In this fiction, again, perhaps the scholar and trained worker
are more obvious than the literary creator.
are more obvious than the literary creator.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v15 - Kab to Les
The fever that has depopulated our city returned
upon me last night, and Hippocrates and Acron tell me that my
end is near.
When we agreed, O Aspasia, in the beginning of our loves, to
cominunicate our thoughts by writing, even while we were both
in Athens, and when we had many reasons for it, we little fore-
saw the more powerful one that has rendered it necessary of late.
We never can meet again: the laws forbid it, and love itself
enforces them. Let wisdom be heard by you as imperturbably,
and affection as authoritatively, as ever; and remember that the
sorrow of Pericles can arise but from the bosom of Aspasia.
There is only one word of tenderness we could say, which we
have not said oftentimes before; and there is no consolation in it.
The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell.
Reviewing the course of my life, it appears to me at one
moment as if we met but yesterday; at another as if centuries
had passed within it,- for within it have existed the greater
part of those who, since the origin of the world, have been the
luminaries of the human race. Damon called me from my music
to look at Aristides on his way to exile; and my father pressed
the wrist by which he was leading me along, and whispered in
## p. 8871 (#499) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8871
(
>
my ear: “Walk quickly by; glance cautiously; it is there Miltia-
des is in prison.
In my boyhood Pindar took me up in his arms, when he
brought to our house the dirge he had composed for the funeral
of my grandfather; in my adolescence I offered the rites of hos-
pitality to Empedocles; not long afterward I embraced the neck
of Æschylus, about to abandon his country. With Sophocles I
have argued on eloquence; with Euripides on polity and ethics;
I have discoursed, as became an inquirer, with Protagoras and
Democritus, with Anaxagoras and Meton. From Herodotus I have
listened to the most instructive history, conveyed in a language
the most copious and the most harmonious;-a man worthy
to carry away the collected suffrages of universal Greece; a man
worthy to throw open the temples of Egypt, and to celebrate the
exploits of Cyrus. And from Thucydides, who alone can succeed
to him, how recently did my Aspasia hear with me the energetic
praises of his just supremacy!
As if the festival of life were incomplete, and wanted one
great ornament to crown it, Phidias placed before us, in ivory
and gold, the tutelary Deity of this land, and the Zeus of Homer
and Olympus.
To have lived with such men, to have enjoyed their famil-
iarity and esteem, overpays all labors and anxieties. I were
unworthy of the friendships I have commemorated, were I for-
getful of the latest. Sacred it ought to be, formed as it was
under the portico of Death,— my friendship with the most
sagacious, the most scientific, the most beneficent of philosophers,
Acron and Hippocrates. If mortal could war against Pestilence
and Destiny, they had been victorious. I leave them in the
field: unfortunate he who finds them among the fallen!
And now, at the close of my day, when every light is dim
and every guest departed, let me own that these wane before me:
remembering as I do, in the pride and fullness of my heart, that
Athens confided her glory, and Aspasia her happiness, to me.
Have I been a faithful guardian ? do I resign them to the
custody of the gods undiminished and unimpaired ? Welcome
then, welcome, my last hour! After enjoying for so great a
number of years, in my public and my private life, what I
believe has never been the lot of any other, I now extend my
hand to the urn, and take without reluctance or hesitation what
is the lot of all.
## p. 8872 (#500) ###########################################
8872
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
THE SACK OF CARTHAGE
I
N A part of the city where the fire had subsided, we were ex-
cited by loud cries; rather of indignation, we thought, than of
such as fear or lament or threaten or exhort: and we pressed
forward to disperse the multitude. Our horses often plunged in
the soft dust, and in the holes whence the pavement had been
removed for missiles; and often reared up and snorted violently
at smells which we could not perceive, but which we discovered
to rise from bodies, mutilated and half burnt, of soldiers and
horses,-laid bare, some partly, some wholly, by the march of
the troop. Although the distance from the place whence we
parted to that where we heard the cries was very short, yet from
the incumbrances in that street, and from the dust and smoke
issuing out of others, we were some time before we reached it.
On our
near approach, two old men threw themselves on the
ground before us, and the elder spake thus: “Our age, O Romans,
neither will nor ought to be our protection: we are, or rather
we have been, judges of this land; and to the uttermost of our
power we have invited our countrymen to resist you. The laws
are now yours. ”
The expectation of the people was intense and silent: we had
heard some groans; and now the last words of the old man were
taken up by others,— by men in agony.
“Yes, O Romans! ” said the elder who accompanied him that
had addressed us, “the laws are yours; and none punish more
severely than you do treason and parricide. Let your horses
turn this corner, and you will see before you traitors and parri-
cides. "
We entered a small square: it had been a market-place; the
roofs of the stalls were demolished, and the stones of several
columns (thrown down to extract the cramps of iron and the lead
that fastened them) served for the spectators, male and female, to
mount on. Five men were nailed on crosses; two others were
nailed against a wall, from scarcity (as we were told) of wood.
«Can seven men have murdered their parents in the same
year? ” cried 1.
“No, nor has any of the seven,” replied the first who had
spoken. “But when heavy impositions were laid upon those who
were backward in voluntary contributions, these men, among the
»
»
## p. 8873 (#501) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8873
>
richest in our city, protested by the gods that they had no gold
or silver left. They protested truly. ”
“ "And they die for this! inhuman, insatiable, inexorable
wretch ! »
« Their books,” added he, unmoved at my reproaches, were
seized by public authority and examined. It was discovered that
instead of employing their riches in external or internal com-
merce, or in manufactories, or in agriculture; instead of reserv-
ing it for the embellishment of the city or the utility of the
citizens; instead of lending it on interest to the industrious and
the needy,- they had lent it to foreign kings and tyrants, some
of whom were waging unjust wars by these very means, and oth-
ers were enslaving their own country. For so heinous a crime
the laws had appointed no specific punishment. On such occasions
the people and elders vote in what manner the delinquent shall
be prosecuted, lest any offender should escape with impunity,
from their humanity or improvidence. Some voted that these
wretches should be cast amid the panthers; the majority decreed
them (I think wisely) a more lingering and more ignominious
death. "
The men upon the crosses held down their heads, whether
from shame or pain or feebleness. The sunbeams were striking
them fiercely; sweat ran from them, liquefying the blood that
had blackened and hardened on their hands and feet. A soldier
stood by the side of each, lowering the point of his spear to the
ground; but no one of them gave it up to us. A centurion asked
the nearest of them how he dared to stand armed before him.
“Because the city is in ruins and the laws still live,” said he.
"At the first order of the conqueror or the elders, I surrender
my spear.
What is your pleasure, O commander ? ” said the elder.
« That an act of justice be the last public act performed by
the citizens of Carthage, and that the sufferings of these wretches
be not abridged. ”
GODIVA'S PLEA
G
ODIVA - Give them life, peace, comfort, contentment. There
are those among them who kissed me in my infancy, and
who blessed me at the baptismal font. Leofric, Leofric! the
first old man I meet I shall think is one of those; and I shall
## p. 8874 (#502) ###########################################
3874
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
think on the blessing he gave, and (ah me! ) on the blessing
I bring back to him. My heart will bleed, will burst — and he
,
will weep at it! he will weep, poor soul! for the wife of a cruel
lord who denounces vengeance on him, who carries death into
his family.
Leofric — We must hold solemn festivals.
Godiva — We must indeed.
Leofric— Well, then.
Godiva - Is the clamorousness that succeeds the death of
God's dumb creatures, are crowded halls, are slaughtered cattle,
festivals ? Are maddening songs and giddy dances, and hireling
praises from particolored coats ? Can the voice of a minstrel
tell us better things of ourselves than our own internal one
might tell us; or can his breath make our breath softer in sleep?
O my beloved! let everything be a joyance to us: it will if we
will. Sad is the day, and worse must follow, when we hear the
blackbird in the garden and do not throb with joy. But, Leofric,
the high estival is strown by ne servant of God upon the heart
of man.
It is gladness, it is thanksgiving; it is the orphan, the
starveling, pressed to the bosom, and bidden as its first com-
mandment to remember its benefactor. We will hold this festi-
val: the guests are ready; we may keep it up for weeks and
months and years together, and always be the happier and the
richer for it. The beverage of this feast, O Leofric, is sweeter
than bee or flower or vine can give us: it flows from heaven;
and in heaven will it abundantly be poured out again to him
who pours it out here unsparingly.
Leofric - Thou art wild.
Godiva --I have indeed lost myself. Some Power, some good
kind Power, melts me (body and soul and voice) into tenderness
and love. O my husband, we must obey it. Look upon me!
look upon me! lift your sweet eyes from the ground! I will not
cease to supplicate; I dare not.
Leofric - We may think upon it.
Godiva — Never say that! What! think upon goodness when
you can be good ? Let not the infants cry for sustenance! The
mother of our blessed Lord will hear them; us never, never
afterward.
