No More Learning

She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;">
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait. "
She is coming, my own, my sweet.
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthly bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
"OH THAT 'TWERE POSSIBLE »
From Maud
H THAT 'twere possible
After long grief and pain
To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again!
OF
When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places
By the home that gave me birth,
We stood tranced in long embraces,
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter,
Than anything on earth.
A shadow flits before me,
Not thou, but like to thee:
Ah Christ! that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be.


## p. 14627 (#197) ##########################################

ALFRED TENNYSON
14627
It leads me forth at evening;
It lightly winds and steals
In a cold white robe before me,
When all my spirit reels
At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
And the roaring of the wheels.
Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after
The delight of early skies;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
For the meeting of the morrow,
The delight of happy laughter,
The delight of low replies.
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And a dewy splendor falls
On the little flower that clings
To the turrets and the walls;
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And the light and shadow fleet:
She is walking in the meadow,
And the woodland echo rings;
In a moment we shall meet;
She is singing in the meadow,
And the rivulet at her feet
Ripples on in light and shadow
To the ballad that she sings.
Do I hear her sing as of old,
My bird with the shining head,
My own dove with the tender eye?
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,
There is some one dying or dead,
And a sullen thunder is rolled;
For a tumult shakes the city,
And I wake my dream is fled;
In the shuddering dawn, behold,
Without knowledge, without pity,
By the curtains of my bed
That abiding phantom cold.
Get thee hence, nor come again;
Mix not memory with doubt;


## p. 14628 (#198) ##########################################

14628
ALFRED TENNYSON
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,
Pass and cease to move about!
'Tis the blot upon the brain
That will show itself without.
Then I rise; the eavedrops fall,
And the yellow vapors choke
The great city sounding wide;
The day comes, a dull red ball
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke
On the misty river-tide.
Through the hubbub of the market
I steal, a wasted frame;
It crosses here, it crosses there,
Through all that crowd confused and loud,
The shadow still the same;
And on my heavy eyelids
My anguish hangs like shame.
Alas for her that met me,
That heard me softly call,
Came glimmering through the laurels
At the quiet evenfall,
In the garden by the turrets
Of the old manorial hall.
Would the happy spirit descend,
From the realms of light and song,
In the chamber or the street,
As she looks among the blest,-
Should I fear to greet my friend,
Or to say "Forgive the wrong,"
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,
To the regions of thy rest? »
But the broad light glares and beats,
And the shadow flits and fleets
And will not let me be:
And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me;
Always I long to creep
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.


## p. 14629 (#199) ##########################################

ALFRED TENNYSON
14629
THE FAREWELL OF KING ARTHUR TO QUEEN GUINEVERE
From Idylls of the King'
B
UT when the Queen, immersed in such a trance,
And moving through the past unconsciously,
Came to that point where first she saw the King
Ride toward her from the city, sighed to find
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold,
High, self-contained, and passionless, not like him,
"Not like my Lancelot "-while she brooded thus
And grew half guilty in her thoughts again,
There rode an armèd warrior to the doors.
A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran,
Then on a sudden a cry, "The King! " She sat
Stiff-stricken, listening: but when armèd feet
Through the long gallery from the outer doors
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell,
And groveled with her face against the floor;
There with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair
She made her face a darkness from the King;
And in the darkness heard his armed feet
Pause by her: then came silence, then a voice,
Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's
Denouncing judgment, but though changed, the King's:—
"Liest thou here so low, the child of one
I honored, happy, dead before thy shame ?
Well is it that no child is born of thee.
The children born of thee are sword and fire,
Red ruin, and the breaking-up of laws,
The craft of kindred, and the Godless hosts
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea;
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm,
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me,
Have everywhere about this land of Christ
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown.
And knowest thou now from whence I come? - From him,
From waging bitter war with him; and he,
That did not shun to smite me in worse way,
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left,
He spared to lift his hand against the King
Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain;
And many more, and all his kith and kin
Clave to him, and abode in his own land.


## p. 14630 (#200) ##########################################

14630
ALFRED TENNYSON
And many more when Modred raised revolt,
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.
And of this remnant will I leave a part,
True men who love me still, for whom I live,
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,
Lest but a hair of this low head be harmed.
Fear not thou shalt be guarded till my death.
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies
Have erred not, that I march to meet my doom.
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,
That I the King should greatly care to live;
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.
Bear with me for the last time while I show,
Even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned.
For when the Roman left us, and their law
Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways
Were filled with rapine, here and there a deed
Of prowess done redressed a random wrong.
But I was first of all the kings who drew
The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
The realms together under me, their Head,
In that fair Order of my Table Round,-
A glorious company, the flower of men,
To serve as model for the mighty world,
And be the fair beginning of a time.
I made them lay their hands in mine, and swear
To reverence the King as if he were
Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To honor his own word as if his God's,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
And worship her by years of noble deeds
Until they won her; for indeed I knew
Of no more subtle master under heaven
Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
Not only to keep down the base in man,
But teach high thought, and amiable words,
And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
And all this throve before I wedded thee,


## p. 14631 (#201) ##########################################

ALFRED TENNYSON
14631
Believing, 'Lo mine helpmate, one to feel
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy. '
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot;
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt;
Then others, following these my mightiest knights,
And drawing foul ensample from fair names,
Sinned also, till the loathsome opposite
Of all my heart had destined did obtain,
And all through thee! so that this life of mine
I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong,
Not greatly care to lose; but rather think
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,
To sit once more within his lonely hall,
And miss the wonted number of my knights,
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds
As in the golden days before thy sin.
For which of us, who might be left, could speak
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee?
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk
Thy shadow still would glide from room to room,
And I should evermore be vext with thee
In hanging robe or vacant ornament,
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.
For think not, though thou wouldst not love thy lord,
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.
I am not made of so slight elements.
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.
I hold that man the worst of public foes
Who either for his own or children's sake.
To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house;
For being through his cowardice allowed
Her station, taken everywhere for pure,
She like a new disease, unknown to men,
Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd,
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.
Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns!
Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart
Than thou reseated in thy place of light,
The mockery of my people, and their bane. "
He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.


