No More Learning

The loveliness of that woman, such
as it has shown itself to me to-day, will vanish, it is true, within
a few brief years; that wholly charming body, the flowing lines
and contours of that exquisite form, that noble head so proudly
poised above the slender neck and shoulders,- all, all will be but
food for loathsome worms; but though the earthly form of matter
is to change, how as to the mental conception of that frame, the
artistic ideal, the essential beauty itself? Who is to destroy all
that ? Does it not remain in the depths of the Divine Mind?
Once perceived and known by me, must it not live forever in
my soul, victorious over age and even over death ?
>
THE EVENINGS AT PEPITA'S TERTULIA
From Pepita Ximenez)
A
s I have mentioned to you before, Pepita receives her friends
every evening at her house, from nine o'clock till twelve.
Thither repair four or five matrons, and as many young
girls of the village, counting in Aunt Casilda with the number;
and then six or seven young men who play forfeits with the
girls. Three or four engagements are already on the carpet from
this association, which is natural enough. The graver portion of
.
the social assembly [tertulia), pretty much always the same, is
composed of the exalted dignitaries of the place, so to speak; that
is, my father who is the squire, with the apothecary, the doctor,
the notary, and his Reverence the vicar.
I am never quite certain in which section of the company I
ought to place myself. If it is with the young people, I fear my
seriousness is a damper on their sports and their flirtation; if
with the older set, then I am constrained to play the part of a


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1
*
1
JUAN VALERA
15229
(
'M
to
1
mere looker-on in things I do not understand.
The only games
I know how to play are the simple ones of "blind donkey,”
(wide-awake donkey,” and a little tute or brisca cruzada.
The best thing for me would be not to go to the tertulia at
all. My father, however, insists that I shall go; not to do so,
according to him, would be to make myself ridiculous.
My father breaks out in many expressions of wonderment at
noticing my complete ignorance of certain things; such as that I
cannot play ombre, - not even ombre. This strikes him simply
with bewilderment.
«Your uncle has brought you up in the gleam of a twopenny
rushlight,” he exclaims. « He has stuffed you with theology,
and then more theology still, and left you wholly in the dark
about everything that it is really important to know. From the
very fact that you are to be a priest, and consequently cannot
dance nor make love when you go out in society, you ought to
know how to play ombre. If not, what are you going to do
with yourself, you young wretch ? just tell us that. ”
To this and other shrewd discourse of the sort I have finally
had to give in; and my father is teaching me ombre at home,
so that as soon as I know it I can play it at Pepita's receptions.
He has been anxious furthermore to teach me fencing, and after
that to smoke, and to shoot, and to throw the bar; but I have
not consented to any of these latter propositions.
«What a difference between my youthful years and yours! ”
my father likes to exclaim.
And then he will add, laughingly:-
“However, it's all essentially the same thing. I too had my
canonical hours, but they were in the Life Guards barracks: a
good cigar was our incense, a pack of cards was our hymn-book;
nor was there ever lacking to us a good supply of other devo-
tional exercises all just as spiritual as those. ”
Although you, my good uncle, had forewarned me of this
levity of character in my father, - and indeed it is precisely on
account of it that I passed twelve years of my life with you,
from the age of ten to that of twenty-two,— still my father's
way of talking, sometimes free beyond all bounds, often alarms
and mortifies me. But what can I do about it? At any rate,
though it is not becoming in me to censure it, I shall never
show approval nor laugh at it.


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15230
JUAN VALERA
PEPITA'S EYES
From Pepita Ximenez)
A
s I must have told you in former letters, Pepita's eyes, though
green like those of Circe, have a most tranquil and exem-
plary expression. One would decide that she was not con-
scious of the power of her eyes at all, nor ever knew that they
could serve for any other purpose than simply that of seeing with.
When her gaze falls upon you, its soft light is so clear, so can-
did and pure, that so far from fomenting any wicked thought,
it appears as if it favored only those of the most limpid kind.
It leaves chaste and innocent souls in unruffled repose, and it
destroys all incentive to ill in those that are not so. Nothing of
ardent passion, nothing of unhallowed fire, is there in the eyes
of Pepita. Like the calm mild radiance of the moon, rather, is
the sweet illumination of her glance.
Well, then, I have to tell you now, in spite of all the above,
that two or three times I have fancied I caught an instantane-
ous gleam of splendor, a lightning-like flash, a devastating leap of
flame, in those fine eyes when they rested upon mine. Is this
only some ridiculous bit of vanity, suggested by the arch-fiend
himself? I think it must be. I wish to believe that it is, and I
will believe that it is.
No, it was not a dream, it was not the figment of a mad im-
agination, it was but the sober truth. She does suffer her eyes
to look into mine with the burning glance of which I have told
you.
Her eyes are endowed with a magnetic attraction impos-
sible to explain. They draw me on, they undo me, and I can-
not withhold my own from them. At those times my eyes must
blaze with a baleful flame like hers. Thus did those of Amnon
when he contemplated Tamar; thus did those of the Prince of
Schechem when he looked upon Dinah.
When our glances meet in that way I forget even my God.
Her image instead rises up in my soul, victorious over every-
thing Her beauty shines resplendent beyond all other beauty;
the joys of heaven seem to me of less worth than her affection,
and an eternity of suffering but a trifling cost for the incalcu-
lable bliss infused into my being by a single one of those glances
of hers, though they pass quick as the lightning's flash.
When I return to my dwelling, when I am alone in my cham-
ber, in the silence of the night, - then, oh then, all the horror of