## p. 8875 (#503) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8875
A DREAM ALLEGORY
W*. FI
EARIED with the length of my walk over the mountains, and
finding a soft old molehill, covered with gray grass, by
the wayside, I laid my head upon it and slept. I can-
not tell how long it was before a species of dream or vision
came over me.
Two beautiful youths appeared beside me: each was winged;
but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill adapted to
flight. One of them, whose voice was the softest I ever heard,
looking at me frequently, said to the other:-
“He is under my guardianship for the present: do not awaken
him with that feather. ”
Methought, hearing the whisper, I saw something like the
feather on an arrow, and then the arrow itself: the whole of it,
even to the point, although he carried it in such a manner that
it was difficult at first to discover more than a palm’s-length of
it; the rest of the shaft and the whole of the barb was behind
his ankles.
« This feather never awakens any one,” replied he rather petu-
lantly; “but it brings more of confident security, and more of
cherished dreams, than you without me are capable of impart-
ing. ”
>
“Be it so! ” answered the gentler: “none is less inclined to
quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom you have wounded
grievously, call upon me for succor. But so little am I disposed
to thwart you, it is seldom I venture to do more for them than
to whisper a few words of comfort in passing. How many re-
proaches on these occasions have been cast upon me for indiffer-
ence and infidelity! Nearly as many, and nearly in the same
terms, as upon you! ”
“Odd enough that we, O Sleep! should be thought so alike! ”
said Love contemptuously. "Yonder is he who bears a nearer
resemblance to you: the dullest have observed it. ” I fancied I
turned my eyes to where he was pointing, and saw at a distance
the figure he designated. Meanwhile the contention went on
uninterruptedly. Sleep was slow in asserting his power or his
benefits. Love recapitulated them; but only that he might assert
his own above them. Suddenly he called on me to decide, and
to choose my patron. Under the influence first of the one, then
of the other, I sprang from repose to rapture, I alighted from
## p. 8876 (#504) ###########################################
8876
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
cross
me
near us.
coun-
(
rapture on repose
and knew not which was sweetest. Love
was very angry with me, and declared he would
throughout the whole of my existence. Whatever I might on
.
other occasions have thought of his veracity, I now felt too surely
the conviction that he would keep his word. At last, before the
close of the altercation, the third Genius had advanced, and stood
I cannot tell how I knew him, but I knew him to be
the Genius of Death. Breathless as I was at beholding him, I
soon became familiar with his features. First they seemed only
calm; presently they grew contemplative; and lastly beautiful:
those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less harmonious,
less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily, with a
tenance in which there was somewhat of anxiety, somewhat of
disdain; and cried, "Go away! go away! nothing that thou
touchest lives. »
Say rather, child! ” replied the advancing form, and advancing
grew loftier and statelier, «say rather that nothing of beautiful
or of glorious lives its own true life until my wing hath passed
over it. »
Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his forefinger
the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head; but he replied not.
Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I dreaded him
less and less, and scarcely looked toward him. The milder and
calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as I took courage to con-
template him, regarded me with more and more complacency.
He had neither flower nor arrow, as the others had; but throwing
back the clusters of dark curls that overshadowed his counte-
nance, he presented to me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank
on looking at him so near, and yet I sighed to love him. He
smiled, not with an expression of pity, at perceiving my diffi-
dence, my timidity: for I remembered how soft was the hand
of Sleep, how warm and entrancing was Love's. By degrees I
became ashamed of my ingratitude; and turning my face away
I held out my arms, and felt my neck within his. Composure
strewed and allayed all the throbbings of my bosom; the coolness
of freshest morning breathed around; the heavens seemed to open
above me; while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer rested on
my head. I would now have looked for those others; but know-
ing my intention by my gesture, he said consolatorily:-
“Sleep is on his way to the earth, where many are calling
him: but it is not to these he hastens; for every call only makes
## p. 8877 (#505) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8877
him fly farther off. Sedately and gravely as he looks, he is
nearly as capricious and volatile as the more arrogant and fero-
cious one. ”
“And Love! ” said I, “whither is he departed ? If not too
late, I would propitiate and appease him. ”
“He who cannot follow me, he who cannot overtake and pass
me,” said the Genius, “is unworthy of the name, the most glorious
in earth or heaven. Look up! Love is yonder, and ready to
receive thee. "
I looked: the earth was under me; I saw only the clear blue
sky, and something brighter above it.
(
ROSE AYLMER
A“
H, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
FAREWELL TO ITALY
I
LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the Milky Way.
Fiesole and Val d'Arno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believed ? )
Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day,
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.
## p. 8878 (#506) ###########################################
8878
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
ART CRITICISM
FK
IRST bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen
In all her purity heaven's virgin queen,
Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then
Titian, ennobler of the noblest men;
And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise
His little Cupids for those wicked eyes.
I want not Rubens's pink puffy bloom,
Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room.
With those, and Poussin's nymph-frequented woods,
His templed heights and long-drawn solitudes,
I am content, yet fain would look abroad
On one warm sunset of Ausonian Claude.
LINES FROM GEBIR)
[The first passage here given was Shelley's favorite. ]
O
NCE a fair city — courted then by kings,
Mistress of nations, thronged by palaces,
Raising her head o'er destiny, her face
Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresht;
Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth,
Bereft of beauty, bare of ornament-
Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar.
Now To Aurora borne by dappled steeds,
The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold,
Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand,
Expanded slow to strains of harmony.
The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves
Glancing with wanton coyness toward their queen,
Heaved softly; thus the damsel's bosom heaves
When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek,
To which so warily her own she brings
Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth
Of coming kisses fanned by playful Dreams.
Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee;
For 'twas the morning pointed out by Fate
When an immortal maid and mortal man
Should share each other's nature knit in bliss.
## p. 8879 (#507) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8879
THE LIFE OF FLOWERS
W*
THEN hath wind or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walkt off? 'Twere most ungrateful; for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
A WELCOME TO DEATH
A
S HE who baskt in sunshine loves to go
Where in dim coolness graceful laurels grow;
In that lone narrow path whose silent sand
Hears of no footstep, while some gentle hand
Beckons, or seems to beckon, to the seat
Where ivied wall and trellised woodbine meet:
Thus I, of ear that tingles not to praise,
And feet that, weary of the world's highways,
Recline on moldering tree or jutting stone,
And (though at last I feel I am alone)
Think by a gentle hand mine too is prest
In kindly welcome to a calmer rest.
FAREWELL
I
STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,-
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
## p. 8880 (#508) ###########################################
8880
ANDREW LANG
(1844-)
NDREW LANG is an active and conspicuous figure among the
British writing men whose work belongs in the late nine-
teenth century. His range has been very wide; his culture
is sound, and his individuality has a piquancy which scholarship has
not reduced to a pale conformity. When one thinks of Lang, one
thinks too of Gosse and Dobson, of Stevenson and Henley,— authors
who stand for the main streams of tend-
ency in the newer literature of England.
Lang is a Scotchman; one of the many
gifted men of letters that wonderful little
land has sent down to do literary battle
in London. He was carefully educated at
Edinburgh Academy, St. Andrews Univer-
sity, and Balliol College (Oxford), laying a
solid foundation for his future accomplish-
ment in letters. At Oxford he did brilliant
work, and was rewarded by a Merton Fel-
lowship in 1868. Going up to London, he
began to write for the periodicals, and soon
ANDREW LANG the first on his long list of volumes was
given to the public. This was a volume of
verse, Ballades and Lyrics of Old France (1872); containing both
translations, and original poems on the same model. Mr. Lang has
wooed the Muses at intervals ever since. His poetry shows culture
and taste, and has grace and felicity, with a lightness of touch and
a ready wit that make it pleasant reading. Along with his friends
Dobson and Gosse, he started the imitation of older French verse
forms; an exotic cult no doubt making more flexible the technique
of English writers, but otherwise having little significance for native
poetry. The titles of other of Lang's books of verse indicate the
nature of his metrical work: Ballades in Blue China,' (Ballades and
Verses Vain,' Rhymes à la Mode,' Rhymes Old and New,' 'Ban
and Arrière Ban’; — there is a suggestion of vers de société about it all
which the contents justify. Now and then Mr. Lang does something
of a broader, more imaginative sort; but the general impression of
his literary work is that of a polished craftsman and well-equipped
## p. 8881 (#509) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8881
scholar rather than a born poet. His poetry does not concern itself
with large elemental things; but he can do a light thing very per-
fectly, and has the good sense not to try to do more.
Lang's restless spirit has also turned occasionally to fiction; his
taste leading him towards romanticism, sometimes into melodrama.
(The Mark of Cain' (1886) has a penny-dreadful atmosphere redeemed
by its literary flavor. (The World's Desire,' written in collaboration
with Rider Haggard, is a striking and skillfully done story in which
the romantic myth and legend of Greece are utilized. «The Maid of
Fife) (1895) is a capital historic tale, with Joan of Arc as the central
figure.
In this fiction, again, perhaps the scholar and trained worker
are more obvious than the literary creator. Yet Lang's art creed,
squarely opposed to modern realism and the probing of social prob-
lems after the current manner, has affected his own fiction happily;
so that it is, to say the least, wholesome and enjoyable.