## p. 14632 (#202) ##########################################

14632
ALFRED TENNYSON
Far off a solitary trumpet blew.
Then waiting by the doors the war-horse neighed
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again:-
"Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes;
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,—
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die
To see thee, laying there thy golden head,
My pride in happier summers, at my feet.
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law,
The doom of treason and the flaming death,
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past.
The pang which while I weighed thy heart with one
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee,
Made my tears burn, is also past-in part.
And all is past, the sin is sinned, and I,
Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God
Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest.
But how to take last leave of all I loved?
O golden hair, with which I used to play,
Not knowing! O imperial-molded form,
And beauty such as never woman wore,
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee-
I cannot touch thy lips,-they are not mine,
But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's.
I cannot take thy hand,- that too is flesh,
And in the flesh thou hast sinned; and mine own flesh,
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries
'I loathe thee;' yet not less, O Guinevere,—
For I was ever virgin save for thee,-
My love through flesh hath wrought into my life.
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.
Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,
Hereafter in that world where all are pure
We two may meet before high God, and thou
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know
I am thine husband- not a smaller soul,
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,
I,charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.
Through the thick night I hear the trumpet blow:
They summon me their King to lead mine hosts
Far down to that great battle in the west,
Where I must strike against the man they call
I


## p. 14633 (#203) ##########################################

ALFRED TENNYSON
14633
My sister's son no kin of mine, who leagues
With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights,
Traitors and strike him dead, and meet myself
Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.
And thou remaining here wilt learn the event:
But hither shall I never come again,
Never lie by thy side; see thee no more—
Farewell! "
-
And while she groveled at his feet,
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck,
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest.
IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL
EMMIE
I
O
UR doctor had called in another: I never had seen him before,
But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at
the door,
Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands—
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands!
Wonderful cures he had done, oh yes, but they said too of him
He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb;
And that I can well believe, for he looked so coarse and so red,
I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on
the dead,
And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawned at his
knee-
Drenched with the hellish oorali - that ever such things should be!
II
Here was a boy-I am sure that some of our children would die
But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting eye
Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seemed out of its place —
Caught in a mill and crushed-it was all-but a hopeless case:
And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were
not kind,
-
And it was but a hopeless case,- he had seen it and made up his
mind;


## p. 14634 (#204) ##########################################

14634
ALFRED TENNYSON
And he said to me roughly, "The lad will need little more of your
care. "
"All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer;
They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my own. "
But he turned to me, "Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken
bone? "
Then he muttered half to himself, but I know that I heard him say,
"All very well- but the good Lord Jesus has had his day. "
III
Had? has it come? It has only dawned. It will come by-and-by.
Oh, how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were
a lie?
How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease
But that He said, "Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these "?
IV
So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger children
are laid:
Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid;
Empty you see just now! We have lost her who loved her so much
Patient of pain though as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch;
Hers was the prettiest prattle, -it often moved me to tears;
Hers was the gratefulest heart I have found in a child of her years-
Nay, you remember our Emmie: you used to send her the flowers;
How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after
hours!
-
They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are re-
vealed
Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field:
Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they can know of the
spring;
They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an angel's
wing;
And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crost on
her breast,-
Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire,- and we thought her at rest,
Quietly sleeping; so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor little dear!
Nurse, I must do it to-morrow: she'll never live through it, I fear. ”
V
I walked with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair,
Then I returned to the ward; the child didn't see I was there.


## p. 14635 (#205) ##########################################

ALFRED TENNYSON
14635
-
VI
Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext!
Emmie had heard him. Softly she called from her cot to the next:
"He says I shall never live through it—O Annie, what shall I do? »
Annie considered. "If I," said the wise little Annie, «< was you,
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me; for, Emmie, you see,
It's all in the picture there: 'Little children should come to me. '"
(Meaning the print that you gave us,-I find that it always can please
Our children,-the dear Lord Jesus with children about his knees:)
"Yes, and I will," said Emmie; "but then if I call to the Lord,
How should he know that it's me? such a lot of beds in the ward! "
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she considered and said:-
"Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the
bed-
The Lord has so much to see to! but, Emmie, you tell it him plain,
It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane. "
VII
I had sat three nights by the child-I could not watch her for four;
My brain had begun to reel-I felt I could do it no more.
That was my sleeping-night; but I thought that it never would pass.
There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass,
And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about,
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness with-
out;
My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife,
And fears for our delicate Emmie, who scarce would escape with her
life;
Then in the gray of the morning it seemed she stood by me and
smiled,
And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see to the child.
VIII
He had brought his ghastly tools: we believed her asleep again —
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane;
Say that His day is done! Ah, why should we care what they say?
The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had past away.


