered mine Another way than you: 't is possible I ended just by knocking head against That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began By getting bump from; as at last you too May stumble o'er that stump which first of all Bade me walk circumspectly. Head and feet Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure, Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise. I, early old, played young man four years since And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike Failure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!"

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime, Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah— But how should chits distinguish? She admired Your marvel of a mind, I'll undertake! But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is, When years have told on face and figure...."

"Thanks, Mister Sufficiently-Instructed! Such No doubt was bound to be the consequence To suit your self-complacency: she liked My head enough, but loved some heart beneath Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top After my young friend's fashion! What becomes Of that fine speech you made a minute since About the man of middle age you found A formidable peer at twenty-one? So much for your mock-modesty! and yet I back your first against this second sprout Of observation, insight, what you please. My middle age, Sir, had too much success! It's odd: my case occurred four years ago— I finished just while you commenced that turn I' the wood of life that takes us to the wealth Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach. Now, I don't boast: it's bad style, and beside, The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet (Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!) Good nature sticks into my button-hole. Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced On what—so far from  'rosebud beauty' .... Well— She's dead: at least you never heard her name; She was no courtly creature, had nor birth Nor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; but Oh, such a wonder of a woman! Grand As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that, Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know, Artists would make an outcry: all the more, That she had just a statue's sleepy grace Which broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault (Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose Only the little flaw, and I had peeped Inside it, learned what soul inside was like. At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath A Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife— I wish,—now,—I had played that brute, brought blood To surface from the depths I fancied chalk! As it was, her mere face surprised so much That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares The cockney stranger at a certain bust With drooped eyes,—she's the thing I have in mind,— Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize— Such outside! Now,—confound me for a prig!— Who cares? I'll make a clean breast once for all! Beside, you've heard the gossip. My life long I've been a woman-liker,—liking means Loving and so on. There's a lengthy list By this time I shall have to answer for— So say the good folk: and they don't guess half— For the worst is, let once collecting-itch Possess you, and, with perspicacity, Keeps growing such a greediness that theft Follows at no long distance,—there's the fact! I knew that on my Leporello-list Might figure this, that, and the other name Of feminine desirability, But if I happened to desire inscribe, Along with these, the only Beautiful— Here was the unique specimen to snatch Or now or never. 'Beautiful' I said— 'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling then To tune of  'Haste, secure whate'er the cost This rarity, die in the act, be damned, So you complete collection, crown your list!'  It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused By the first notice of such wonder's birth, Would break bounds to contest my prize with me The first discoverer, should she but emerge From that safe den of darkness where she dozed Till I stole in, that country-parsonage Where, country-parson's daughter, motherless, Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years She had been vegetating lily-like. Her father was my brother's tutor, got The living that way: him I chanced to see— Her I saw—her the world would grow one eye To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!  'Secure her!'  cried the devil:  'afterward Arrange for the disposal of the prize!'  The devil's doing! yet I seem to think— Now, when all's done,—think with  'a head reposed'  In French phrase—hope I think I meant to do All requisite for such a rarity When I should be at leisure, have due time To learn requirement. But in evil day— Bless me, at week's end, long as any year, The father must begin  'Young Somebody, Much recommended—for I break a rule— Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.'  'Young!'  That did it. Had the epithet been  'rich,'  ' Noble,' ' a genius,' even ' handsome,'—but —'Young! ' "

"I say—just a word! I want to know— You are not married?"

"I?"

"Nor ever were?"

"Never! Why?"

"Oh, then—never mind! Go on! I had a reason for the question."

"Come,— You could not be the young man?"

"No, indeed! Certainly—if you never married her!"