One of the most fruitful, successful phases of his work has been
scholarly editing and translation. He has edited and translated sev-
eral volumes of foreign fairy tales, of which the Blue Fairy Book'
and the Red Fairy Book' are examples; has turned the Greek idyl-
lists Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus into English prose of great beauty:
and has given English readers a really superb prose rendering of
Homer; the Odyssey in collaboration with Professor Butcher, the Iliad
with the help of Messrs. Leaf and Myers. His editing of standard
literature has been so extensive that he has been facetiously dubbed
editor-in-general to the British nation. A recent example of his more
sustained scholar work is the Life of Lockhart' (1896). Mr. Lang,
moreover, has been a vigorous student of anthropology; and his vol-
umes Custom and Myth) (1884) and Myth, Ritual, and Religion'
(1887) are brilliant and able expositions of the modern theory of
the universality of myths among primitive savages, contravening the
older theory that certain myths are of exclusive Aryan development.
The conservatives have combated his views; which on the contrary
receive the warm commendation of a student like Grant Allen.
In his miscellaneous literary papers and lighter critical essays
Lang is vastly entertaining. He appears as a free-lance of literature,
always ready for a tilt; firm in his belief in the elder classics, and
in newer classics like Scott and Dumas; cock-sure of his position,
whimsically humorous or pettish, recondite of literary allusion, pro-
fuse in the display of learning. The essays are anything but dull, and
one acknowledges their liveliness and quality, even if irritated by their
tone or in profound disagreement with their dicta.
With this many-sided activity it will be seen that Andrew Lang
has a breezy force, is a decided influence in modern English literature.
And that influence, in respect of the morbid literary phenomena of
XV—556
## p. 8882 (#510) ###########################################
8882
ANDREW LANG
the time, has been corrective. Lang has pushed the romantic theory
to humorous exaggeration at times; but his main contention for
breadth and health and sanity in the presentation of life through art
forms is sound enough, and such criticism is especially welcome now-
adays.
FROM A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY)
In Books and Bookmen)
To
(C
THOMAS Blinton had discovered a new sin, so to speak, in the
collecting way. Aristophanes says of one of his favorite
blackguards, "Not only is he a villain, but he has invented
an original villainy. ” Blinton was like this. He maintained that
every man who came to notoriety had, at some period, published
a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of and
withdrawn. It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray
copies of these unhappy volumes, these péchés de jeunesse, which
always and invariably bear a gushing inscription from the author
to a friend. He had all Lord John Manners's poems, and even
Mr. Ruskin's. He had the Ode to Despair of Smith (now a
comic writer); and the 'Love Lyrics) of Brown, who is now a
permanent under-secretary, than which nothing can be less gay
nor more permanent. He had the revolutionary songs which a
dignitary of the Church published and withdrew from circulation.
Blinton was wont to say he expected to come across "Triolets of
a Tribune) by Mr. John Bright, and Original Hymns for Infant
Minds' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if he only hunted long
enough.
On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love
poems which the author had done his best to destroy; and he had
gone to his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to
friends of the author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was
this a kind action ? In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of
his iniquities; and nobody will be surprised to hear that he met
the appropriate punishment of his offense. Blinton had passed,
on the whole, a happy day, notwithstanding the error about the
Elzevir. He dined well at his club, went home, slept well, and
started next morning for his office in the city; walking, as usual,
and intending to pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the
book-stalls. At the very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a
man turning over the rubbish in the cheap-box. Blinton stared
## p. 8883 (#511) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8883
(
>>
a
at him, fancied he knew him, thought he didn't, and then became
a prey to the glittering eye of the other. The Stranger, who
wore the conventional cloak and slouched soft hat of Strangers,
was apparently an accomplished mesmerist or thought-reader, or
adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni
(in the novel of that name), Mendoza (in Codlingsby'), the soul-
less man in A Strange Story,' Mr. Home, Mr. Irving Bishop,
a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most other mysterious
characters of history and fiction. Before his Awful Will, Blinton's
mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child abashed. The
Stranger glided to him and whispered, “Buy these. ”
« These were a complete set of Auerbach's novels in Eng-
lish; which, I need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of
purchasing had he been left to his own devices.
«Buy these! ” repeated the Adept, or whatever he was, in a
,
cruel whisper. Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast
load of German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend.
They reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny's
Jour de l'An d'un Vagabond' was exposed.
“Look,” said Blinton: "there is a book I have wanted some
time. Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing
trifle. ”
Nay, buy that,” said the implacable Stranger, pointing with
a hooked forefinger at Alison's History of Europe' in an indefi-
nite number of volumes. Blinton shuddered.
“What, buy that — and why? In Heaven's name, what could
I do with it? "
“Buy it,” repeated the persecutor, "and that” (indicating the
Ilios' of Dr. Schliemann,--a bulky work), “and these” (pointing
'
to all Theodore Alois Buckley's translations of the classics), and
these” (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain
Friswell, and at a Life,' in more than one volume, of Mr. Glad-
stone).
The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along, carrying the
bargains under his arm. Now one book fell out, now another
dropped by the way. Sometimes a portion of Alison came pon-
derously to earth; sometimes the Gentle Life' sank resignedly
to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again, and
packing them under the arm of the weary Blinton.
The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and
tried to enter into conversation with his tormentor.
»
(
## p. 8884 (#512) ###########################################
8884
ANDREW LANG
"He does know about books,” thought Blinton, and he must
have a weak spot somewhere. ”
So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational
style. He talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou,
of Derome, of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of
Bauzonnet. He discoursed of first editions, of black-letter, and
even of illustrations and vignettes. He approached the topic of
Bibles; but here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, inter-
rupted him.
Buy those! ” he hissed through his teeth.
« ”
“Those were the complete publications of the Folk-Lore
Society.
Blinton did not care for folk-lore (very bad men never do);
but he had to act as he was told.
Then, without pause or remorse, he was charged to acquire
the Ethics) of Aristotle in the agreeable versions of Williams
and Chace. Next he secured (Strathmore,' 'Chandos,' 'Under
Two Flags,' and Two Little Wooden Shoes,' and several dozen
more of Ouida's novels. The next stall was entirely filled with
school-books, old geographies, Livys, Delectuses, Arnold's Greek
Exercises,' Ollendorffs, and what not.
“Buy them all,” hissed the fiend. He seized whole boxes and
piled them on Blinton's head.
He tied up Quida's novels in two parcels with string, and
fastened each to one of the buttons above the tails of Blinton's
coat.
“ You are tired ? ” asked the tormentor. “Never mind: these
books will soon be off your hands. "
So speaking, the Stranger with amazing speed hurried Blinton
back through Holywell Street, along the Strand and up to Picca-
dilly, stopping at last at the door of Blinton's famous and very
expensive binder.
The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of
Blinton's treasures. Then the miserable Blinton found himself,
as it were automatically and without the exercise of his will,
speaking thus:-
"Here are some things I have picked up,- extremely rare,-
and you will oblige me by binding them in your best manner,
regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant mo-
rocco, doublé, every book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat
of arms, plenty of gilding: Spare no cost. Don't keep me
(
CC
## p. 8885 (#513) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8885
(
waiting, as you generally do;" for indeed bookbinders are the
most dilatory of the human species.
Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary
questions, Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of
the room.
“Come on to the sale," he cried.
What sale ? » asked Blinton.
«Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky
day. ”
“But I have forgotten my catalogue. ”
«Where is it ? »
“In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of
the ebony bookcase at home. ”
The Stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated
itself till the hand disappeared from view round the corner.
In a moment the hand returned with the catalogue.
The pair
sped on to Messrs. Sotheby's auction rooms in Wellington Street.
Everyone knows the appearance of a great book sale. The
long table, surrounded by eager bidders, resembles from a little
distance a roulette table, and communicates the same sort of
excitement. The amateur is at a loss to know how to conduct
himself. If he bids in his own person some bookseller will out-
bid him; partly because the bookseller knows, after all, he knows
little about books, and suspects that the amateur may in this
case know more. Besides, professionals always dislike amateurs,
and in this game they have a very great advantage. Blinton
knew all this, and was in the habit of giving his commissions to
a broker. But now he felt (and very naturally) as if a demon
had entered into him. (Tirante il Bianco Valorissimo Cavaliere)
was being competed for: an excessively rare romance of chivalry,
in magnificent red Venetian morocco, from Canevari's library.
The book is one of the rarest of the Aldine Press, and beauti-
fully adorned with Canevari's device,- a simple and elegant affair
in gold and colors. “Apollo is driving his chariot across the
green waves towards the rock, on which winged Pegasus is paw-
ing the ground”; though why this action of the horse should be
called “pawing ” (the animal notoriously not possessing paws), it
is hard to say.
Round this graceful design is the inscription
OPAQ KAT MIL 10E99 (straight and not crooked). In his ordinary
mood Blinton could only have admired “Tirante il Bianco' from
a distance. But now, the demon inspiring him, he rushed into
>
## p. 8886 (#514) ###########################################
8886
ANDREW LANG
>
»
>>
the lists, and challenged the great Mr. - the Napoleon of
bookselling. The price had already reached five hundred pounds.