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JUAN VALERA
15231
my situation comes upon me, and I form the best of resolutions
but only to break them again forthwith.
I promise myself to invent a pretext of sickness, or to seek
some other subterfuge, no matter what, in order not to go to
Pepita's house on the succeeding night; and yet I go, just as if
no such resolution had been taken.
Not alone to my sight is she so delectable, so grateful, but
her voice also sounds in my ears like the celestial music of the
spheres, revealing to me all the harmonies of the universe. I
even go to the point of imagining that there emanates from her
form a subtile aroma of delicious fragrance, more delicate than
that of mint by the brook-sides, or than wild thyme on the
nountain slopes.
THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN THE INTERESTS OF HEAVEN
AND EARTH
From ( Pepita Ximenez)
DON
on Luis was of a stubbornly persistent, obstinate nature; he
had what, when well directed, makes that desirable quality
called firmness of character. Nothing abased him so much
in his own eyes as to be inconsistent in his opinions or his
conduct. The plan and aim of Don Luis's whole life, the plan
which he had declared and defended before all those whom he
associated with, --- his moral ideal of himself, in fact, which was
that of an aspirant to holiness, a man consecrated to God and
imbued with the sublimest philosophy of religion,- all that could
not fall to the ground without causing him great distress of mind;
as fall it would if he let himself be carried away by his love
for Pepita. Although the price to be received was an incompara-
bly higher one, he felt that he was going to imitate the improv-
ident Esau of Holy Writ, and sell his birthright for a mess of
pottage.
We men in general are wont to be but the poor plaything
of circumstances; we suffer ourselves to be borne along by the
current, and do not direct ourselves unswerving to a single aim.
We do not choose our own destiny, but accept and carry on that
which blind fortune assigns to us. With many men the kind of
occupation they follow, the political party they belong to - pretty
?


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15232
JUAN VALERA
much all the circumstances of their lives, turn upon hazards and
fortuitous events; it is not plan but the whims and caprices of
fortune that settle it.
The pride of Don Luis rebelled against such an order of
things with an energy that was disposed to be titanic. What
would be said of him above all, what must he think of himself
- if his life's ideal, if the new man whom he had created within
his being, if all his praiseworthy reachings out towards virtue,
honor, and holy ambition, were to vanish in an instant, consumed
by the warmth of a look, a passing glance from a dark eye, as
the frost liquefies in the yet feeble rays of the morning sun ?
These and yet other reasons of a like egotistical sort, in
addition to considerations of real merit and weight, contended
against the attractions of the young widow. But all his reason-
ing alike put on the garb of religion; so that Don Luis himself,
not able to distinguish and discriminate clearly between them,
would mistake for the love of God not only that which was really
love of God, but also his own self-love. He recalled, for instance,
the lives of many of the saints who had resisted yet greater
temptations than his own; and he would not reconcile himself
to be less heroic than they. He remembered especially that nota-
ble case of firmness shown by St. John Chrysostom; who was able
to remain unmoved under all the blandishments of a good and
loving mother, deaf to her sobs, her most affectionate entreaties,
all the eloquent and feeling pleas that she made to him not to
abandon her and become a priest. She led him, for this inter-
view, even to her own room, and made him seat himself beside
the bed in which she had brought him into the world; but all in
vain. After having reflected upon this, Don Luis could not en-
dure in himself the weakness of failing to scorn the entreaties of
a stranger woman, of whose very existence he had been ignorant
but a short time before, and of wavering still between his duty
and the allurements of that charming person; whose feeling, fur-
thermore, for all he knew, was but coquetry, instead of real love
for him.
Next, Don Luis reflected on the august dignity of the sacer-
dotal office to which he was called; in his thoughts he set it high
above all the other institutions, above all the poor thrones and
principalities of the earth; and this because it was never founded
by mortal man, nor caprice of the noisy and servile crowd, nor
through any invasion nor inheritance of power by barbarous


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JUAN VALERA
15233
rulers, nor by the violence of mutinous troops led on by greed;
nor had it been founded by any angel, archangel, or any cre-
ated power whatever, but by the eternal Paraclete himself. How!
was he indeed yielding to the charm of a giddy girl,—to a tear
or two, perhaps feigned at that, -- was he for such a motive to
belittle and put aside that greatest of dignities, that sacred au-
thority which God did not concede even to the very archangels
nearest his throne ? Could he ever be content to descend to
the common herd, to be lost among them? Could he be merely
one of the flock when he had aspired to be its shepherd, tying
or untying on earth what God should tie or untie in heaven,
pardoning sins, regenerating souls by water and the Spirit, teach-
ing them in the name of an infallible authority, and pronouncing
judgments which the Lord would then ratify and confirm in high-
est heaven ?
When Don Luis reflected upon all this, his soul flew aloft
and soared high above all the clouds into the farthest empyrean;
and poor Pepita Ximenez was left behind there, far below, scarce
visible, as one might say, to the naked eye.
Soon however would his winged imagination cease its flight,
his spirit return to earth. Then once more he would see Pepita,
so gracious, so youthful, so ingenuous, so loving; and Pepita com-
bated within his heart his most inflexible determinations. Don
Luis dreaded, with but too much reason, that in the end she
would scatter them all to the winds.
HOW YOUNG DON FADRIQUE WAS PERSUADED TO DANCE
From Commander Mendoza)
WHEN
THEN a child, Don Fadrique used to dance the bolero very
creditably. Don Diego - for such was his father's name -
had pleasure in seeing the boy exhibit his grace and skill
whenever he took him about to pay visits with him, or when he
received visitors at his own house.
On a certain occasion Don Diego, with his son Don Fadrique,
went to the little city,- I have never been willing to give any
name to it,- distant about two leagues from Villabermejo, in
which little city the scene of my novel 'Pepita Ximenez' is
laid.
XXVI–953