## p. 14636 (#206) ##########################################

14636
ALFRED TENNYSON
THE THROSTLE
S
UMMER is coming, summer is coming.
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again. "
Yes, my wild little Poet.
Sing the new year in under the blue.
Last year you sang it as gladly.
"New, new, new, new! " Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly?
"Love again, song again, nest again, young again,"
Never a prophet so crazy!
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See, there is hardly a daisy.
"Here again, here, here, here, happy year! "
Oh, warble unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,
And all the winters are hidden.
THE OAK
IVE thy Life,
L Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;
Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed,
Soberer-hued
Gold again.
All his leaves
Fallen at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough,
Naked strength.


## p. 14637 (#207) ##########################################

ALFRED TENNYSON
14637
SUNS
CROSSING THE BAR
UNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.


## p. 14638 (#208) ##########################################

14638
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
(1808-1879)
HE poetic gift in the Tennyson family was not confined to the
laureate, although his accomplishment and fame overshadow
his brothers. But both Frederick and Charles Tennyson
were verse-writers of no mean power; and of Charles-who in 1835
assumed the name of Turner upon inheriting the estate of a great-
uncle-it may be said that he was one of the most attractive and
genuine of the minor Victorian lyric singers. His sonnets have a
delicacy of art, a loveliness of expression, and a depth of feeling,
which give them distinction and charm.
They are quiet, reflective, unobtrusive; but
their attraction is strong and lasting. This
poet's range was not wide, but his note was
very true and sweet.

Charles Tennyson Turner was the son
of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, rec-
tor of Somersby and Enderby in Lincoln-
shire, and was born in the former village
on July 4th, 1808; being a year the elder of
Alfred. Charles was educated at Louth
Grammar School, and with Alfred at Trin-
ity College, Cambridge, where he got his
degree in 1832. As a Trinity student he
did fine work in the classics, and won the
Bell Scholarship. In 1835 he was appointed Vicar of Grasby, and
spent most of his life in the faithful discharge of the duties of a
country parish, much beloved by his people. He married in 1836
Louisa Sellwood, the younger sister of Lady Tennyson.
Charles's initial appearance as a poet was with Alfred in the
anonymous volume, now so much coveted, 'Poems by Two Brothers';
which was published in 1827, and drew the attention of the public
to a new talent in English verse. Charles's share in the volume
was but modest. His independent publication began three years
later with the 'Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces'; and further volumes
were 'Sonnets' (1864), Small Tableaux' (1868), 'Sonnets, Lyrics, and
Translations (1873), 'Collected Sonnets, Old and New' (1880), - the
last a posthumous publication. The poet's death occurred at Chelten-
ham, April 25th, 1879.
TENNYSON TURNER


## p. 14639 (#209) ##########################################

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
14639
The ethical is strongly marked in Charles Tennyson Turner's
verse. His interest in spiritual themes rarely gave his poems the
didactic flavor too commonly found in religious poetry. This was
because he was naturally an artist; and also because he was full of
feeling, richly human. He chose for the most part simple homely
themes suggested by his environment, and illuminated them with
tender imagination. As to poetic forms, the sonnet, "poising one
bright thought," was with him the favorite mold into which to pour
his thought and emotion. Its lyric requirements and demands suited
his gift, and he gained mastery in it. Few sonneteers excel him
for sentiment choicely and musically expressed. In such poems
as 'Letty's Globe' and 'The Mummy,' he touches the heart and
delights the sense of beauty. The former poem awoke the enthusi-
asm of Swinburne, who declared it to be unsurpassed among English
child poems.
At times too he was stimulated by a motif like that
in The Lion's Skeleton' into a noble largeness of conception and
utterance. Charles Tennyson Turner's sweet, pure pastoral melody
must long afford pleasure and find appreciation.
Η
THE LION'S SKELETON
ow long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain?
What rapt thy fierce and thirsty eyes away?
First came the vulture; worms, heat, wind, and rain
Ensued, and ardors of the tropic day.
I know not-if they spared it thee-how long
The canker sate within thy monstrous mane,
Till it fell piecemeal, and bestrewed the plain,
Or, shredded by the storming sands, was flung
Again to earth: but now thine ample front,
Whereon the great frowns gathered, is laid bare;
The thunders of thy throat, which erst were wont
To scare the desert, are no longer there:
Thy claws remain; but worms, wind, rain, and heat
Have sifted out the substance of thy feet.
THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE
A$
S ON my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice pranked upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal,-
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade:


## p. 14640 (#210) ##########################################

14640
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
"Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood I said,
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than the fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! We are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms,
And, at prime hour, behold! he follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms. "
THE ROOKERY
ETHOUGHT, as I beheld the rookery pass
Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind,
How every heart in that close-flying mass
M
Was well befriended by the Almighty mind:
He marks each sable wing that soars or drops,
He sees them forth at morning to their fare,
He sets them floating on his evening air,
He sends them home to rest on the tree-tops.
And when through umbered leaves the night-winds pour,
With lusty impulse rocking all the grove,
The stress is measured by an eye of love:
No root is burst, though all the branches roar;
And in the morning, cheerly as before,
The dark clan talks, the social instincts move.
ORION
How
ow oft I've watched thee from the garden croft,
In silence, when the busy day was done,
Shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft,
And flickering like a casement 'gainst the sun!
I've seen thee soar from out some snowy cloud,
Which held the frozen breath of land and sea,
Yet broke and severed as the wind grew loud-
But earth-bound winds could not dismember thee,
Nor shake thy frame of jewels: I have guessed
At thy strange shape and function, haply felt
The charm of that old myth about thy belt
And sword; but most, my spirit was possessed
By His great Presence, who is never far
From his light-bearers, whether man or star.