« Six hundred,” cried Blinton.
“Guineas," said the great Mr.
«Seven hundred,” screamed Blinton,
“Guineas,” replied the other,
This arithmetical dialogue went on till even Mr. struck
his flag, with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said “Four
thousand. ” The cheers of the audience rewarded the largest
bid ever made for any book. As if he had not done enough, the
Stranger now impelled Blinton to contend with Mr. for
every expensive work that appeared. The audience naturally
fancied that Blinton was in the earlier stage of softening of the
brain, when a man conceives himself to have inherited boundless
wealth, and is determined to live up to it. The hammer fell for
the last time. Blinton owed some fifty thousand pounds; and
exclaimed audibly, as the influence of the fiend died out, "I am
a ruined man. "
« Then your books must be sold,” cried the Stranger; and
leaping on a chair, he addressed the audience:-
Gentlemen, I invite you to Mr. Blinton's sale, which will
immediately take place. The collection contains some very re-
markable early English poets, many first editions of the French
classics, most of the rarer Aldines, and a singular assortment of
Americana. ”
In a moment, as if by magic, the shelves round the room
were filled with Blinton's books, all tied up in big lots of some
thirty volumes each. His early Molières were fastened to old
French dictionaries and school-books. His Shakespeare quartos
were in the same lot with tattered railway novels.
(happily almost unique) of Richard Barnfield's Affectionate Shep-
heard’ was coupled with two old volumes of Chips from a Ger-
man Workshop and a cheap, imperfect example of Tom Brown's
School Days. ' Hooke's Amanda' was at the bottom of a lot
of American devotional works, where it kept company with an
Elzevir Tacitus and the Aldine Hypnerotomachia. '
The auc-
tioneer put up lot after lot, and Blinton plainly saw that the
whole affair was a “knock-out. ” His most treasured spoils were
parted with at the price of waste paper. It is an awful thing
to be present at one's own sale. No man would bid above a
few shillings. Well did Blinton know that after the knock-out the
His copy
(
## p. 8887 (#515) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8887
plunder would be shared among the grinning bidders. At last
his Adonais,' uncut, bound by Lortic, went in company with
some old Bradshaws,' the Court Guide' of 1881, and an odd
volume of the Sunday at Home, for sixpence. The Stranger
smiled a smile of peculiar malignity. Blinton leaped up to pro-
test; the room seemed to shake around him, but words would not
come to his lips.
Then he heard a familiar voice observe, as a familiar grasp
shook his shoulder:-
« Tom, Tom, what a nightmare you are enjoying! ”
He was in his own arm-chair, where he had fallen asleep
after dinner; and Mrs. Blinton was doing her best to arouse him
from his awful vision. Beside him lay L'Enfer du Bibliophile,
vu et decrit par Charles Asselineau' (Paris: Tardieu, MDCCCLX. ).
»
FROM (LETTER TO MONSIEUR DE MOLIÈRE, VALET DE
CHAMBRE DU ROI)
W""
In "Letters to Dead Authors )
Monsieur:
'ITH what awe does a writer venture into the presence of
the great Molière ! As a courtier in your time would
scratch humbly (with his comb! ) at the door of the Grand
Monarch, so I presume to draw near your dwelling among the
Immortals. You, like the King who among all his titles has now
none so proud as that of the friend of Molière — you found your
dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to the
dignity of an empire: what Louis the XIV. did for France you
achieved for French comedy; and the bâton of Scapin still wields
its sway, though the sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim.
For the King the Pyrenees (or so he fancied) ceased to exist;
by a more magnificent conquest you overcame the Channel. If
England vanquished your country's arms, it was through you that
France ferum victorem cepit, and restored the dynasty of Comedy
to the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden
borrowed 'L'Étourdi,' our tardy apish nation has lived in mat-
ters theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France.
In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered.
While you lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was
the congenial business of English playwrights to foist their rustic
## p. 8888 (#516) ###########################################
8888
ANDREW LANG
>
grossness and their large Fescennine jests into the urban page of
Molière. Now they are diversely occupied; and it is their affair
to lend modesty where they borrow wit, and to spare a blush to
the cheek of the Lord Chamberlain. But still, as has ever been
our wont since Etherege saw and envied and imitated your suc-
cesses— still we pilfer the plays of France, and take our bien, as
you said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We
are the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that
a comedy pleases the town which has not first been “cut out”
from the countrymen of Molière. Why this should be, and
what «tenebriferous star” (as Paracelsus, your companion in the
Dialogues des Morts,' would have believed) thus darkens the sun
of English humor, we know not; but certainly our dependence
on France is the sincerest tribute to you. Without you, neither
Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor «a wilderness of monkeys” like Scar-
ron, could ever have given Comedy to France and restored her to
Europe.
While we owe to you, monsieur, the beautiful advent of Com-
edy, fair and beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, . it
is still to you that we must turn when of comedies we desire the
best. If you studied with daily and nightly care the works of
Plautus and Terence, if you let no musty bouquin escape you"
(so your enemies declared), it was to some purpose that you
labored. Shakespeare excepted, you eclipsed all who came before
you: and from those that follow, however fresh, we turn;
turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, from Sheridan and Gold-
smith, from Musset and Pailleron and Labiche, to that crowded
world of your creation. « Creations” one may well say, for you
anticipated Nature herself: you gave us, before she did, in
Alceste a Rousseau who was a gentleman, not a lacquey; in a
mot of Don Juan's the secret of the new religion and the watch-
word of Comte, l'amour de l'humanité.
Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a French-
man with humor; and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise
philosophy of a secular civilization ? With a heart the most ten-
der, delicate, loving, and generous,-a heart often in agony and
torment, — you had to make life endurable (we cannot doubt it)
without any whisper of promise or hope or warning from reli-
gion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all, the mind of
Pascal, proclaimed that the only hope was in voluntary blindness,
that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at evens, you,
»
we
## p. 8889 (#517) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8889
monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see what you
found invisible.
In religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits
and Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartuffe the
portrait of their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in
your play conceived that you were girding at his neighbor), you
all the while were mocking every credulous excess of faith. In
the sermons preached to Agnès we surely hear your private
laughter; in the arguments for credulity which are presented
to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal self-defense of
superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you sought for the perma-
nent element of life — precisely where Pascal recognized all that
was most fleeting and unsubstantial — in divertissement; in the
pleasure of looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence,
an observer of the follies of mankind. Like the gods of the
Epicurean, you seem to regard our life as a play that is played,
as a comedy; yet how often the tragic note comes in! What
pity, and in the laughter what an accent of tears, as of rain in
the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human as you;
none has had a heart like you to feel for his butts, and to leave
them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their tormentors. Sgan-
arelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the rest — our
sympathy somehow is with them, after all; and M. Pourceaugnac
is a gentleman, despite his misadventures.
Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays
may batter and defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not
all the victory, or you did not mean that they should win it.
They go off with laughter, and their victim with a grimace;
but in him we that are past our youth behold an actor in an un-
ending tragedy,—the defeat of a generation. Your sympathy is
not wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can
throw a bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has
been taught that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned
in shame, in jealousy, in endurance of the wanton pride of men,
(how could the poor player and the husband of Celimène be
untaught in that experience ? ) you never sided quite heartily, as
other comedians have done, with young prosperity and rank and
power.
## p. 8890 (#518) ###########################################
8890
ANDREW LANG
LES ROSES DE SÂDI
From Ban and Arrière Ban)
his morning I I
T'They were thrust in the band that my bodice incloses,
But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.
The breast-knots were broken: the roses together
Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,
And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.
And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses;
But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the roses,-
Thou shalt know, love, how fragrant a memory can be.
THE ODYSSEY
Prefixed to the Butcher-Lang translation
A
S ONE that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Ææan Isle forgets the Main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine;
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again,-
So, gladly from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers;
And through the music of the languid hours,
They hear like ocean on a western beach
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
## p. 8891 (#519) ###########################################
8891
SIDNEY LANIER
(1842-1881)
BY RICHARD BURTON
HE quiet steady widening of the influence of Sidney Lanier
since his death is more than a pleasant justification of faith
to those who have loved him and believed in him from the
first. It suggests the comforting thought that good literature, uncon-
ventional in form and original in quality, although for this very
reason slower to get a hearing, is sure to
receive the eventual recognition it deserves.
Sixteen years have elapsed since Lanier's
taking-off; and he is now seen more clearly
every day to be the most important native
singer the Southern United States has pro-
duced, and one of the most distinctive and
lovely of American singers wherever born.
Enthusiastic admirers and followers he has
always attracted to him; now the general
opinion begins to swing round to what
seemed to many, a little time ago, the ex-
travagant encomium of partiality and preju-
dice.
SIDNEY LANIER
The circumstances of Sidney Lanier's
life furnish a pathetically tragic setting to his pure-souled, beautiful
work. A Georgian, he was born at Macon, February 30, 1842; his
father was a well-known lawyer of that city.
upon me last night, and Hippocrates and Acron tell me that my
end is near.