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15234
JUAN VALERA
At that time Don Fadrique was thirteen years old, but un.
usually tall for his age. As visits of ceremony were to be
made, he had put on a crimson damask coat and waistcoat, with
burnished steel buttons, together with white-silk stockings and
buckled shoes, a costume in which he was like the midday sun,
for the fine and becoming effect of it.
Don Fadrique's well-worn traveling-suit, much spotted and
patched, was left behind at the inn, as were their horses as well.
Don Diego was of a mind that his son should appear in his com-
pany in unclouded splendor; and the boy was most self-complacent
at finding himself decked out in such modish and elegant attire.
This fine dress, however, inspired in him at the same time an
ideal of a certain exaggerated formality and reserve of conduct,
he thought he ought to observe to be in keeping with it.
Their first visit was made to a noble dame, a widow with two
unmarried daughters. Unluckily here the family spoke of young
Fadrique; how he was growing up, and his skill in dancing the
bolero.
“He does not dance as well at present as he did a year ago,"
his father explained; “for he is just now at the awkward hobble.
dehoy age,-an ungainly period, between schoolmaster's rod and
the first razor. You know that boys at that age are unendurable,
- trying to ape the airs of grown men, when they are not men
in the least. Nevertheless, as you are kind enough to desire it, he
shall give you an example of his accomplishments in the dancing
line. ”
The ladies, who had at first but politely suggested it, hereupon
urged their request quite warmly. One of the young daughters
of the house picked up a guitar, and began to strum suitable
dance music.
“ « Dance, Fadrique,” said Don Diego, as soon as the music
struck up.
But an unconquerable repugnance to dancing upon that occas-
ion took possession of the boy. He fancied there was a prodi-
gious irrelevancy—a regular Antinomian heresy, as they would
have said in those days — between his dance and the mature
coat of ceremony he had then put on. It should be stated that
he wore such a coat on this day for the first time; and this too
was the very first appearance of the new costume if indeed
it can be called “new,” after having been made over from a suit
which had first been his father's, and then his elder brother's,
-
>


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JUAN VALERA
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1
1
-
11
C
and only handed down to him when it had grown too tight and
short for them.
“Dance, Fadrique,” his father repeated, beginning to lose
patience at his delay.
Don Diego — whose own garb, of a kind adapted both to
country wear and to traveling, was presumably quite correct
enough without change — had not donned a formal coat, like his
son. His attire consisted of a complete suit of dressed deerskin,
with long boots and spurs; and in his hand he carried the hunting-
whip with which he was wont to keep in order both his spirited
horse and a pack of dogs that followed him.
« Dance, Fadrique! ” cried Don Diego, repeating his order for
the third time. His voice had an agitated tone, due to anger
and surprise.
Don Diego held so exalted an idea of the paternal authority,
and of his own in particular, that he marveled at the species of
taciturn rebellion at which he was assisting.
"Let him alone, I beg, Señor Mendoza,” interposed the noble
widow. « The child is tired out with his journey, and does not
feel like dancing. ”
“He has got to dance, and at once. ”
“No, no, never mind,” protested she who strummed the guitar.
Probably we shall have the pleasure of seeing him some other
time. ”
“He shall dance, and on the instant, I say. Dance, I tell you,
Fadrique. ”
"I won't dance in a coat of ceremony like this,” the youth at
last responded.
Aqui fué Troya (Here stood Troy]. Don Diego ignored the
presence of the ladies, and all other restraining motives. The
reply had been to him like a match applied to a powder maga-
zine.
"Rebel, disobedient son,” he shouted in a rage, “I'll send
you away to the Torribiós! [A severe reform-school founded by
a certain Father Torribío. ] Dance, or I will flog you. ” And he
began fogging young Don Fadrique with his riding-whip.
The girl who had the guitar stopped her music for an instant
in surprise; but Don Diego gave her such an angry and terrible
look that she feared he might make her play by hard knocks,
just as he was trying to make his son dance, and so she kept on
without further pause.
(
»
((


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15236
JUAN VALERA
When Don Fadrique had received eight or ten sound lashes,
he all at once began to perform the dance, the very best he
knew how.
At first the tears ran down his cheeks; but presently, upon the
reflection that it was his own father that was beating him, and
the whole scene striking his fancy in a comic light,- seeing his
case, for instance, as if it were that of another person, he began
to laugh heartily. To dance, in a coat of ceremony, to the
accompaniment of a volley of whip-lashes, what could be fun-
nier? In spite of the physical pain he was suffering, he laughed
gayly, and danced with the enthusiasm of a veritable inspiration.
The ladies applauded the strange performance with all their
might.
“Good! good! ” now cried Don Diego. “By all the devils !
have I hurt you, my son ? ”
“Not at all, father. It is clear I needed a double accompani-
ment to make me dance to-day. ”
“Well, try and forget it, my boy. Why did
you want to
be so obstinate? What reasonable ground for refusing could you
have had, when your new coat fits you as if it were simply
painted on, and when you consider that the classic and high-
bred bolero is a dance entirely suited to any gentleman ? I am
a little quick-tempered, I admit; but I hope these ladies will par-
don me. ”
And with this ended the episode of the bolero.
(


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15237
HENRY VAN DYKE
(1852–)
He literary clergyman has made some very pleasant and im-
portant contributions to the great body of English literature.
A worthy American member of the confraternity is the
Rev. Dr. Henry Van Dyke, a popular and able preacher, a writer of
mark upon religious subjects, and in the field of belles-lettres a grace-
ful and accomplished essayist and poet.
Dr. Van Dyke comes of distinguished clerical stock,— his father
being the Rev. Dr. Henry J. Van Dyke of Brooklyn, New York. Henry
the son
was born November ioth, 1852,
at Germantown, Pennsylvania; and was ed-
ucated at the Brooklyn Polytechnic Insti-
tute, and at Princeton, in the college and
Theological Seminary. He took a further
course at the German University of Berlin.
His first pastorate was that of the United
Congregational Church at Newport, Rhode
Island, which he held from 1879 to 1882; then
coming to the Brick Presbyterian Church in
New York city, which charge he has since
retained. Dr. Van Dyke was a Harvard
preacher from 1890 to 1892; and in 1895-6
delivered the Lyman Beecher lectures at HENRY VAN DYKE
Yale, published in 1895 under the title (The
Gospel for an Age of Doubt,'— recognized as a brilliant setting forth
and interpretation of the modern intellectual situation. Dr. Van
Dyke's writings fall into a threefold division: sermons and other dis-
tinctly religious books; literary appreciations and papers; and poems.
Of the former may be mentioned (The Reality of Religion (1884),
(The Story of the Psalms (1887), God and Little Children' (1890),
Straight Sermons: to Young Men and Other Human Beings' (1893),
(The Bible As It Is) (1893), “The Christ-Child in Art: A Study of
Interpretation? (1894), and Responsive Readings' (1895). Dr. Van
Dyke is an enthusiastic student of Tennyson; and his very popular
(The Poetry of Tennyson' (1889) is one of the most authoritative and
eloquent studies of the late Laureate. Little Rivers) (1896) contains
a series of charming papers descriptive of the author's fishing excur-
sions in picturesque places, - essays in profitable idleness,” showing