"That I did not: and there's the curse, you'll see! Nay, all of it's one curse, my life's mistake Which, nourished with manure that's warranted To make the plant bear wisdom, blew out full In folly beyond field-flower-foolishness! The lies I used to tell my womankind, Knowing they disbelieved me all the time Though they required my lies, their decent due, This woman—not so much believed, I'll say, As just anticipated from my mouth: Since being true, devoted, constant—she Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain And easy commonplace of character. No mock-heroics but seemed natural To her who underneath the face, I knew Was fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judged Must correspond in folly just as far Beyond the common,—and a mind to match,— Not made to puzzle conjurers like me Who, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir, And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest!  'Trust me!'  I said: she trusted.  'Marry me!'  Or rather,  'We are married: when, the rite?'  That brought on the collector's next-day qualm At counting acquisition's cost. There lay My marvel, there my purse more light by much Because of its late lie-expenditure: Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand— To cage as well as catch my rarity! So, I began explaining. At first word Outbroke the horror.  'Then, my truths were lies!'  I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strange All-unsuspected revelation—soul As supernaturally grand as face Was fair beyond example—that at once Either I lost—or, if it please you, found My senses,—stammered somehow—'' 'Jest! and now,'' ''Earnest! Forget all else but—heart has loved,'' ''Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!' '' Not she! no marriage for superb disdain, Contempt incarnate!"

"Yes, it's different,— It's only like in being four years since. I see now!"

"Well, what did disdain do next, Think you?"

"That's past me: did not marry you!— That's the main thing I care for, I suppose. Turned nun, or what?"

"Why, married in a month Some parson, some smug crop-haired smooth-chinned sort Of curate-creature, I suspect,—dived down, Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else— I don't know where—I've not tried much to know,— In short, she's happy: what the clodpoles call 'Countrified' with a vengeance! leads the life Respectable and all that drives you mad: Still—where, I don't know, and that's best for both."

"Well, that she did not like you, I conceive. But why should you hate her, I want to know?"

"My good young friend,—because or her or else Malicious Providence I have to hate. For, what I tell you proved the turning-point Of my whole life and fortune toward success Or failure. If I drown, I lay the fault Much on myself who caught at reed not rope, But more on reed which, with a packthread's pith, Had buoyed me till the minute's cramp could thaw And I strike out afresh and so be saved. It's easy saying—I had sunk before, Disqualified myself by idle days And busy nights, long since, from holding hard On cable, even, had fate cast me such! You boys don't know how many times men fail Perforce o' the little to succeed i' the large, Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey, Collect the whole power for the final pounce. My fault was the mistaking man's main prize For intermediate boy's diversion; clap Of boyish hands here frightened game away Which, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at first I took the anger easily, nor much Minded the anguish—having learned that storms Subside, and teapot-tempests are akin. Time would arrange things, mend whate'er might be Somewhat amiss; precipitation, eh? Reason and rhyme prompt—reparation! Tiffs End properly in marriage and a dance! I said 'We'll marry, make the past a blank'— And never was such damnable mistake! That interview, that laying bare my soul, As it was first, so was it last chance—one And only. Did I write? Back letter came Unopened as it went. Inexorable She fled, I don't know where, consoled herself With the smug curate-creature: chop and change! Sure am I, when she told her shaveling all His Magdalen's adventure, tears were shed, Forgiveness evangelically shown, 'Loose hair and lifted eye,'—as some one says. And now, he's worshipped for his pains, the sneak!"

"Well, but your turning-point of life,—what's here To hinder you contesting Finsbury With Orton, next election? I don't see...."

"Not you! But I see. Slowly, surely, creeps Day by day o'er me the conviction—here Was life's prize grasped at, gained, and then let go! —That with her—may be, for her—I had felt Ice in me melt, grow steam, drive to effect Any or all the fancies sluggish here I' the head that needs the hand she would not take And I shall never lift now. Lo, your wood— Its turnings which I likened life to! Well,— There she stands, ending every avenue, Her visionary presence on each goal I might have gained had we kept side by side! Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids: The steam congeals once more: I'm old again! Therefore I hate myself—but how much worse Do not I hate who would not understand, Let me repair things—no, but sent a-slide My folly falteringly, stumblingly Down, down and deeper down until I drop Upon—the need of your ten thousand pounds And consequently loss of mine! I lose Character, cash, nay, common-sense itself Recounting such a lengthy cock-and-bull Adventure—lose my temper in the act...."