When we agreed, O Aspasia, in the beginning of our loves, to
cominunicate our thoughts by writing, even while we were both
in Athens, and when we had many reasons for it, we little fore-
saw the more powerful one that has rendered it necessary of late.
We never can meet again: the laws forbid it, and love itself
enforces them. Let wisdom be heard by you as imperturbably,
and affection as authoritatively, as ever; and remember that the
sorrow of Pericles can arise but from the bosom of Aspasia.
There is only one word of tenderness we could say, which we
have not said oftentimes before; and there is no consolation in it.
The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell.
Reviewing the course of my life, it appears to me at one
moment as if we met but yesterday; at another as if centuries
had passed within it,- for within it have existed the greater
part of those who, since the origin of the world, have been the
luminaries of the human race. Damon called me from my music
to look at Aristides on his way to exile; and my father pressed
the wrist by which he was leading me along, and whispered in
## p. 8871 (#499) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8871
(
>
my ear: “Walk quickly by; glance cautiously; it is there Miltia-
des is in prison.
In my boyhood Pindar took me up in his arms, when he
brought to our house the dirge he had composed for the funeral
of my grandfather; in my adolescence I offered the rites of hos-
pitality to Empedocles; not long afterward I embraced the neck
of Æschylus, about to abandon his country. With Sophocles I
have argued on eloquence; with Euripides on polity and ethics;
I have discoursed, as became an inquirer, with Protagoras and
Democritus, with Anaxagoras and Meton. From Herodotus I have
listened to the most instructive history, conveyed in a language
the most copious and the most harmonious;-a man worthy
to carry away the collected suffrages of universal Greece; a man
worthy to throw open the temples of Egypt, and to celebrate the
exploits of Cyrus. And from Thucydides, who alone can succeed
to him, how recently did my Aspasia hear with me the energetic
praises of his just supremacy!
As if the festival of life were incomplete, and wanted one
great ornament to crown it, Phidias placed before us, in ivory
and gold, the tutelary Deity of this land, and the Zeus of Homer
and Olympus.
To have lived with such men, to have enjoyed their famil-
iarity and esteem, overpays all labors and anxieties. I were
unworthy of the friendships I have commemorated, were I for-
getful of the latest. Sacred it ought to be, formed as it was
under the portico of Death,— my friendship with the most
sagacious, the most scientific, the most beneficent of philosophers,
Acron and Hippocrates. If mortal could war against Pestilence
and Destiny, they had been victorious. I leave them in the
field: unfortunate he who finds them among the fallen!
And now, at the close of my day, when every light is dim
and every guest departed, let me own that these wane before me:
remembering as I do, in the pride and fullness of my heart, that
Athens confided her glory, and Aspasia her happiness, to me.
Have I been a faithful guardian ? do I resign them to the
custody of the gods undiminished and unimpaired ? Welcome
then, welcome, my last hour! After enjoying for so great a
number of years, in my public and my private life, what I
believe has never been the lot of any other, I now extend my
hand to the urn, and take without reluctance or hesitation what
is the lot of all.
## p. 8872 (#500) ###########################################
8872
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
THE SACK OF CARTHAGE
I
N A part of the city where the fire had subsided, we were ex-
cited by loud cries; rather of indignation, we thought, than of
such as fear or lament or threaten or exhort: and we pressed
forward to disperse the multitude. Our horses often plunged in
the soft dust, and in the holes whence the pavement had been
removed for missiles; and often reared up and snorted violently
at smells which we could not perceive, but which we discovered
to rise from bodies, mutilated and half burnt, of soldiers and
horses,-laid bare, some partly, some wholly, by the march of
the troop. Although the distance from the place whence we
parted to that where we heard the cries was very short, yet from
the incumbrances in that street, and from the dust and smoke
issuing out of others, we were some time before we reached it.
On our
near approach, two old men threw themselves on the
ground before us, and the elder spake thus: “Our age, O Romans,
neither will nor ought to be our protection: we are, or rather
we have been, judges of this land; and to the uttermost of our
power we have invited our countrymen to resist you. The laws
are now yours. ”
The expectation of the people was intense and silent: we had
heard some groans; and now the last words of the old man were
taken up by others,— by men in agony.
“Yes, O Romans! ” said the elder who accompanied him that
had addressed us, “the laws are yours; and none punish more
severely than you do treason and parricide. Let your horses
turn this corner, and you will see before you traitors and parri-
cides. "
We entered a small square: it had been a market-place; the
roofs of the stalls were demolished, and the stones of several
columns (thrown down to extract the cramps of iron and the lead
that fastened them) served for the spectators, male and female, to
mount on. Five men were nailed on crosses; two others were
nailed against a wall, from scarcity (as we were told) of wood.
«Can seven men have murdered their parents in the same
year? ” cried 1.
“No, nor has any of the seven,” replied the first who had
spoken. “But when heavy impositions were laid upon those who
were backward in voluntary contributions, these men, among the
»
»
## p. 8873 (#501) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8873
>
richest in our city, protested by the gods that they had no gold
or silver left. They protested truly. ”
“ "And they die for this! inhuman, insatiable, inexorable
wretch ! »
« Their books,” added he, unmoved at my reproaches, were
seized by public authority and examined. It was discovered that
instead of employing their riches in external or internal com-
merce, or in manufactories, or in agriculture; instead of reserv-
ing it for the embellishment of the city or the utility of the
citizens; instead of lending it on interest to the industrious and
the needy,- they had lent it to foreign kings and tyrants, some
of whom were waging unjust wars by these very means, and oth-
ers were enslaving their own country. For so heinous a crime
the laws had appointed no specific punishment. On such occasions
the people and elders vote in what manner the delinquent shall
be prosecuted, lest any offender should escape with impunity,
from their humanity or improvidence. Some voted that these
wretches should be cast amid the panthers; the majority decreed
them (I think wisely) a more lingering and more ignominious
death. "
The men upon the crosses held down their heads, whether
from shame or pain or feebleness. The sunbeams were striking
them fiercely; sweat ran from them, liquefying the blood that
had blackened and hardened on their hands and feet. A soldier
stood by the side of each, lowering the point of his spear to the
ground; but no one of them gave it up to us. A centurion asked
the nearest of them how he dared to stand armed before him.
“Because the city is in ruins and the laws still live,” said he.
"At the first order of the conqueror or the elders, I surrender
my spear.
What is your pleasure, O commander ? ” said the elder.
« That an act of justice be the last public act performed by
the citizens of Carthage, and that the sufferings of these wretches
be not abridged. ”
GODIVA'S PLEA
G
ODIVA - Give them life, peace, comfort, contentment. There
are those among them who kissed me in my infancy, and
who blessed me at the baptismal font. Leofric, Leofric! the
first old man I meet I shall think is one of those; and I shall
## p. 8874 (#502) ###########################################
3874
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
think on the blessing he gave, and (ah me! ) on the blessing
I bring back to him. My heart will bleed, will burst — and he
,
will weep at it! he will weep, poor soul! for the wife of a cruel
lord who denounces vengeance on him, who carries death into
his family.
Leofric — We must hold solemn festivals.
Godiva — We must indeed.
Leofric— Well, then.
Godiva - Is the clamorousness that succeeds the death of
God's dumb creatures, are crowded halls, are slaughtered cattle,
festivals ? Are maddening songs and giddy dances, and hireling
praises from particolored coats ? Can the voice of a minstrel
tell us better things of ourselves than our own internal one
might tell us; or can his breath make our breath softer in sleep?
O my beloved! let everything be a joyance to us: it will if we
will. Sad is the day, and worse must follow, when we hear the
blackbird in the garden and do not throb with joy. But, Leofric,
the high estival is strown by ne servant of God upon the heart
of man.
It is gladness, it is thanksgiving; it is the orphan, the
starveling, pressed to the bosom, and bidden as its first com-
mandment to remember its benefactor. We will hold this festi-
val: the guests are ready; we may keep it up for weeks and
months and years together, and always be the happier and the
richer for it. The beverage of this feast, O Leofric, is sweeter
than bee or flower or vine can give us: it flows from heaven;
and in heaven will it abundantly be poured out again to him
who pours it out here unsparingly.
Leofric - Thou art wild.
Godiva --I have indeed lost myself. Some Power, some good
kind Power, melts me (body and soul and voice) into tenderness
and love. O my husband, we must obey it. Look upon me!
look upon me! lift your sweet eyes from the ground! I will not
cease to supplicate; I dare not.
Leofric - We may think upon it.
Godiva — Never say that! What! think upon goodness when
you can be good ? Let not the infants cry for sustenance! The
mother of our blessed Lord will hear them; us never, never
afterward.
## p. 8875 (#503) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8875
A DREAM ALLEGORY
W*. FI
EARIED with the length of my walk over the mountains, and
finding a soft old molehill, covered with gray grass, by
the wayside, I laid my head upon it and slept. I can-
not tell how long it was before a species of dream or vision
came over me.