1


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15238
HENRY VAN DYKE
him at his happiest in prose. The National Sin of Literary Piracy'
appeared in 1888, and The People Responsible for the Character of
Their Rulers) in 1895. A volume of Dr. Van Dyke's verse entitled
“The Builders and Other Poems) was published in 1897, and added
materially to his reputation; for the verse is artistic, has genuine
imagination, and is full of noble ethical feeling. This book of
verse, together with the Yale lectures, the Tennyson estimate, and
Little Rivers,' represents that portion of Dr. Van Dyke's writing
which establishes his claim to inclusion among American men of let-
ters.
LITTLE RIVERS
From Little Rivers. )
Copyright 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons
A things.
RIVER is the most human and companionable of all inanimate
. It has a life, a character, a voice of its own; and
is as full of good-fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap.
It can talk in various tones, loud or low; and of many subjects,
grave or gay. Under favorable circumstances it will even make
a shift to sing; not in a fashion that can be reduced to notes and
set down in black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a vague,
refreshing manner, and to a wandering air that goes
“Over the hills and far away. ”
For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the
animal kingdom that is comparable to a river.
I will admit that a very good case can be made out in favor
of some other objects of natural affection, For example, a fair
apology has been offered by those ambitious persons who have
fallen in love with the sea. But after all, that is a formless and
disquieting passion. It lacks solid comfort and mutual confi-
dence. The sea is too big for loving, and too uncertain. It will
not fit into our thoughts. It has no personality, because it has
so many
It is a salt abstraction. You might as well think of
loving a glittering generality like the American woman. ” One
would be more to the purpose.
Mountains are more satisfying because they are
more indi-
vidual. It is possible to 'feel a very strong attachment for a
certain range whose outline has grown familiar to our eyes; or
a clear peak that has looked down, day after day, upon our joys


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1
HENRY VAN DYKE
15239
>
and sorrows, moderating our passions with its calm aspect. We
come back from our travels, and the sight of such a well-known
mountain is like meeting an old friend unchanged. But it is a
one-sided affection. The mountain is voiceless and imperturb-
able; and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes makes us the
more lonely.
Trees seem to come closer to our life. They are often rooted
in our richest feelings; and our sweetest memories, like birds,
build nests in their branches. I remember, the last time I saw
James Russell Lowell (only a few weeks before his musical voice
was hushed), he walked out with me into the quiet garden at
Elmwood to say good-by. There was a great horse-chestnut
tree beside the house, towering above the gable, and covered with
blossoms from base to summit, - a pyramid of green supporting
a thousand smaller pyramids of white.
The poet looked up at it
with his gray, pain-furrowed face, and laid his trembling hand
upon the trunk. "I planted the nut,” said he, from which this
tree grew. And my father was with me, and showed me how to
plant it. ”
Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of tree-worship;
and when I recline with my friend Tityrus' beneath the shade of
his favorite oak, I consent to his devotions. But when I invite
him with me to share my orisons, or wander alone to indulge
the luxury of grateful, unlaborious thought, my feet turn not to
a tree, but to the bank of a river; for there the musings of soli-
tude find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse is
purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water. It
is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive
old friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my
faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my
'mind from all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and
peace of living. Like David's hart, I pant for the water-brooks;
and would follow the advice of Seneca, who says, “Where a
spring rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and
offer sacrifices. »
The personality of a river is not to be found in its water, nor
in its bed, nor in its shore. Either of these elements, by itself,
would be nothing. Confine the fluid contents of the noblest
stream in a walled channel of stone, and it ceases to be a stream;
it becomes what Charles Lamb calls “a mockery of a river -
liquid artifice - a wretched conduit. ” But take away the water
a


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15240
HENRY VAN DYKE
from the most beautiful river-banks, and what is left ? An ugly
road with none to travel it; a long ghastly scar on the bosom of
the earth.
The life of a river, like that of a human being, consists in the
union of soul and body, the water and the banks. They belong
together. They act and react upon each other. The stream
molds and makes the shore: hollowing out a bay here and build-
ing a long point there; alluring the little bushes close to its
side, and bending the tall slim trees over its current; sweeping
a rocky ledge clean of everything but moss, and sending a still
lagoon full of white arrow-heads and rosy knot-weed far back
into the meadow. The shore guides and controls the stream:
now detaining and now advancing it; now bending it in a hun-
dred sinuous curves, and now speeding it straight as a wild bee
on its homeward fight; here hiding the water in a deep cleft
overhung with green branches, and there spreading it out, like a
mirror framed in daisies, to reflect the sky and the clouds; some-
times breaking it with sudden turns and unexpected falls into
a foam of musical laughter, sometimes soothing it into a sleepy
motion like the flow of a dream.
And is it otherwise with the men and women whom we know
and like? Does not the spirit influence the form, and the form
affect the spirit ? Can we divide and separate them in our affec-
tions?
I am no friend to purely psychological attachments. In some
unknown future they may be satisfying; but in the present I
want your words and your voice, with your thoughts, your looks
and your gestures, to interpret your feelings. The warm, strong
grasp of Great-heart's hand is as dear to me as the steadfast
fashion of his friendships; the lively, sparkling eyes of the master
of Rudder Grange charm me as much as the nimbleness of his
fancy; and the firm poise of the Hoosier Schoolmaster's shaggy
head gives me new confidence in the solidity of his views of life.
I like the pure tranquillity of Isabel's brow as well as her
« - most silver flow
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. ”
»
The soft cadences and turns in my Lady Katrina's speech draw
me into the humor of her gentle judgments of men and things.
The touches of quaintness in Angelica's dress — her folded ker-
chief and smooth-parted hair - seem to partake of herself, and