## p. 14641 (#211) ##########################################

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
14641
LETTY'S GLOBE
HEN Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
WHE And her young, artless words began to flow,
One day we gave the child a colored sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,
By tint and outline, all its sea and land.
She patted all the world; old empires peeped
Between her baby fingers; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped,
And laughed, and prattled in her world-wide bliss!
But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye
On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry:
"Oh yes! I see it; Letty's home is there! "
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair!
HER FIRST-BORN
IT
T WAS her first sweet child, her heart's delight;
And though we all foresaw his early doom,
We kept the fearful secret out of sight;
We saw the canker, but she kissed the bloom.
And yet it might not be: we could not brook
To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,
To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look,
Or send a thrill through those encircling arms.
She smiled upon him, waking or at rest;
She could not dream her little child would die;
She tossed him fondly with an upward eye;
She seemed as buoyant as a summer spray
That dances with a blossom on its breast,
Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.
XXV-916
OUR MARY AND THE CHILD MUMMY
WH
HEN the four quarters of the globe shall rise,—
Men, women, children, at the judgment-time,—
Perchance this Memphian girl, dead ere her prime,
Shall drop her mask, and with dark, new-born eyes


## p. 14642 (#212) ##########################################

14642
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
Salute our English Mary, loved and lost:
The Father knows her little scroll of prayer,
And life as pure as his Egyptian air;-
For though she knew not Jesus, nor the cost
At which he won the world, she learned to pray;
And though our own sweet babe on Christ's good name
Spent her last breath, premonished and advised
Of him, and in his glorious church baptized,-
She will not spurn this old-world child away,
Nor put her poor embalmèd heart to sham
THE BUOY-BELL
ow like the leper, with his own sad cry
Enforcing its own solitude, it tolls!
H
That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals,
To warn us from the place of jeopardy!
O friend of man! sore vexed by Ocean's power,
The changing tides wash o'er thee day by day;
Thy trembling mouth is filled with bitter spray:
Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour.
High is thy mission, though thy lot is wild:
To be in danger's realm a guardian sound;
-
In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear,
And earn their blessing as the year goes round;
And strike the keynote of each grateful prayer
Breathed in their distant homes by wife or child.


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(B. C. 185-159? )
BY THOMAS BOND LINDSAY
HE Comedy of Manners, to which the work of Terence
belongs, represents in general the contemporary life of the
people in its superficial aspect; the state of society which
it depicts changes rapidly, and the comedy itself often loses interest
except to the student of past forms of social development. The Eng-
lish comedies of this class that have retained popular favor, owe their
continued existence rather to the power of the presentation than to
their subject-matter. Where, however, the
life of a particular community has evidently
and forcibly affected the succeeding history
of the world, the case is different: the life
of such a people at such a time becomes of
cosmopolitan importance. In estimating,
then, the permanent value of the comedies
of Terence, we must consider both the sub-
ject of his work and the quality of the
workman. No amount of artistic subtlety
can produce an enduring monument from
perishable material; a marble statue is not
formed from clay, nor are noble thoughts
evolved from trivial platitudes. On the
other hand, the barren-minded or unskillful
fashioner may make the marble valueless as clay itself, and sink
men's highest aspirations to the level of the street-boy's slang. The
influence of Greek life and thought upon modern Europe is as remark-
able as it is undisputed. The power of Terence to represent this
life, as it was in the third century before Christ, will appear as we
proceed. Suffice it for the present to suggest that his treatment of
it was cosmopolitan, natural, and formally almost perfect.
It was
cosmopolitan, because as an African slave, writing at Rome and in
the Roman speech, of the life of the Greeks, he had that perspective
which in some form or other local, chronological, or tempera-
mental-is essential to clear vision and to the appreciation of rel-
ative values. It was natural, because he had the facts all before him