Two beautiful youths appeared beside me: each was winged;
but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill adapted to
flight. One of them, whose voice was the softest I ever heard,
looking at me frequently, said to the other:-
“He is under my guardianship for the present: do not awaken
him with that feather. ”
Methought, hearing the whisper, I saw something like the
feather on an arrow, and then the arrow itself: the whole of it,
even to the point, although he carried it in such a manner that
it was difficult at first to discover more than a palm’s-length of
it; the rest of the shaft and the whole of the barb was behind
his ankles.
« This feather never awakens any one,” replied he rather petu-
lantly; “but it brings more of confident security, and more of
cherished dreams, than you without me are capable of impart-
ing. ”
>
“Be it so! ” answered the gentler: “none is less inclined to
quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom you have wounded
grievously, call upon me for succor. But so little am I disposed
to thwart you, it is seldom I venture to do more for them than
to whisper a few words of comfort in passing. How many re-
proaches on these occasions have been cast upon me for indiffer-
ence and infidelity! Nearly as many, and nearly in the same
terms, as upon you! ”
“Odd enough that we, O Sleep! should be thought so alike! ”
said Love contemptuously. "Yonder is he who bears a nearer
resemblance to you: the dullest have observed it. ” I fancied I
turned my eyes to where he was pointing, and saw at a distance
the figure he designated. Meanwhile the contention went on
uninterruptedly. Sleep was slow in asserting his power or his
benefits. Love recapitulated them; but only that he might assert
his own above them. Suddenly he called on me to decide, and
to choose my patron. Under the influence first of the one, then
of the other, I sprang from repose to rapture, I alighted from
## p. 8876 (#504) ###########################################
8876
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
cross
me
near us.
coun-
(
rapture on repose
and knew not which was sweetest. Love
was very angry with me, and declared he would
throughout the whole of my existence. Whatever I might on
.
other occasions have thought of his veracity, I now felt too surely
the conviction that he would keep his word. At last, before the
close of the altercation, the third Genius had advanced, and stood
I cannot tell how I knew him, but I knew him to be
the Genius of Death. Breathless as I was at beholding him, I
soon became familiar with his features. First they seemed only
calm; presently they grew contemplative; and lastly beautiful:
those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less harmonious,
less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily, with a
tenance in which there was somewhat of anxiety, somewhat of
disdain; and cried, "Go away! go away! nothing that thou
touchest lives. »
Say rather, child! ” replied the advancing form, and advancing
grew loftier and statelier, «say rather that nothing of beautiful
or of glorious lives its own true life until my wing hath passed
over it. »
Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his forefinger
the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head; but he replied not.
Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I dreaded him
less and less, and scarcely looked toward him. The milder and
calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as I took courage to con-
template him, regarded me with more and more complacency.
He had neither flower nor arrow, as the others had; but throwing
back the clusters of dark curls that overshadowed his counte-
nance, he presented to me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank
on looking at him so near, and yet I sighed to love him. He
smiled, not with an expression of pity, at perceiving my diffi-
dence, my timidity: for I remembered how soft was the hand
of Sleep, how warm and entrancing was Love's. By degrees I
became ashamed of my ingratitude; and turning my face away
I held out my arms, and felt my neck within his. Composure
strewed and allayed all the throbbings of my bosom; the coolness
of freshest morning breathed around; the heavens seemed to open
above me; while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer rested on
my head. I would now have looked for those others; but know-
ing my intention by my gesture, he said consolatorily:-
“Sleep is on his way to the earth, where many are calling
him: but it is not to these he hastens; for every call only makes
## p. 8877 (#505) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8877
him fly farther off. Sedately and gravely as he looks, he is
nearly as capricious and volatile as the more arrogant and fero-
cious one. ”
“And Love! ” said I, “whither is he departed ? If not too
late, I would propitiate and appease him. ”
“He who cannot follow me, he who cannot overtake and pass
me,” said the Genius, “is unworthy of the name, the most glorious
in earth or heaven. Look up! Love is yonder, and ready to
receive thee. "
I looked: the earth was under me; I saw only the clear blue
sky, and something brighter above it.
(
ROSE AYLMER
A“
H, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
FAREWELL TO ITALY
I
LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the Milky Way.
Fiesole and Val d'Arno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believed ? )
Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day,
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.
## p. 8878 (#506) ###########################################
8878
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
ART CRITICISM
FK
IRST bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen
In all her purity heaven's virgin queen,
Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then
Titian, ennobler of the noblest men;
And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise
His little Cupids for those wicked eyes.
I want not Rubens's pink puffy bloom,
Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room.
With those, and Poussin's nymph-frequented woods,
His templed heights and long-drawn solitudes,
I am content, yet fain would look abroad
On one warm sunset of Ausonian Claude.
LINES FROM GEBIR)
[The first passage here given was Shelley's favorite. ]
O
NCE a fair city — courted then by kings,
Mistress of nations, thronged by palaces,
Raising her head o'er destiny, her face
Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresht;
Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth,
Bereft of beauty, bare of ornament-
Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar.
Now To Aurora borne by dappled steeds,
The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold,
Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand,
Expanded slow to strains of harmony.
The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves
Glancing with wanton coyness toward their queen,
Heaved softly; thus the damsel's bosom heaves
When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek,
To which so warily her own she brings
Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth
Of coming kisses fanned by playful Dreams.
Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee;
For 'twas the morning pointed out by Fate
When an immortal maid and mortal man
Should share each other's nature knit in bliss.
## p. 8879 (#507) ###########################################
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8879
THE LIFE OF FLOWERS
W*
THEN hath wind or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walkt off? 'Twere most ungrateful; for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
A WELCOME TO DEATH
A
S HE who baskt in sunshine loves to go
Where in dim coolness graceful laurels grow;
In that lone narrow path whose silent sand
Hears of no footstep, while some gentle hand
Beckons, or seems to beckon, to the seat
Where ivied wall and trellised woodbine meet:
Thus I, of ear that tingles not to praise,
And feet that, weary of the world's highways,
Recline on moldering tree or jutting stone,
And (though at last I feel I am alone)
Think by a gentle hand mine too is prest
In kindly welcome to a calmer rest.
FAREWELL
I
STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,-
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
## p. 8880 (#508) ###########################################
8880
ANDREW LANG
(1844-)
NDREW LANG is an active and conspicuous figure among the
British writing men whose work belongs in the late nine-
teenth century. His range has been very wide; his culture
is sound, and his individuality has a piquancy which scholarship has
not reduced to a pale conformity. When one thinks of Lang, one
thinks too of Gosse and Dobson, of Stevenson and Henley,— authors
who stand for the main streams of tend-
ency in the newer literature of England.
Lang is a Scotchman; one of the many
gifted men of letters that wonderful little
land has sent down to do literary battle
in London. He was carefully educated at
Edinburgh Academy, St. Andrews Univer-
sity, and Balliol College (Oxford), laying a
solid foundation for his future accomplish-
ment in letters. At Oxford he did brilliant
work, and was rewarded by a Merton Fel-
lowship in 1868. Going up to London, he
began to write for the periodicals, and soon
ANDREW LANG the first on his long list of volumes was
given to the public. This was a volume of
verse, Ballades and Lyrics of Old France (1872); containing both
translations, and original poems on the same model. Mr. Lang has
wooed the Muses at intervals ever since. His poetry shows culture
and taste, and has grace and felicity, with a lightness of touch and
a ready wit that make it pleasant reading. Along with his friends
Dobson and Gosse, he started the imitation of older French verse
forms; an exotic cult no doubt making more flexible the technique
of English writers, but otherwise having little significance for native
poetry. The titles of other of Lang's books of verse indicate the
nature of his metrical work: Ballades in Blue China,' (Ballades and
Verses Vain,' Rhymes à la Mode,' Rhymes Old and New,' 'Ban
and Arrière Ban’; — there is a suggestion of vers de société about it all
which the contents justify. Now and then Mr. Lang does something
of a broader, more imaginative sort; but the general impression of
his literary work is that of a polished craftsman and well-equipped
## p. 8881 (#509) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8881
scholar rather than a born poet. His poetry does not concern itself
with large elemental things; but he can do a light thing very per-
fectly, and has the good sense not to try to do more.
Lang's restless spirit has also turned occasionally to fiction; his
taste leading him towards romanticism, sometimes into melodrama.
(The Mark of Cain' (1886) has a penny-dreadful atmosphere redeemed
by its literary flavor. (The World's Desire,' written in collaboration
with Rider Haggard, is a striking and skillfully done story in which
the romantic myth and legend of Greece are utilized. «The Maid of
Fife) (1895) is a capital historic tale, with Joan of Arc as the central
figure.
In this fiction, again, perhaps the scholar and trained worker
are more obvious than the literary creator. Yet Lang's art creed,
squarely opposed to modern realism and the probing of social prob-
lems after the current manner, has affected his own fiction happily;
so that it is, to say the least, wholesome and enjoyable.