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HENRY VAN DYKE
15241
1
enhance my admiration for the sweet odor of her thoughts and
her old-fashioned ideals of love and duty. Even so the stream
and its channel are one life; and I cannot think of the swift
brown flood of the Batiscan without its shadowing primeval for-
ests, or the crystalline current of the Boquet without its beds
of pebbles and golden sand, and grassy banks embroidered with
flowers.
Every country- or at least every country that is fit for habi-
tation - has its own rivers; and every river has its own quality:
and it is the part of wisdom to know and love as many as you
can; seeing each in the fairest possible light, and receiving from
each the best that it has to give. The torrents of Norway leap
.
down from their mountain homes with plentiful cataracts, and
run brief but glorious races to the sea. The streams of England
move smoothly through green fields and beside ancient, sleepy
towns. The Scotch rivers brawl through the open moorland, and
flash along steep Highland glens. The rivers of the Alps are
born in icy caves, from which they issue forth with furious,
turbid waters; but when their anger has been forgotten in the
slumber of some blue lake, they flow down more softly to see
the vineyards of France and Italy, the gray castles of Germany,
and the verdant meadows of Holland. The mighty rivers of the
West roll their yellow floods through broad valleys, or plunge
down dark . cañons. The rivers of the South creep under dim
arboreal archways heavy with banners of waving moss. The
Delaware and the Hudson and the Connecticut are the children
of the Catskills and the Adirondacks and the White Mountains,
cradled among the forests of spruce and hemlock, playing through
a wild woodland youth, gathering strength from numberless tribu-
taries to bear their great burdens of lumber, and turn the wheels
of many mills, issuing from the hills to water a thousand farms,
and descending at last, beside new cities, to the ancient sea.
Every river that flows is good, and has something worthy to
be loved. But those that we love most are always the ones that
we have known best, – the stream that ran before our father's
door, the current on which we ventured our first boat or cast
our first fly, the brook on whose banks we first picked the twin
flower of young love. However far we may travel, we
back to Naaman's state of mind: “Are not Abana and Pharpar,
rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel ? ”
1
come
.
.


## p. 15242 (#186) ##########################################

15242
HENRY VAN DYKE
THE MALADY OF MODERN DOUBT
From "The Gospel for an Age of Doubt. Copyright 1896, by the Macmillan
Company
BºT
:
7
}
1
UT why despair, unless indeed because man, in his very
nature and inmost essence, is framed for an immortal hope?
No other creature is filled with disgust and anger by the
mere recognition of its own environment, and the realization of
its own destiny. This strange issue of a purely physical evolu-
tion in a profound revolt against itself is incredibly miraculous.
Can a vast universe of atoms and ether, unfolding out of dark-
ness into darkness, produce at some point in its progress, and
that point apparently the highest, a feeling of profound dis-
appointment with its partially discovered processes, and resentful
grief at its dimly foreseen end? To believe this would require
a monstrous credulity. Agnosticism evades it. There are but
two solutions which really face the facts. One is the black, un-
speakable creed, that the source of all things is an unknown,
mocking, malignant power, whose last and most cruel jest is the
misery of disenchanted man. The other is the hopeful creed,
that the very pain which man suffers when his spiritual nature is
denied is proof that it exists, and part of the discipline by which
a truthful, loving God would lead man to Himself. Let the world
judge which is the more reasonable faith. But for our part,
while we cling to the creed of hope, let us not fail to cleave
ever to the sunnier side of doubt,” and see in the very shadow
that it casts, the evidence of a light behind and above it. Let
us learn the meaning of that noble word of St. Augustine:
“Thou hast made us for thyself; and unquiet is our heart until
it rests in thee. ”
Yes, the inquietude of the heart which doubt has robbed of
its faith in God is an evidence that skepticism is a malady, not a
normal state. The sadness of our times under the pressure of
positive disbelief and negative uncertainty has in it the prom-
ise and potency” of a return to health and happiness. Already
we can see, if we look with clear eyes, the signs of what I have
dared to call the reaction out of the heart of a doubting age
towards the Christianity of Christ, and the faith in Immortal
Love. "
Pagan poets, full of melancholy beauty and vague regret for
lost ideals, poets of decadence and despondence, the age has
(
i


## p. 15243 (#187) ##########################################

HENRY VAN DYKE
15243
(
)
€
>>
borne to sing its grief and gloom. But its two great singers,
Tennyson and Browning, strike a clearer note of returning faith
and hope. « They resume the quest; and do not pause until they
find Him whom they seek. ” Pessimists like Hartmann work back
unconsciously, from the vague remoteness of pantheism, far in
the direction, at least, of a theistic view of the universe. His
later books — '
Religionsphilosophie' and 'Selbstersetzung des
Christenthums' — breathe a different spirit from his Philosophie
des Unbewussten. One of the most cautious of our younger
students of philosophy has noted with care, in a recent article,
the indications that the era of doubt is drawing to a close. ” A
statesman like Signor Crispi does not hesitate to cut loose from
his former atheistic connections, and declare that “The belief in
God is the fundamental basis of the healthy life of the people;
while atheism puts in it the germ of an irreparable decay. ' The
French critic, M. Edouard Rod, declares that “Only religion can
regulate at the same time human thought and human action. ”
Mr. Benjamin Kidd, from the side of English sociology, assures
us that “Since man became a social creature, the development of
his intellectual character has become subordinate to the devel-
opment of his religious character; ” and concludes that religion
affords the only permanent sanction for progress. A famous
biologist, Romanes, who once professed the most absolute rejec-
tion of revealed, and the most unqualified skepticism of natural,
religion, thinks his way soberly back from the painful void to
a position where he confesses that it is reasonable to be a
Christian believer," and dies in the full communion of the church
of Jesus.
All along the line, we see men who once thought it necessary
or desirable to abandon forever the soul's abode of faith in the
unseen, returning by many and devious ways from the far coun-
try of doubt, driven by homesickness and hunger to seek some
path which shall at least bring them in sight of a Father's house.
And meanwhile we hear the conscience, the ethical instinct of
mankind, asserting itself with splendid courage and patience, even
in those who have as yet found no sure ground for it to stand
upon.
There is a sublime contradiction between the positivist's
view of man as “the hero of a lamentable drama played in an
obscure corner of the universe, in virtue of blind laws, before an
indifferent nature, and with annihilation for its dénouement,” and
the doctrine that it is his supreme duty to sacrifice himself for
the good of humanity. Yet many of the skeptical thinkers of
C