"And lose beside,—if I may supplement The list of losses,—train and ten-o'clock! Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign! So much the better! You're my captive now! I'm glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thick This way—that's twice said; we were thickish, though, Even last night, and, ere night comes again, I prophesy good luck to both of us! For see now!—back to  'balmy eminence'  Or  'calm acclivity,' or what's the word! Bestow you there an hour, concoct at ease A sonnet for the Album, while I put Bold face on, best foot forward, make for house, March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth— (Even white-lying goes against my taste After your little story). Oh, the niece Is rationality itself! The aunt— If she's amenable to reason too— Why, you stooped short to pay her due respect, And let the Duke wait (I'll work well the Duke). If she grows gracious, I return for you; If thunder's in the air, why—bear your doom, Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dust Of aunty from your shoes as off you go By evening-train, nor give the thing a thought How you shall pay me—that's as sure as fate, Old fellow! Off with you, face left about! Yonder's the path I have to pad. You see, I'm in good spirits, God knows why! Perhaps Because the woman did not marry you —Who look so hard at me,—and have the right, One must be fair and own."

The two stand still Under an oak.

"Look here!" resumes the youth. "I never quite knew how I came to like You—so much—whom I ought not court at all; Nor how you had a leaning just to me Who am assuredly not worth your pains. For there must needs be plenty such as you Somewhere about,—although I can't say where,— Able and willing to teach all you know; While—how can you have missed a score like me With money and no wit, precisely each A pupil for your purpose, were it—ease Fool's poke of tutor's honorarium-fee? And yet, howe'er it came about, I felt At once my master: you as prompt descried Your man, I warrant, so was bargain struck. Now, these same lines of liking, loving, run Sometimes so close together they converge— Life's great adventures—you know what I mean— In people. Do you know, as you advanced, It got to be uncommonly like fact We two had fallen in with—liked and loved Just the same woman in our different ways? I began life—poor groundling as I prove— Winged and ambitious to fly high: why not? There's something in 'Don Quixote' to the point, My shrewd old father used to quote and praise—  'Am I born man?'  asks Sancho:  'being man, By possibility I may be Pope!'  So, Pope I meant to make myself, by step And step, whereof the first should be to find A perfect woman; and I tell you this— If what I fixed on, in the order due Of undertakings, as next step, had first Of all disposed itself to suit my tread, And I had been, the day I came of age, Returned at head of poll for Westminster —Nay, and moreover summoned by the Queen At week's end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit, To form and head a Tory ministry— It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor been More strange to me, as now I estimate, Than what did happen—sober truth, no dream. I saw my wonder of a woman,—laugh, I'm past that!—in Commemoration-week. A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul,— With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink; But one to match that marvel—no least trace, Least touch of kinship and community! The end was—I did somehow state the fact, Did, with no matter what imperfect words, One way or other give to understand That woman, soul and body were her slave Would she but take, but try them—any test Of will, and some poor test of power beside: So did the strings within my brain grow tense And capable of ... hang similitudes! She answered kindly but beyond appeal.  'No sort of hope for me, who came too late. She was another's. Love went—mine to her, Hers just as loyally to some one else.'  Of course! I might expect it! Nature's law— Given the peerless woman, certainly Somewhere shall be the peerless man to match! I acquiesced at once, submitted me In something of a stupor, went my way. I fancy there had been some talk before Of somebody—her father or the like— To coach me in the holidays,—that's how I came to get the sight and speech of her,— But I had sense enough to break off sharp, Save both of us the pain."

"Quite right there!"

"Eh? Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all! Yes, I did sulk aloof and let alone The lovers—I disturb the angel-mates?"

"Seraph paired off with cherub!"

"Thank you! While I never plucked up courage to inquire Who he was, even,—certain-sure of this, That nobody I knew of had blue wings And wore a star-crown as he needs must do,— Some little lady,—plainish, pock-marked girl,— Finds out my secret in my woful face, Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball, And pityingly pours her wine and oil This way into the wound:  'Dear f-f-friend, Why waste affection thus on—must I say, A somewhat worthless object? Who's her choice— Irrevocable as deliberate— Out of the wide world? I shall name no names— But there's a person in society, Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown gray In idleness and sin of every sort Except hypocrisy: he's thrice her age, A by-word for "successes with the sex" As the French say—and, as we ought to say, Consummately a liar and a rogue, Since—show me where's the woman won without The help of this one lie which she believes— That—never mind how things have come to pass, And let who loves have loved a thousand times— All the same he now loves her only, loves ''Her ever! if by "won" you just mean "sold,"'' ''That's quite another compact. Well, this scamp,'' Continuing descent from bad to worse, Must leave his fine and fashionable prey (Who—fathered, brothered, husbanded,—are hedged About with thorny danger) and apply His arts to this poor country ignorance Who sees forthwith in the first rag of man ''Her model hero! Why continue waste'' On such a woman treasures of a heart Would yet find solace,—yes, my f-f-friend— In some congenial—fiddle-diddle-dee?'"