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in the works of the Greek writers whom he followed, because he
was young, and because he was an artist. It was formally almost
perfect, because he used with an artist's power a speech form that
had put off the crudities of his literary predecessors, and had become
the most nearly perfect medium for the expression of thought that
the world has ever known.
Roman comedy, as it has come down to us, is almost entirely
founded on Greek models. Of the indigenous Latin comedy which
preceded the translation made by Nævius (who died 204 B. C. ) from
the Greek, we know very little. The conflicts of rustic raillery at
the vintage season, and at other festivals, gave rise to the Fescen-
nine verses, which were probably modified by Etruscan influence and
developed into the 'Saturæ,'- dramatic medleys with some musical
accompaniment, upon which the later literary Saturæ of Lucilius,
and his successors Horace, Persius, and Juvenal, were based.
Among the Oscans in southern Italy there arose a form of comedy
called the Fabula Atellana. ' This seems to have contained a large
pantomimic element, and produced the stock characters of Macco the
stupid, Bucco the glutton, Pappus the vain old man, and Dosennus
the wily rascal. The Romans possessed-in common with all Ital-
ians, both ancient and modern- a keen sense of the ridiculous, a tal-
ent for repartee, a gift of improvisation, and an art of mimicry, that
might well have formed a really national comedy from these rude
beginnings, had they not come into competition with the finer forms
of Greek dramatic art. As a matter of fact, however, the influence
of this national drama upon the literature of Rome was insignificant;
and so far as extant writings are concerned, Roman comedy means
the works of Plautus and Terence. Both these men found their mod-
els in the new Attic comedy,- a form that differed essentially from
the Attic comedy of Aristophanes: the latter was distinctly political
in tone, and was marked externally by the presence of the chorus;
while its successor, represented by Menander, dealt almost without
exception with the relations of private life, corresponded very closely
with the society comedy of modern times, and had eliminated the
chorus altogether.
The picture of Greek life furnished by Menander and the other
comedy-writers of his time assumed two quite different forms as
it was represented on the Roman stage,-in the earlier period by
Plautus, in the later period by Terence. The times themselves
had changed. When Plautus wrote, the Roman people was practi-
cally homogeneous: filled with a national, almost provincial spirit,
contemptuous of foreigners and foreign ways, uncritical, careless of
literary form, ready to be easily amused, looking to the stage for
strong points and palpable hits rather than for fine discriminating


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character studies and subtle suggestions of humorous situations. The
audiences of Plautus were more ready to laugh than to smile, more
affected by wit than by humor. The temporary theatre was the
gathering-place of the whole community,- restless, impatient, eager
to see something done rather than to hear something said; to be
amused rather than to be instructed. The years that intervened
before the production of the first of Terence's plays brought many
important changes. The earlier rude brutality of strength had been
modified to a calmer consciousness of power; the stern stoicism of
the elder Cato had been softened by the finer elements of the Epicu-
rean system; and more than all, the influence of Greek art and Greek
culture had begun to permeate the nation, and to form an educated
literary class, distinct from the body of the people. In the former
generation there had been men who recognized the value of the
Greek spirit: such men as Scipio the Elder, and Fulvius Nobilior,
both friends of the poet Ennius. But the men of the younger gen-
eration had made this Greek culture their own; had not only recog-
nized its value but actually assimilated it.
Terence came into intimate contact with the leading men of this
movement, the so-called Scipionic circle; Scipio Emilianus, Lælius,
and Furius Philo received him into such cordial intimacy that he
was even suspected and accused of giving out, as his own, works that
were in reality the product of their minds. This charge has never
been refuted. In fact, Terence refers to it in the prologue to the
'Adelphi,' in such a way as to make it highly probable that he rather
admitted than disclaimed the aid with which his enemies reproached
him.
Thus, while the earlier writers, including the dramatists, had ap-
pealed to the general public, Terence and his successors looked to
the literary class for approbation and encouragement. The earlier
men had written, the later cultivated literature, until we find even
Horace openly proclaiming his indifference to the judgment of the
uncritical many.
―
written by Sueto-
In spite of the fact that the life of Terence -
nius during the early part of the second century A. D. -is extant,
there is doubt as to many of the facts concerning his career. He
was probably born in 185 B. C. , and came to Rome from Carthage
when very young.
He was a slave in the family of Terentius Luca-
nus, from whom his name is derived. He was educated with great
care, and came early into contact with the young men of the best
Roman families, with whom he kept up an intimate friendship until
his death. The fact that such a friendship could exist between an
emancipated slave and men of the old Roman nobility causes less
surprise when we remember that the slaves in Rome were frequently


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men of excellent education; and that the fortune of war might easily
bring a man of noble birth and high rank into that position. There
is indeed no parallel between the slavery of ancient times and that
which existed, for instance, in America until so recently.
Terence's first play - the 'Andria' was brought out in 166 B. C.
There is a story that he carried the MS. to Cæcilius, who was the
recognized successor of Plautus, and the arbiter of dramatic success
at this time; and that the great man bade the youth in his shabby
clothes sit down upon a stool at the foot of his couch, and read to
him while he continued the dinner which the coming of Terence had
interrupted. After listening to a few lines from the opening scene,
which Cicero often referred to as a model of narrative style, Cæcilius
indicated his admiration by placing the young poet beside him at the
table. The other five comedies of Terence were put upon the stage
during the next five years; and soon after the production of the
'Adelphi in 160 B. C. , Terence set sail for Greece, whence he never
returned. He died in the following year, but the circumstances of
his death are variously related. It was said that he was returning
with a large number of MSS. when the ship that carried him was
wrecked. It seems to have been more commonly believed, however,
that grief at the loss of these MSS. , which he had sent home before
him, caused his death. Suetonius states that he was of medium stat-
ure, slender figure, and dark complexion.
The 'Andria,' which was the earliest of Terence's works, is so
called from the fact that the heroine, Glycerium, came to Athens
from the island of Andros, where she had been shipwrecked with her
uncle Phania, to whom she had been intrusted by her father Chremes,
an Athenian, on the occasion of his journey into Asia. Upon the
death of her uncle, she is adopted by an Andrian, and brought up
with his own daughter Chrysis. When this man dies, the two girls
come to Athens; and Pamphilus, whose father Simo has arranged his
marriage with a younger daughter of this same Chremes, falls madly
in love with Glycerium. Davus, the slave, is eager to help Pamphi
lus, but anxious to avoid the anger of Simo. Finally by a stratagem
he brings it about that Chremes refuses to consent to the marriage
of the younger daughter with Pamphilus. A cousin from Andros
appears on the scene, and makes the astonishing but satisfactory
revelation that the supposed Glycerium is really the long-lost elder
daughter of Chremes himself. Thus all objections to the marriage
are removed. As usual in the plays of Terence, there is an under-
plot. Here Charinus is as desperately in love with a younger daugh-
ter of Chremes as is Pamphilus with her sister.
In the progress
of the play, Pamphilus is obliged to seem to consent to carry out
his father's wishes, which interferes decidedly with the happiness of