## p. 15244 (#188) ##########################################

15244
HENRY VAN DYKE
the age do not stumble at the contradiction. They hold fast to
love and justice and moral enthusiasm, even though they suspect
that they themselves are the products of a nature which is blind
and dumb and heartless and stupid. Never have the obligations
of self-restraint, and helpfulness, and equity, and universal broth-
erhood been preached more fervently than by some of the Eng-
lish agnostics.
In France a new crusade has risen; a crusade which seeks
to gather into its hosts men of all creeds, and men of none, and
which proclaims as its object the recovery of the sacred places of
man's spiritual life, the holy land in which virtue shines forever
by its own light, and the higher impulses of our nature are
inspired, invincible, and immortal. On its banner M. Paul Des-
jardins writes the word of Tolstoy, “Il faut avoir une âme”
(It is necessary to have a soul), and declares that the crusaders
will follow it wherever it leads them. “For my part,” he cries,
"I shall not blush certainly to acknowledge as sole master the
Christ preached by the doctors. I shall not recoil if my prem-
ises force me to believe, at last, as Pascal believed. ”
In our
own land such a crusade does not yet appear to be
necessary. The disintegration of faith under the secret processes
of general skepticism has not yet gone far enough to make the
peril of religion evident, or to cause a new marshaling of hosts
to recover and defend the forsaken shrines of man's spiritual life.
When the process which is now subtly working in so many
departments of our literature has gone farther, it may be need-
ful to call for such a crusade. If so, I believe it will come. I
believe that the leaders of thought,— the artists, the poets of the
future, - when they stand face to face with the manifest results
of negation and disillusion, which really destroy the very sphere
in which alone art and poetry can live, will rise to meet the
peril, and proclaim anew with one voice the watchword, “It is
necessary to have a soul. ” And “though a man gain the whole
world, if his soul is lost, it shall profit him nothing. ” But mean-
while, before the following of the errors of France in literature
and art has led us to that point of spiritual impoverishment
where must imitate the organized and avowed effort to
recover that which has been lost, we
new crusade of
another kind: a powerful movement of moral enthusiasm, of self-
sacrifice, of altruism,- even among those who profess to be out
of sympathy with Christianity,– which is a sign of promise,
because it reveals a force that cries out for faith to guide and
we
see
a


## p. 15245 (#189) ##########################################

HENRY VAN DYKE
15245
3
direct it. Never was there a time when the fine aspirations of
the young manhood and young womanhood of our country needed
a more inspiring and direct Christian leadership. The indications
of this need lie open to our sight on every side. Here is a com-
pany of refined and educated people going down to make a col-
lege settlement among the poor and ignorant, to help them and
lift them up.
They declare that it is not a religious movement,
that there is to be no preaching connected with it, that the only
faith which it is to embody is faith in humanity. They choose a
leader who has only that •faith. But they find, under his guid-
ance, that the movement will not move, that the work cannot be
done, that it faints and fails because it lacks the spring of moral
inspiration which can come only from a divine and spiritual
faith. And they are forced to seek a new leader, who, although
he is not a preacher, yet carries within his heart that power of
religious conviction, that force of devotion to the will of God,
that faith in the living and supreme Christ, which is in fact the
centre of Christianity. All around the circle of human doubt and
despair, where men and women are going out to enlighten and
uplift and comfort and strengthen their fellow-men under the
perplexities and burdens of life, we hear the cry for a gospel
which shall be divine, and therefore sovereign and unquestionable
and sure and victorious. All through the noblest aspirations and
efforts and hopes of our age of doubt, we feel the longing, and
we hear the demand, for a new inspiration of Christian faith.
AN ANGLER'S WISH
From The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright 1897, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
I
HEN tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
WHEN
When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes toward sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;


## p. 15246 (#190) ##########################################

15246
HENRY VAN DYKE
Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing, -
For this the month of May was made.
II
I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plow.
The thistle-birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show's begun.
The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these ?
III
I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.
The Airting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, «Good cheer. ”
And best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm:
How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music's balm!
IV
'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line:
Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf and dream;


## p. 15247 (#191) ##########################################

HENRY VAN DYKE
15247
Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
No more I'm wishing - old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's heart.
TENNYSON
From “The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright 1897, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
ROM the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendors of the
moon,
(noon,
To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than
Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune.
F
Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art;
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart:
Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou depart?
Silence here — for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail;
Silence here — for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels fail;
Silence here — but far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail!
THE VEERY
From “The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright 1897, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
T**
VE moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie:
I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood-notes of the veery.
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie:
I only know one song more sweet, - the vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure;
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,–
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; [ing;
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ring-
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.