One of the most fruitful, successful phases of his work has been
scholarly editing and translation. He has edited and translated sev-
eral volumes of foreign fairy tales, of which the Blue Fairy Book'
and the Red Fairy Book' are examples; has turned the Greek idyl-
lists Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus into English prose of great beauty:
and has given English readers a really superb prose rendering of
Homer; the Odyssey in collaboration with Professor Butcher, the Iliad
with the help of Messrs. Leaf and Myers. His editing of standard
literature has been so extensive that he has been facetiously dubbed
editor-in-general to the British nation. A recent example of his more
sustained scholar work is the Life of Lockhart' (1896). Mr. Lang,
moreover, has been a vigorous student of anthropology; and his vol-
umes Custom and Myth) (1884) and Myth, Ritual, and Religion'
(1887) are brilliant and able expositions of the modern theory of
the universality of myths among primitive savages, contravening the
older theory that certain myths are of exclusive Aryan development.
The conservatives have combated his views; which on the contrary
receive the warm commendation of a student like Grant Allen.
In his miscellaneous literary papers and lighter critical essays
Lang is vastly entertaining. He appears as a free-lance of literature,
always ready for a tilt; firm in his belief in the elder classics, and
in newer classics like Scott and Dumas; cock-sure of his position,
whimsically humorous or pettish, recondite of literary allusion, pro-
fuse in the display of learning. The essays are anything but dull, and
one acknowledges their liveliness and quality, even if irritated by their
tone or in profound disagreement with their dicta.
With this many-sided activity it will be seen that Andrew Lang
has a breezy force, is a decided influence in modern English literature.
And that influence, in respect of the morbid literary phenomena of
XV—556
## p. 8882 (#510) ###########################################
8882
ANDREW LANG
the time, has been corrective. Lang has pushed the romantic theory
to humorous exaggeration at times; but his main contention for
breadth and health and sanity in the presentation of life through art
forms is sound enough, and such criticism is especially welcome now-
adays.
FROM A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY)
In Books and Bookmen)
To
(C
THOMAS Blinton had discovered a new sin, so to speak, in the
collecting way. Aristophanes says of one of his favorite
blackguards, "Not only is he a villain, but he has invented
an original villainy. ” Blinton was like this. He maintained that
every man who came to notoriety had, at some period, published
a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of and
withdrawn. It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray
copies of these unhappy volumes, these péchés de jeunesse, which
always and invariably bear a gushing inscription from the author
to a friend. He had all Lord John Manners's poems, and even
Mr. Ruskin's. He had the Ode to Despair of Smith (now a
comic writer); and the 'Love Lyrics) of Brown, who is now a
permanent under-secretary, than which nothing can be less gay
nor more permanent. He had the revolutionary songs which a
dignitary of the Church published and withdrew from circulation.
Blinton was wont to say he expected to come across "Triolets of
a Tribune) by Mr. John Bright, and Original Hymns for Infant
Minds' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if he only hunted long
enough.
On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love
poems which the author had done his best to destroy; and he had
gone to his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to
friends of the author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was
this a kind action ? In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of
his iniquities; and nobody will be surprised to hear that he met
the appropriate punishment of his offense. Blinton had passed,
on the whole, a happy day, notwithstanding the error about the
Elzevir. He dined well at his club, went home, slept well, and
started next morning for his office in the city; walking, as usual,
and intending to pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the
book-stalls. At the very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a
man turning over the rubbish in the cheap-box. Blinton stared
## p. 8883 (#511) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8883
(
>>
a
at him, fancied he knew him, thought he didn't, and then became
a prey to the glittering eye of the other. The Stranger, who
wore the conventional cloak and slouched soft hat of Strangers,
was apparently an accomplished mesmerist or thought-reader, or
adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni
(in the novel of that name), Mendoza (in Codlingsby'), the soul-
less man in A Strange Story,' Mr. Home, Mr. Irving Bishop,
a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most other mysterious
characters of history and fiction. Before his Awful Will, Blinton's
mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child abashed. The
Stranger glided to him and whispered, “Buy these. ”
« These were a complete set of Auerbach's novels in Eng-
lish; which, I need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of
purchasing had he been left to his own devices.
«Buy these! ” repeated the Adept, or whatever he was, in a
,
cruel whisper. Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast
load of German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend.
They reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny's
Jour de l'An d'un Vagabond' was exposed.
“Look,” said Blinton: "there is a book I have wanted some
time. Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing
trifle. ”
Nay, buy that,” said the implacable Stranger, pointing with
a hooked forefinger at Alison's History of Europe' in an indefi-
nite number of volumes. Blinton shuddered.
“What, buy that — and why? In Heaven's name, what could
I do with it? "
“Buy it,” repeated the persecutor, "and that” (indicating the
Ilios' of Dr. Schliemann,--a bulky work), “and these” (pointing
'
to all Theodore Alois Buckley's translations of the classics), and
these” (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain
Friswell, and at a Life,' in more than one volume, of Mr. Glad-
stone).
The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along, carrying the
bargains under his arm. Now one book fell out, now another
dropped by the way. Sometimes a portion of Alison came pon-
derously to earth; sometimes the Gentle Life' sank resignedly
to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again, and
packing them under the arm of the weary Blinton.
The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and
tried to enter into conversation with his tormentor.
»
(
## p. 8884 (#512) ###########################################
8884
ANDREW LANG
"He does know about books,” thought Blinton, and he must
have a weak spot somewhere. ”
So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational
style. He talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou,
of Derome, of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of
Bauzonnet. He discoursed of first editions, of black-letter, and
even of illustrations and vignettes. He approached the topic of
Bibles; but here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, inter-
rupted him.
Buy those! ” he hissed through his teeth.
« ”
“Those were the complete publications of the Folk-Lore
Society.
Blinton did not care for folk-lore (very bad men never do);
but he had to act as he was told.
Then, without pause or remorse, he was charged to acquire
the Ethics) of Aristotle in the agreeable versions of Williams
and Chace. Next he secured (Strathmore,' 'Chandos,' 'Under
Two Flags,' and Two Little Wooden Shoes,' and several dozen
more of Ouida's novels. The next stall was entirely filled with
school-books, old geographies, Livys, Delectuses, Arnold's Greek
Exercises,' Ollendorffs, and what not.
“Buy them all,” hissed the fiend. He seized whole boxes and
piled them on Blinton's head.
He tied up Quida's novels in two parcels with string, and
fastened each to one of the buttons above the tails of Blinton's
coat.
“ You are tired ? ” asked the tormentor. “Never mind: these
books will soon be off your hands. "
So speaking, the Stranger with amazing speed hurried Blinton
back through Holywell Street, along the Strand and up to Picca-
dilly, stopping at last at the door of Blinton's famous and very
expensive binder.
The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of
Blinton's treasures. Then the miserable Blinton found himself,
as it were automatically and without the exercise of his will,
speaking thus:-
"Here are some things I have picked up,- extremely rare,-
and you will oblige me by binding them in your best manner,
regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant mo-
rocco, doublé, every book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat
of arms, plenty of gilding: Spare no cost. Don't keep me
(
CC
## p. 8885 (#513) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8885
(
waiting, as you generally do;" for indeed bookbinders are the
most dilatory of the human species.
Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary
questions, Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of
the room.
“Come on to the sale," he cried.
What sale ? » asked Blinton.
«Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky
day. ”
“But I have forgotten my catalogue. ”
«Where is it ? »
“In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of
the ebony bookcase at home. ”
The Stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated
itself till the hand disappeared from view round the corner.
In a moment the hand returned with the catalogue.
The pair
sped on to Messrs. Sotheby's auction rooms in Wellington Street.
Everyone knows the appearance of a great book sale. The
long table, surrounded by eager bidders, resembles from a little
distance a roulette table, and communicates the same sort of
excitement. The amateur is at a loss to know how to conduct
himself. If he bids in his own person some bookseller will out-
bid him; partly because the bookseller knows, after all, he knows
little about books, and suspects that the amateur may in this
case know more. Besides, professionals always dislike amateurs,
and in this game they have a very great advantage. Blinton
knew all this, and was in the habit of giving his commissions to
a broker. But now he felt (and very naturally) as if a demon
had entered into him. (Tirante il Bianco Valorissimo Cavaliere)
was being competed for: an excessively rare romance of chivalry,
in magnificent red Venetian morocco, from Canevari's library.
The book is one of the rarest of the Aldine Press, and beauti-
fully adorned with Canevari's device,- a simple and elegant affair
in gold and colors. “Apollo is driving his chariot across the
green waves towards the rock, on which winged Pegasus is paw-
ing the ground”; though why this action of the horse should be
called “pawing ” (the animal notoriously not possessing paws), it
is hard to say.
Round this graceful design is the inscription
OPAQ KAT MIL 10E99 (straight and not crooked). In his ordinary
mood Blinton could only have admired “Tirante il Bianco' from
a distance. But now, the demon inspiring him, he rushed into
>
## p. 8886 (#514) ###########################################
8886
ANDREW LANG
>
»
>>
the lists, and challenged the great Mr. - the Napoleon of
bookselling. The price had already reached five hundred pounds.