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Charinus. The resolution of one plot is of course the disentangling
of the other.
The 'Andria' is the most interesting and the least amusing of
the comedies of Terence. It has more pathetic situations and less of
the real comedy element than any of the others. It is indeed rather
what the French call a "comédie larmoyante. " This play was trans-
lated into English during the reign of Edward VI. , and has been
imitated by Baron in his 'Andrienne. ' It furnished too some of the
scenes in Moore's 'Foundling. ' The best imitation however is Steele's
'Conscious Lovers. ' The plot of the latter play is an improvement
on that of Terence, but the characters are less carefully drawn.
The Hecyra' (The Stepmother), was brought out in 165 B. C. ; but
as it came into competition with a rope-dancing entertainment, it
was unsuccessful and was withdrawn, to be reproduced in 160. It has
the fatal fault of dullness, and has never found an adapter. The
prologue is interesting for the information it contains on the subject
of the management of the Roman theatre.
The 'Hautontimorumenos' (The Self-Tormentor) contains a highly
original character in the person of Menedemus the father, whose
severity to his son causes him such deep distress that the anxiety and
sympathy of his neighbor Chremes are aroused. He goes to Mene-
demus, and protests that he is killing himself by his self-imposed
laborious penance. Menedemus's repulse of his neighbor's kind offices,
and inquiry as to why he should concern himself so deeply about
other men's affairs, is the occasion for the famous line-
―
"I am a man: all that concerns my fellow-men is my concern,».
a line at which the whole house rose and shouted its applause. It
was indeed a summary, an epigrammatic statement, of the new doc-
trine of a broader interest: "To be a Roman citizen is much; to be a
man is more. " It marked the transition from a narrow provincial
view of the world to that which recognized the brotherhood of men.
We may well imagine that at this time, when the new party in
politics, as well as in literature, was struggling for development as
opposed to repression,― was claiming that Rome could be truly great
only as she absorbed and assimilated the best that all the world
could offer her,—such an expression would catch the enthusiastic
spirit of a Roman audience. The play, like the 'Andria,' has little
comic force; but as the Spectator observes, while there is not in the
whole drama one passage that could raise a laugh, it is from begin-
ning to end the most perfect picture of human life that ever was
exhibited. It has been imitated in Chapman's comedy 'All Fools. '
The 'Eunuchus' was brought out in 161 B. C. On the Roman
stage it was by far the most popular of all Terence's plays. It has
a vivacity, a continued interest, a grouping of lively characters, that


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almost redeems its author from Cæsar's reproach of lack of "comic
power. "
The parasite Gnatho is a new type; less like the broadly
flattering parasites of Plautus, more like the delicate and artful flat-
terers of Juvenal or of Shakespeare. The braggart captain too,
Thraso, is free from the incredible extravagances of Plautus's Miles
Gloriosus, and yet ridiculous enough in his boastfulness to fill his
rôle of laughing-stock. A new trait is his desire to pose as a wit,
and his tendency to repeat old stories.
The Eunuchus' has been imitated by Aretine in 'La Talanta,'
by La Fontaine in 'L'Eunuque,' by Bruyès in 'Le Muet,' and by
Sir Charles Sedley in 'Bellamira. '
The 'Phormio' appeared in the same year with the 'Eunuchus,'
and takes its name from that of the parasite; who, however, is
neither an imitation of the parasites of Plautus, nor a repetition of
the new type shown in the Gnatho of the 'Eunuchus. ' He is a well-
meaning, sympathetic, but somewhat impecunious gentleman, who is
anxious to arrange things to the general satisfaction as well as to
his own.
There is a quiet humor in the scene between Demipho,
the anxious father, and the gentlemen whom he has called in to
advise him, that is characteristic of Terence. Demipho turns to the
first of the visitors, Hegio, and says, "You see how things stand:
what am I to do? Tell me, Hegio;" and Hegio replies, "What! I?
I think you will do well to consult Cratinus. " So Demipho turns to
the second friend: "Tell me, Cratinus. ". "Who, I? "-"Yes, you. "
-
-
"Well, I think you should do that which is best for yourself. It
seems to me like this: it is only fair and right that what this boy of
yours did in your absence should be considered null and void, and I
think the court will hold it so; that's my opinion. " Demipho returns
to Hegio: "Now then, Hegio. "-"I have no doubt that our friend
here has spoken after due consideration: but many men, many minds;
each has his own way of looking at things. It does not seem to me
that what has been done in regular legal form can be undone, and it
is a bad thing to undertake. " So Demipho looks to the third man,
Crito, to settle the matter. "Well, Crito, what do you say? " — "I
think the matter needs further deliberation. It is an important case. "
Hegio inquires if they can serve him further, and as Demipho replies,
"No, you have done remarkably well," they solemnly file out, leav-
ing Demipho to remark to himself, "I am decidedly more undecided
than I was before. "
The 'Adelphi' (The Brothers), the last of Terence's comedies,
was brought out in 160 B. C. The chief interest of the piece is due
to the contrast between the two brothers. Demea, the elder, is a
hard-handed, tight-fisted countryman, a Pharisee of the strictest sect.
Micio, the younger, is open-hearted and open-handed, and inclined to
leniency towards the faults and follies of youth. He is a bachelor,