## p. 15248 (#192) ##########################################

15248
GIORGIO VASARI
(1512-1574)
Area
He contemporary of Michel Angelo, of Raphael, and of Andrea
del Sarto, Giorgio Vasari was himself a painter and archi-
tect of reputation. His name would however probably be
forgotten to-day, were it not for his literary achievement in the
Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. ' In
the sketch of himself which Vasari gives in this work, he tells the
story of the book's origin and development, evidently regarding it as a
mere incident in a busy and renowned life.
«One evening,” he writes, — «one evening
among others the conversation fell on the Mu-
seum of Giovio, and on the portraits of illus-
trious men placed there in admirable order and
with appropriate inscriptions; when, passing from
one thing to another, as is done in conversation,
Monsignore Giovio said that he always had felt,
and still did feel, a great wish to add to his
museum, and to his book of Eulogies) a treatise
concerning men who had distinguished them-
selves in the art of design, from Cimabue down
to our own times. He spoke at some length on
the subject, giving proof of much knowledge and
judgment in matters concerning our arts. It is
GIORGIO VASARI nevertheless true, that as he was treating only
of generalities, and did not enter into the matter
very closely, he often made some confusion among the artists cited, changing
their names, families, birthplaces, etc. , or attributing the work of one to the
hand of another; not describing things as they were precisely, but rather
treating of them in the mass.
«When Giovio had finished his discourse, the cardinal turning to me said,
(What think you, Giorgio — would not this be a fine work, a noble labor ? )
(Admirable, indeed, most illustrious my lord,' replied 1: (provided Giovio be
assisted by some one belonging to our calling, who can put things into their
right places, and relate them as they have really occurred; and this I say be.
cause, although the discourse he has just concluded is admirable, yet he has
often made assertions that are not correct, and said one thing for another. )
(Could you not, then,' replied the cardinal, being incited thereunto by Giovio,
Caro, Tolomei, and the rest, — (could you not supply him with a summary of

-


## p. 15249 (#193) ##########################################

GIORGIO VASARI
15249
these matters, and with notices of all these artists, – their works being arranged
in the order of time,- whereby you would confer that benefit also on your
arts ? ) This, although I knew the undertaking beyond my strength, I was
yet willing to attempt, with such power as I possessed, and promised to do it
according to the best of my ability. ”
He was
He continues to tell us that he promptly gathered his material
together for this work. He was, indeed, somewhat abundantly sup-
plied with notes, as since his boyhood he had collected for his own
recreation what items he could find concerning the great artists.
When he presented the summary to Monsignore Giovio, that gentle-
man was so pleased with the style that he persuaded Vasari to pre-
pare the book himself. Thus it is that Signor Giorgio Vasari won
his title to many generations of fame.
He was born in Arezzo in 1512. There as a child he copied the
pictures in the churches, encouraged always by his good father,
Messer Antonio. When Giorgio was nine years of age, his father
took him to pay his respects to their kinsman, Cardinal Silvio Pas-
serini, who was visiting Arezzo. This prelate was much impressed
by the boy's familiarity with Virgil and with the rudiments of learn-
ing, as well as by his proficiency in drawing. He persuaded Messer
Antonio to conduct his son to Florence; and here the boy was placed
with Alessandro and Ippolito dei Medici in the study of the classics,
and was put to learn design under the great Michel Angelo.
Early in life Giorgio Vasari began a career of success.
an indomitable worker; and during a very brief interval between his
days of student life and those of the remunerated artist, he painted
assiduously frescoes for the peasantry outside of Arezzo, for the mere
sake of the experience to be gained therefrom. On the death of his
father, the care of younger brothers and sisters devolved on him;
and in order to meet the responsibility, he was forced to practice for
a time in Florence the art of the goldsmith. Commissions for paint-
ing soon overtook him, however; and despite the astonishing rapidity
with which he worked, it was no longer possible for him to fulfill the
demands made upon his time. He became the darling of the court;
but the precariousness of such a popularity speedily impressed itself
“The promises of this world,” he writes, are for the
most part but vain phantoms; to confide in one's self and to become
something of worth and value is the best and safest course. ” His
popularity, however, in no way diminished after he ceased to rely
upon it as a means of advancement. His personality was such as to
inspire affection.
It was largely his quality of friendliness which led him to accom-
plish so admirably the literary work by which he lives to-day. He
was in close personal relations with the artists of his country, and
XXVI–954
upon him.


## p. 15250 (#194) ##########################################

15250
GIORGIO VASARI
-
one of their own calling. He was always their comrade, never their
rival. “Who, exclaims the Padre della Valle, “would not become
the friend of Vasari! » He had the power of drawing into sympathy
those who were gathered round him: thus it is that in the Lives
we feel, not like students ferreting for facts in the careers of great
men, but rather as honored guests introduced to a coterie of con-
genial spirits. The work has not escaped the just charge of inaccu-
racies, and has been corrected and annotated by Della Valle, Rumohr,
Förster, and others. As a critic, however, Vasari has always the
spirit of justice, and is usually able to lay aside personal sympathy
and to assume dispassionate judgment. His style is pure and ingen-
.
uous, relieved by a refined and subdued humor; not infrequently he
ascends to elequence,- that somewhat rare eloquence in which one
thinks less of rhetoric than of the sentiment expressed, and in which,
despite the enthusiasm of the writer, one yet feels that he is not
controlled by his subject, but is still master of it.
Vasari died in Florence in 1574. while occupied in painting the
cupola of the Duomo. As the tourist reads in his Baedeker to-day
that the prophets in the lantern were the last work of Giorgio Vasari,
he looks at them curiously, knowing that it was not as a literary
critic, but as an artist, that this man expected to go down to poster-
ity. Yet after the passage of three hundred years, his book remains
an authority; if not in every particular congenial to the disciples of
Ruskin, it yet accords with the prevailing judgment of to-day.
He
himself says of his works that if the future finds no excellence in
them, it must yet recognize an ardent wish to do well, . . with
great and enduring industry, and a true love for these our arts. ”
What greater tribute than this modest assertion can be paid to a work
accomplished by a master whom three centuries have pronounced a
man of knowledge and intelligence ?
RAPHAEL SANZIO
From Lives
the Most Em
ent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects)
E wherewith is
T"pleased to accumulate the infinite riches of its treasures on
are
the head of one sole favorite — showering on him all those
rare gifts and . graces which more commonly distributed
among a larger number of individuals, and accorded at long
intervals of time only - has been clearly exemplified in the well-
known instance of Raphael Sanzio of Urbino.