« Six hundred,” cried Blinton.
“Guineas," said the great Mr.
«Seven hundred,” screamed Blinton,
“Guineas,” replied the other,
This arithmetical dialogue went on till even Mr. struck
his flag, with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said “Four
thousand. ” The cheers of the audience rewarded the largest
bid ever made for any book. As if he had not done enough, the
Stranger now impelled Blinton to contend with Mr. for
every expensive work that appeared. The audience naturally
fancied that Blinton was in the earlier stage of softening of the
brain, when a man conceives himself to have inherited boundless
wealth, and is determined to live up to it. The hammer fell for
the last time. Blinton owed some fifty thousand pounds; and
exclaimed audibly, as the influence of the fiend died out, "I am
a ruined man. "
« Then your books must be sold,” cried the Stranger; and
leaping on a chair, he addressed the audience:-
Gentlemen, I invite you to Mr. Blinton's sale, which will
immediately take place. The collection contains some very re-
markable early English poets, many first editions of the French
classics, most of the rarer Aldines, and a singular assortment of
Americana. ”
In a moment, as if by magic, the shelves round the room
were filled with Blinton's books, all tied up in big lots of some
thirty volumes each. His early Molières were fastened to old
French dictionaries and school-books. His Shakespeare quartos
were in the same lot with tattered railway novels.
(happily almost unique) of Richard Barnfield's Affectionate Shep-
heard’ was coupled with two old volumes of Chips from a Ger-
man Workshop and a cheap, imperfect example of Tom Brown's
School Days. ' Hooke's Amanda' was at the bottom of a lot
of American devotional works, where it kept company with an
Elzevir Tacitus and the Aldine Hypnerotomachia. '
The auc-
tioneer put up lot after lot, and Blinton plainly saw that the
whole affair was a “knock-out. ” His most treasured spoils were
parted with at the price of waste paper. It is an awful thing
to be present at one's own sale. No man would bid above a
few shillings. Well did Blinton know that after the knock-out the
His copy
(
## p. 8887 (#515) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8887
plunder would be shared among the grinning bidders. At last
his Adonais,' uncut, bound by Lortic, went in company with
some old Bradshaws,' the Court Guide' of 1881, and an odd
volume of the Sunday at Home, for sixpence. The Stranger
smiled a smile of peculiar malignity. Blinton leaped up to pro-
test; the room seemed to shake around him, but words would not
come to his lips.
Then he heard a familiar voice observe, as a familiar grasp
shook his shoulder:-
« Tom, Tom, what a nightmare you are enjoying! ”
He was in his own arm-chair, where he had fallen asleep
after dinner; and Mrs. Blinton was doing her best to arouse him
from his awful vision. Beside him lay L'Enfer du Bibliophile,
vu et decrit par Charles Asselineau' (Paris: Tardieu, MDCCCLX. ).
»
FROM (LETTER TO MONSIEUR DE MOLIÈRE, VALET DE
CHAMBRE DU ROI)
W""
In "Letters to Dead Authors )
Monsieur:
'ITH what awe does a writer venture into the presence of
the great Molière ! As a courtier in your time would
scratch humbly (with his comb! ) at the door of the Grand
Monarch, so I presume to draw near your dwelling among the
Immortals. You, like the King who among all his titles has now
none so proud as that of the friend of Molière — you found your
dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to the
dignity of an empire: what Louis the XIV. did for France you
achieved for French comedy; and the bâton of Scapin still wields
its sway, though the sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim.
For the King the Pyrenees (or so he fancied) ceased to exist;
by a more magnificent conquest you overcame the Channel. If
England vanquished your country's arms, it was through you that
France ferum victorem cepit, and restored the dynasty of Comedy
to the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden
borrowed 'L'Étourdi,' our tardy apish nation has lived in mat-
ters theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France.
In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered.
While you lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was
the congenial business of English playwrights to foist their rustic
## p. 8888 (#516) ###########################################
8888
ANDREW LANG
>
grossness and their large Fescennine jests into the urban page of
Molière. Now they are diversely occupied; and it is their affair
to lend modesty where they borrow wit, and to spare a blush to
the cheek of the Lord Chamberlain. But still, as has ever been
our wont since Etherege saw and envied and imitated your suc-
cesses— still we pilfer the plays of France, and take our bien, as
you said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We
are the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that
a comedy pleases the town which has not first been “cut out”
from the countrymen of Molière. Why this should be, and
what «tenebriferous star” (as Paracelsus, your companion in the
Dialogues des Morts,' would have believed) thus darkens the sun
of English humor, we know not; but certainly our dependence
on France is the sincerest tribute to you. Without you, neither
Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor «a wilderness of monkeys” like Scar-
ron, could ever have given Comedy to France and restored her to
Europe.
While we owe to you, monsieur, the beautiful advent of Com-
edy, fair and beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, . it
is still to you that we must turn when of comedies we desire the
best. If you studied with daily and nightly care the works of
Plautus and Terence, if you let no musty bouquin escape you"
(so your enemies declared), it was to some purpose that you
labored. Shakespeare excepted, you eclipsed all who came before
you: and from those that follow, however fresh, we turn;
turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, from Sheridan and Gold-
smith, from Musset and Pailleron and Labiche, to that crowded
world of your creation. « Creations” one may well say, for you
anticipated Nature herself: you gave us, before she did, in
Alceste a Rousseau who was a gentleman, not a lacquey; in a
mot of Don Juan's the secret of the new religion and the watch-
word of Comte, l'amour de l'humanité.
Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a French-
man with humor; and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise
philosophy of a secular civilization ? With a heart the most ten-
der, delicate, loving, and generous,-a heart often in agony and
torment, — you had to make life endurable (we cannot doubt it)
without any whisper of promise or hope or warning from reli-
gion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all, the mind of
Pascal, proclaimed that the only hope was in voluntary blindness,
that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at evens, you,
»
we
## p. 8889 (#517) ###########################################
ANDREW LANG
8889
monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see what you
found invisible.
In religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits
and Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartuffe the
portrait of their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in
your play conceived that you were girding at his neighbor), you
all the while were mocking every credulous excess of faith. In
the sermons preached to Agnès we surely hear your private
laughter; in the arguments for credulity which are presented
to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal self-defense of
superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you sought for the perma-
nent element of life — precisely where Pascal recognized all that
was most fleeting and unsubstantial — in divertissement; in the
pleasure of looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence,
an observer of the follies of mankind. Like the gods of the
Epicurean, you seem to regard our life as a play that is played,
as a comedy; yet how often the tragic note comes in! What
pity, and in the laughter what an accent of tears, as of rain in
the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human as you;
none has had a heart like you to feel for his butts, and to leave
them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their tormentors. Sgan-
arelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the rest — our
sympathy somehow is with them, after all; and M. Pourceaugnac
is a gentleman, despite his misadventures.
Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays
may batter and defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not
all the victory, or you did not mean that they should win it.
They go off with laughter, and their victim with a grimace;
but in him we that are past our youth behold an actor in an un-
ending tragedy,—the defeat of a generation. Your sympathy is
not wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can
throw a bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has
been taught that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned
in shame, in jealousy, in endurance of the wanton pride of men,
(how could the poor player and the husband of Celimène be
untaught in that experience ? ) you never sided quite heartily, as
other comedians have done, with young prosperity and rank and
power.
## p. 8890 (#518) ###########################################
8890
ANDREW LANG
LES ROSES DE SÂDI
From Ban and Arrière Ban)
his morning I I
T'They were thrust in the band that my bodice incloses,
But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.
The breast-knots were broken: the roses together
Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,
And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.
And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses;
But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the roses,-
Thou shalt know, love, how fragrant a memory can be.
THE ODYSSEY
Prefixed to the Butcher-Lang translation
A
S ONE that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Ææan Isle forgets the Main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine;
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again,-
So, gladly from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers;
And through the music of the languid hours,
They hear like ocean on a western beach
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
## p. 8891 (#519) ###########################################
8891
SIDNEY LANIER
(1842-1881)
BY RICHARD BURTON
HE quiet steady widening of the influence of Sidney Lanier
since his death is more than a pleasant justification of faith
to those who have loved him and believed in him from the
first. It suggests the comforting thought that good literature, uncon-
ventional in form and original in quality, although for this very
reason slower to get a hearing, is sure to
receive the eventual recognition it deserves.
Sixteen years have elapsed since Lanier's
taking-off; and he is now seen more clearly
every day to be the most important native
singer the Southern United States has pro-
duced, and one of the most distinctive and
lovely of American singers wherever born.
Enthusiastic admirers and followers he has
always attracted to him; now the general
opinion begins to swing round to what
seemed to many, a little time ago, the ex-
travagant encomium of partiality and preju-
dice.
SIDNEY LANIER
The circumstances of Sidney Lanier's
life furnish a pathetically tragic setting to his pure-souled, beautiful
work. A Georgian, he was born at Macon, February 30, 1842; his
father was a well-known lawyer of that city.