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and has adopted Eschinus, the elder son of his brother. Ctesipho,
Demea's younger son, has been brought up by his father on the
most approved principles; and outwardly at least, justifies his father's
boasts of the success of his system. When Eschinus runs away
with a music-girl, Demea's regret at the disgrace of the family is tem-
pered with satisfaction at the failure of his less strait-laced brother's
methods of education. The discovery, however, that Eschinus is not
the principal in the affair, but is only acting for his moral brother,
Ctesipho, opens Demea's eyes, and causes him to reverse his judg-
ment as to the wisdom of an extreme severity. The 'Adelphi' is as
full of human nature as the 'Hautontimorumenos,' and affords even
more marked examples of Terence's inimitable success in character-
drawing. The 'Adelphi' has been often imitated in whole or in
part: the contrasting characters of the two brothers have been par-
ticularly attractive to modern playwrights.
The closest imitation is that of Baron in 'L'École des Pères. '
Molière used it in 'L'École des Maris. ' Diderot seems to have had
Micio and Demea in mind in writing his 'Père de Famille. ' Shad-
well based his 'Squire of Alsatia' on the 'Adelphi. ' The principal
characters in Cumberland's 'Choleric Man' come from the same
source. Kno'well in Ben Jonson's 'Every Man in his Humour' has a
strong resemblance to Micio. Fagan's 'La Pupille,' Garrick's 'Guard-
ian,' and John Hare's 'A Pair of Spectacles,' all owe more or less to
Terence's play.
The most striking characteristic in these six plays of Terence is
the broad grasp of human nature. His characters are alive, not be-
cause he seizes their salient features and forces them upon us, but
because he shows us each individual fitting himself into his own
place according to the fundamental laws that govern temperament
and character, whatever their immediate environment may be. The
characters of Plautus, in spite of the Greek setting of his plays, are
Romans: the characters of Terence are neither Greeks nor Romans,
but men and women. Dramatists and novelists often produce strong
effects in character-drawing by placing some dominant quality in the
foreground, and massing everything else behind it. We remember
Mr. Micawber because he was always waiting for something to turn
up; but we remember Major Pendennis because he was Major Pen-
dennis. This very fact gives to the characters of Dickens, as to
those of Plautus, an apparently greater individuality; but often at
the expense of truth. Men and women are not built up around
single qualities, unless indeed they be monomaniacs; and the greater
artists like Thackeray and Terence show us, not the dominant quality
with the man attached to it, but the man himself affected more or
less by the dominant quality.


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Terence shares with Horace that urbanity, that spirit of modera-
tion and mutual concession, which is the almost inevitable result of
the association of men in large numbers. Angularities wear off by
friction; and this quality of urbanity, developed by the friction of
life in the great Roman city, became a marked feature of later Latin
literature, and remains as the special heritage of French literature
to-day.
The expression of real tenderness, the feeling that lies in the
region between sport and earnest, is rare among the Romans. Sen-
timent that is neither passion on the one hand nor sentimentality
on the other does not readily lend itself to forms of words. In his
power to present this finer feeling, Terence is excelled by only one
among Roman writers, Catullus,-
"Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred years ago. "
With Catullus, too, Terence shares that indefinable quality of charm
which has no less distinct a place in literature than in society,-
that gift of the gods which turns readers of Charles Lamb, of Heine,
of Stevenson, into friends and almost lovers. Indefinable, indeed;
but surely resting on those two qualities so eminent in all these
authors, spontaneity and grace. We require of the lyric poet that
he express emotion; we expect the epic poet to deal with action: in
the dramatist we look for development of emotion through the will
into action. The first may ignore the result of the emotion; the
second may merely imply the motive of the action: but the drama-
tist must trace the cause to its effect.
In the skill with which this development of plot and character is
carried on, Terence ranks with the greatest dramatists. The lead-
ing emotion - the motive—of all his plays is love; and as the plot
moves on, we may trace the working out of this emotion in the
whole action of the piece. In the delineation of character there
are no mere superficial portraits, no over-intensified high lights; all is
simple and consistent. We find none of the broad strokes of Plau-
tus, no impressionist pictures, but always the fine suggestive detail
of the etcher. Here, as elsewhere, Terence closely followed his Greek
models. In his systematic use of double plots, however, he showed
his ability to fit his material to his purpose. The Roman stage de-
manded more action than a single Greek comedy afforded. By a
skillful combination of two Greek plays into one, Terence secured
the added action without loss of continuity.
In creative force, Terence is undoubtedly inferior to his great
predecessor. His characters all belong to a few types. The warm-
hearted, open-minded young man, careless of conventions, but gen-
erous and faithful to his own standard of honor; the easy-going,