## p. 15251 (#195) ##########################################

GIORGIO VASARI
15251
No less excellent than graceful, he was endowed by nature
with all that modesty and goodness which may occasionally be
perceived in those few favored persons who enhance the gracious
sweetness of a disposition more than usually gentle, by the fair
ornament of a winning amenity, always ready to conciliate, and
constantly giving evidence of the most refined consideration for
all persons, and under every circumstance. The world received
the gift of this artist from the hand of Nature, when, vanquished
by Art in the person of Michel Angelo, she deigned to be sub-
jugated in that of Raphael, not by art only but by goodness also.
And of a truth, since the greater number of artists had up to
that period derived from nature a certain rudeness and eccen-
tricity, which not only rendered them uncouth and fantastic, but
often caused the shadows and darkness of vice to be more con-
spicuous in their lives than the light and splendor of those
virtues by which man is rendered immortal,- so was there' good
cause wherefore she should, on the con ary, make all the rarest
qualities of the heart to shine resplendently in her Raphael; per-
fecting them by so much diffidence, grace, application to study,
and excellence of life, that these alone would have sufficed to
veil or neutralize every fault, however important, and to efface
all defects, however glaring they might have been. Truly may
we affirm that those who are the possessors of endowments so
rich and varied as were assembled in the person of Raphael, are
scarcely to be called simple men only,- they are rather, if it be
permitted so to speak, entitled to the appellation of mortal gods;
and further are we authorized to declare, that he who by means
of his works has left an honored name in the records of fame
here below, may also hope to enjoy such rewards in heaven as
are commensurate to and worthy of their labors and merits.
Raphael was born at Urbino- a most renowned city of Italy
on Good Friday of the year 1483, at three o'clock of the night.
His father was a certain Giovanni de' Santi; a painter of no
great eminence in his art, but a man of sufficient intelligence
nevertheless, and perfectly competent to direct his children into
that good way which had not, for his misfortune, been laid open
to himself in his younger days. And first, as he knew how im-
portant it is that a child should be nourished by the milk of its
own mother, and not by that of the hired nurse, so he deter-
mined when his son Raphael (to whom he gave that name at his
baptism, as being one of good augury) was born to him, that


## p. 15252 (#196) ##########################################

15252
GIORGIO VASARI
+
1
1
the mother of the child, he having no other,— as indeed he never
had more,- should herself be the nurse of the child. Giovanni
further desired that in his tender years the boy should rather be
brought up to the habits of his own family, and beneath his pa-
ternal roof, than be sent where he must acquire habits and man-
ners less refined, and modes of thought less commendable, in the
houses of the peasantry or other untaught persons. As the child
became older, Giovanni began to instruct him in the first princi-
ples of painting; perceiving that he was much inclined to that
art, and finding him to be endowed with a most admirable genius:
few years had passed, therefore, before Raphael, though still but
a child, became a valuable assistant to his father in the numer-
ous works which the latter executed in the State of Urbino.
At length this good and affectionate parent, knowing that his
son would acquire but little of his art from himself, resolved to
place him with Pietro Perugino, who, according to what Giovanni
had been told, was then considered to hold the first place among
the painters of the time. Wherefore, proceeding to Perugia for
that purpose, and finding Pietro to be absent from the city, he
occupied himself — to the end that he might await the return of
the master with the less inconvenience — in the execution of cer-
tain works for the church of San Francesco in that place. But
when Pietro had returned to Perugia, Giovanni, who was a per-
son of very good manners and pleasing deportment, soon formed
an amicable acquaintanceship with him; and when the proper
opportunity arrived, made known to him the desire he had con-
ceived, in the most suitable manner that he could devise. There-
upon Pietro, who was also exceedingly courteous, as well as a
lover of fine genius, agreed to accept the care of Raphael. Gio-
vanni then returned to Urbino; and having taken the boy,
though not without many tears from his mother, who loved him
tenderly, he conducted him to Perugia: when Pietro no sooner
beheld his manner of drawing, and observed the pleasing deport-
ment of the youth, than he conceived that opinion of him which
was in due time so amply confirmed by the results produced in
the after life of Raphael.
But I have now discoursed respecting these questions of art
at more length perhaps than was needful, and will return to the
life and death of Raphael. This master lived in the strictest inti-
macy with Bernardo Divizio, Cardinal of Bibbiena, who had for
many years importuned him to take a wife of his selection; nor
***
1
11


## p. 15253 (#197) ##########################################

GIORGIO VASARI
15253
had Raphael directly refused compliance with the wishes of the
cardinal, but had put the matter off, by saying that he would wait
some three or four years longer. The term which he had thus
set, approached before Raphael had thought of it, when he was
reminded by the cardinal of his promise; and being as he ever
was, just and upright, he would not depart from his word, and
therefore accepted a niece of the cardinal himself for his wife.
But as this engagement was nevertheless a very heavy restraint
to him, he put off the marriage from time to time; insomuch
that several months passed, and the ceremony had not yet taken
place. Yet this was not done without a very honorable motive;
for Raphael having been for many years in the service of the
count, and being the creditor of Leo X. for a large sum of
money, had received an intimation to the effect that when the
hall with which he was then occupied was completed, the pontiff
intended to reward him for his labors as well as to do honor to
his talents by bestowing on him the red hat, of which he meant
to distribute a considerable number, many of them being designed
for persons whose merits were greatly inferior to those of Ra-
phael. The painter meanwhile did not abandon the light attach-
ment by which he was enchained: and one day, on returning to
his house from one of these secret visits, he was seized with
a violent fever, which being mistaken for a cold, the physicians
inconsiderately caused him to be bled; whereby he found him-
self exhausted, when he had rather required to be strengthened.
Thereupon he made his will, and as a good Christian he sent
the object of his attachment from the house, but left her a suf-
ficient provision wherewith she might live in decency: having
done so much, he divided his property among his disciples, –
Giulio Romano, that is to say, whom he always loved greatly, and
Giovanni Francesco, with whom was joined a certain priest of
Urbino who was his kinsman, but whose name I do not know.