"Pray, is the pleasant gentleman described Exact the portrait which my  'f-f-friends'  Recognize as so like? 'T is evident You half surmised the sweet original Could be no other than myself, just now! Your stop and start were flattering!"

"Of course Caricature's allowed for in a sketch! The longish nose becomes a foot in length, The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored,—still, Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts: And  'parson's daughter' — 'young man coachable' —  'Elderly party' — 'four years since' —were facts To fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though— That made the difference, I hope."

"All right! I never married; wish I had—and then Unwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes! I hate my mistress, but I'm murder-free. In your case, where's the grievance? You came last, The earlier bird picked up the worm. Suppose You, in the glory of your twenty-one, Had happened to precede myself! 't is odds But this gigantic juvenility, This offering of a big arm's bony hand— I'd rather shake than feel shake me, I know— Had moved my dainty mistress to admire An altogether new Ideal—deem Idolatry less due to life's decline Productive of experience, powers mature By dint of usage, the made man—no boy That's all to make! I was the earlier bird— And what I found, I let fall: what you missed Who is the fool that blames you for?"

"Myself— For nothing, everything! For finding out She, whom I worshipped, was a worshipper In turn of... but why stir up settled mud? She married him—the fifty-years-old rake— How you have teazed the talk from me! At last My secret's told you. I inquired no more, Nay, stopped ears when informants unshut mouth; Enough that she and he live, deuce take where, Married and happy, or else miserable— It's 'Cut-the-pack;' she turned up ace or knave And I left Oxford, England, dug my hole Out in Dalmatia, till you drew me thence Badger-like,— 'Back to London'  was the word—  'Do things, a many, there, you fancy hard,  I'll undertake are easy!' —the advice. I took it, had my twelvemonth's fling with you — (Little hand holding large hand pretty tight For all its delicacy—eh, my lord?) Until when, t'other day, I got a turn Somehow and gave up tired: and  'Rest!'  bade you,  'Marry your cousin, double your estate,  And take your ease by all means!'  So, I loll On this the springy sofa, mine next month— Or should loll, but that you must needs beat rough The very down you spread me out so smooth. I wish this confidence were still to make! Ten thousand pounds? You owe me twice the sum For stirring up the black depths! There's repose Or, at least, silence when misfortune seems All that one has to bear; but folly—yes, Folly, it all was! Fool to be so meek, So humble,—such a coward rather say! Fool, to adore the adorer of a fool! Not to have faced him, tried (a useful hint) My big and bony, here, against the bunch Of lily-coloured five with signet-ring, Most like, for little-finger's sole defence— Much as you flaunt the blazon there! I grind My teeth, that bite my very heart, to think— To know I might have made that woman mine But for the folly of the coward—know— Or what's the good of my apprenticeship This twelvemonth to a master in the art? Mine—had she been mine—just one moment mine For honour, for dishonour—anyhow, So that my life, instead of stagnant... Well, You've poked and proved stagnation is not sleep— Hang you!"

"Hang you for an ungrateful goose! All this means—I who since I knew you first Have helped you to conceit yourself this cock O' the dunghill with all hens to pick and choose— Ought to have helped you when shell first was chipped By chick that wanted prompting  'Use the spur!'  While I was elsewhere putting mine to use. As well might I blame you who kept aloof, Seeing you could not guess I was alive, Never advised me  'Do as I have done—  Reverence such a jewel as your luck  Has scratched up to enrich unworthiness!'  As your behaviour was, should mine have been, —Faults which we both, too late, are sorry for— Opposite ages, each with its mistake:  'If youth but would—if age but could,'  you know. Don't let us quarrel! Come, we're—young and old— Neither so badly off! Go you your way, Cut to the Cousin! I'll to Inn, await The issue of diplomacy with Aunt, And wait my hour on  'calm acclivity'  In rumination manifold—perhaps About ten thousand pounds I have to pay!"