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indulgent father, a man of the world, whose motto is, "Boys will be
boys;" the stern old man, grumbling at the degeneracy of the times,
forgetting that he himself was ever young; the weak, devoted
mother, who can see no faults in her darling boy; the suave plau-
sible parasite, ever on the lookout for his own advantage, serving
others often, but always himself; the fine-spirited young girl, whom
misfortune has placed in the false position of a slave, whose weak-
ness is her strength,-loving, constant, and faithful; slaves of vari-
ous sorts, some wily enough to scheme successfully for their masters'
success, some dull enough to involve their masters in unnecessary
and unlooked-for complications, some honestly devoted, some cun-
ningly subservient, - these and some few other characters appear
in all the plays; but each one, drawn by a master hand, is simple,
natural, and consistent.
The diction of Terence was the model of his successors. He
marks, indeed, no less an epoch in the development of the language
of the Romans than in the progress of their views of life; and in
both, the changes, the permanence of which his power assured, were
similar. In language as in life, Terence stands for sweet reasonable-
ness, for moderation, for sympathetic kindliness, for elegance, for art
for classicism. His work brought into Latin literature that element
of perfect style which it retained in Cicero and in Horace; which it
lost in the later empire in the hands of Seneca and Fronto; which
reappeared in France. So too in his philosophy of life and manners,
he finds a follower in Horace, a stern opponent in Juvenal — and an
appreciative audience in modern Paris. It is indeed the philosophy
of compromise, not that of strong enthusiastic conviction. Terence,
like Horace, has alwa been a favorite author with men of wide
experience; while Plautus, like Juvenal, appeals to the reader whose
youth-of years or of heart-knows no fine distinctions.
――
While the moderation of Terence's diction precludes his use of the
forceful energetic word-strokes that lend themselves so well to quota-
tion, the very fineness of his art furnishes many phrases that became
proverbial; such as-Lovers' quarrels are love's renewal; Silence is
praise enough; You are singing the same old song; Hence these
tears; I am a man-all that concerns my fellow-men is my concern;
Many men, many minds; He is holding a wolf by the ears; Not too
much of anything.
As regards the effect of Roman comedy on Roman morals much
might be said, and on both sides. There is undoubtedly a laxity of
view concerning the relations of the sexes that does not commend
itself to modern minds. On the other hand, it is to be remembered
that the increase of wealth and luxury, tending to make of marriage
a matter of mutual material advantage,—a legal relation, looking to


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the establishment of the family-forces the playwright to step out-
side the conventions of society if he would deal with love as an
emotion and as the basis of romantic attachment. Terence meets
this difficulty by supposing his heroine to be ineligible, owing to pov-
erty, or to her position as a slave or a foreigner. Thus the romantic
element in the attachment is justified. In every case, however, she
is discovered to be the daughter of a wealthy Athenian citizen, the
stigma of ineligibility is removed, and the curtain is rung down to
the sound of wedding-bells. Thus the playwright finds his field, and
yet conventional morality is satisfied.
A comparison of the two great Roman comedy-writers will show
that Terence has the broader view, Plautus the more definite focus;
Terence is cosmopolitan, Plautus is national; Terence's pathos is the
deeper, that of Plautus the more evident; Terence has subtler humor,
Plautus a bolder wit: in Terence there is less vivacity of action, less
variety of incident; on the other hand, there is a smoother flow of
action and a greater consistency of plot. The vituperative exuberance
of Plautus is replaced in Terence by the more gentlemanly weapon
of polished irony; while Plautus reveals his close acquaintance with
the narrow lanes of the Subura, Terence introduces us to the lan-
guage of the aristocratic quarter of the Palatine; Terence is careful
of the dramatic unities of time and place, to which Plautus is indif-
ferent; the versification of Terence is smoother and more elegant,
that of Plautus is stronger and less monotonous; Terence wins his
victories in the library, Plautus on the stage; Terence seeks to teach
his audiences what good taste demands, Plautus tries to give them
what they want. After reading one of Plautus's plays we are eager
to read another; after reading one of Terence's, we are anxious to
read it over again.
If we may attribute a distinct purpose to Terence, it was this: to
introduce a finer tone into both the life and language of his country-
men, by picturing for them in the purity of their own idiom the
gentler and more human life of Greece. Not only the critics, but the
subsequent history of Roman life and Roman literature, assure us
that he did not fail.
Thomas Band
Lundes


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BIBLIOGRAPHY. -The best English editions of Terence are those of
Bentley, Parry, and Wagner. The best translation is that of Colman.
The best sketch of his life and work is that by Sellar, in his 'Roman
Poets of the Republic. ' Substantially the same article appears in the
'Encyclopædia Britannica' in an abridged form. There is a very full
account in Dunlop's 'History of Roman Literature. '
FROM THE SELF-TORMENTOR'
Opening Scene: Enter Chremes, and Menedemus with a spade in his
hand; the latter falls to digging.
CHR
HREMES- Although this acquaintanceship between us is of
very recent date, from the time in fact of your purchasing
an estate here in the neighborhood, yet either your good
qualities, or our being neighbors (which I take to be a sort of
friendship), induces me to inform you, frankly and familiarly,
that you appear to me to labor beyond your years, and beyond
what your affairs require. For, in the name of gods and men,
what would you have? What can be your aim? You are, as I
conjecture, sixty years of age or more. No man in these parts
has a better or more valuable estate, no one more servants; and
yet you discharge their duties just as diligently as if there were
none at all.