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EIGHT FRIENDS OF THE GREAT


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Portal talk:Audio recordings

LibriVox, Project Gutenberg
LibriVox (http://librivox.org/) has many high-quality public-domain audio recordings of public-domain works, including books, plays, poems, and essays. Could a bot be created to:
 * 1) add those recordings to this page?
 * 2) add those recordings to their respective works on Wikisource?

Also, Project Gutenberg (http://www.gutenberg.org/wiki/Main_Page) has many public-domain works in .pdf and plain text formats. Does Wikisource already use this as a resource? --Mattmatt1987 (talk) 17:22, 28 February 2011 (UTC)
 * We do use both, although more Gutenberg than LibriVox at the moment. Personally, I have been adding LibriVox recordings manually but I have no idea if this is something a bot could do.  I'm actually a little behind on adding the short stories I've already moved to Commons:Category:LibriVox recordings (there is a tool for moving them to Commons at least, although even there the information needs to be entered manually).  Someone else might know about whether the bot is possible if you ask at the community discussion forum, Scriptorium. - AdamBMorgan (talk) 21:01, 28 February 2011 (UTC)

Wikiradio
Hi all, as you all know, that we have Wikiradio with us, which transmits real-time audio service via the Internet as synchronized set of tracks. I just added English Spoken Wikisource as one of the station of the radio. Please feel free to add new audio files to this station. -- Bodhisattwa (talk) 10:10, 7 June 2016 (UTC)

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 OF

BY WILLIAM PRIDEAUX COURTNEY

LONDON

CONSTABLE & COMPANY LTD

1910


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 PREFACE

desire for information on the lives of our fellow-countrymen has grown apace during recent years. The announcement in the daily papers of the death of a contemporary known in any circle of life is at once followed by a much longer description of his career than would have been the case fifty years since. Famous Englishmen in all ages are chronicled in the pages of Sir George Murray Smith's costly Dictionary of national biography, and Mr. Frederic Boase in his noble volumes of Modern English biography has summarised, with patient and protracted labour, the lives of everyone of any importance who passed away in the half-century beginning with 1850. But even after this vast increase in the biographical literature of our country many persons conspicuous in their time still want a chronicler.

Biographical details of such men as David Garrick can be found in a score of separate memoirs and in the general dictionaries of the literature or the biography of our kingdom, but information on the career of the poetaster whose lines were engraved on Garrick's monument in Westminster Abbey can be looked for with certainty in one authority only. It is in the memoirs of the more obscure of our countrymen that the value of our great biographical dictionary lies, and even within its ample folds five out of the eight lives described in these pages are not to be found.

The three lives which are described in the pages of that Dictionary are those of bishop Rundle, Dr. Warner and John Taylor. In a work of such magnitude the memoirs are necessarily of limited compass and to each of them I have


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 vi been able to add many additional details of interest. This will be apparent by a reference to the memoir of Dr. Warner. Though his career has been set out, both in the dictionary and in several other publications, by writers of exceptional skill, it has been reserved for me to make the first mention of many, and not the least important, circumstances in his life. His translation of a novel from the Spanish, the various descriptions of his style of preaching, his appointment to the vicarage of Scrivelsby, his acts of charity with Penneck and others, his friendship with Miss Seward, Dr. Gem, and William Huskisson, the dinner at Mont Rouge with Mercier, the quarrel with T. J. Mathias, the names of the scholars who appreciated his Metronariston, his communications with George Cumberland, his gifts to John Home Tooke and friendship with the leading Reformers, the cause of his death, his adoption of a youth afterwards a K.C., these are some of the points which have been reserved for my narration.

The omissions in our great dictionary are Philip Metcalfe, Scrope Davies, lord Webb Seymour, Lydia White, and lord John Townshend. The reader, after a perusal of the succeeding narratives, will not hesitate, I hope, to corroborate my assertion that each of these eight memoirs contains many incidents of general interest and that all of these neglected persons lived lives which are worthy of description in detail.

Rundle was the central figure of a theological contest which raged as fiercely as the battle fought a century later over the appointment of Doctor Hampden to an English bishopric and the energies of Pope and Swift were enlisted on his behalf. Metcalfe was the companion of Johnson in his rambles at home and of Sir Joshua Reynolds in his art-travels through the Low-countries. He took a leading part in the differences which broke out over the erection of