Nay, like the broken
Potsherds
are we cast
Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will!
Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will!
Letters to Dead Authors - Andrew Lang
He criticises you in the spirit of that Christian Apologist,
the Englishman who called you “a damned Atheist” in the post-office at
Pisa. He finds that you had “a little turned-up nose,” a feature no less
important in his system than was the nose of Cleopatra (according to
Pascal) in the history of the world. To be in harmony with your nose,
you were a “phenomenal” liar, an ill-bred, ill-born, profligate, partly
insane, an evil-tempered monster, a self-righteous person, full of
self-approbation—in fact you were the Beast of this pious Apocalypse.
Your friend Dr. Lind was an embittered and scurrilous apothecary, “a bad
old man. ” But enough of this inopportune brawler.
For Humanity, of which you hoped such great things, Science predicts
extinction in a night of Frost. The sun will grow cold, slowly—as slowly
as doom came on Jupiter in your “Prometheus,” but as surely. If this
nightmare be fulfilled, perhaps the Last Man, in some fetid hut on the
ice-bound Equator, will read, by a fading lamp charged with the dregs of
the oil in his cruse, the poetry of Shelley. So reading, he, the latest
of his race, will not wholly be deprived of those sights which alone
(says the nameless Greek) make life worth enduring. In your verse he
will have sight of sky, and sea, and cloud, the gold of dawn and the
gloom of earthquake and eclipse. He will be face to face, in fancy, with
the great powers that are dead, sun, and ocean, and the illimitable azure
of the heavens. In Shelley’s poetry, while Man endures, all those will
survive; for your “voice is as the voice of winds and tides,” and perhaps
more deathless than all of these, and only perishable with the perishing
of the human spirit.
XVIII.
_To Monsieur de Molière_, _Valet de Chambre du Roi_.
MONSIEUR,—With what awe does a writer venture into the presence of the
great Molière! As a courtier in your time would scratch humbly (with his
comb! ) at the door of the Grand Monarch, so I presume to draw near your
dwelling among the Immortals. You, like the king who, among all his
titles, has now none so proud as that of the friend of Molière—you found
your dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to the
dignity of an empire: what Louis XIV. did for France you achieved for
French comedy; and the baton of Scapin still wields its sway though the
sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim. For the King the Pyrenees, or so
he fancied, ceased to exist; by a more magnificent conquest you overcame
the Channel. If England vanquished your country’s arms, it was through
you that France _ferum victorem cepit_, and restored the dynasty of
Comedy to the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden
borrowed “L’Etourdi,” our tardy apish nation has lived (in matters
theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France.
In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered. While you
lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was the congenial
business of English playwrights to foist their rustic grossness and their
large Fescennine jests into the urban page of Molière. Now they are
diversely occupied; and it is their affair to lend modesty where they
borrow wit, and to spare a blush to the cheek of the Lord Chamberlain.
But still, as has ever been our wont since Etherege saw, and envied, and
imitated your successes—still we pilfer the plays of France, and take our
_bien_, as you said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We
are the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that a
comedy pleases the town which has not first been “cut out” from the
countrymen of Molière. Why this should be, and what “tenebriferous star”
(as Paracelsus, your companion in the “Dialogues des Morts,” would have
believed) thus darkens the sun of English humour, we know not; but
certainly our dependence on France is the sincerest tribute to you.
Without you, neither Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor “a wilderness of monkeys”
like Scarron, could ever have given Comedy to France and restored her to
Europe.
While we owe to you, Monsieur, the beautiful advent of Comedy, fair and
beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, it is still to you that
we must turn when of comedies we desire the best. If you studied with
daily and nightly care the works of Plautus and Terence, if you “let no
musty _bouquin_ escape you” (so your enemies declared), it was to some
purpose that you laboured. Shakespeare excepted, you eclipsed all who
came before you; and from those that follow, however fresh, we turn: we
turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, from Sheridan and Goldsmith, from
Musset and Pailleron and Labiche, to that crowded world of your
creations. “Creations” one may well say, for you anticipated Nature
herself: you gave us, before she did, in Alceste a Rousseau who was a
gentleman not a lacquey; in a _mot_ of Don Juan’s, the secret of the new
Religion and the watchword of Comte, _l’amour de l’humanité_.
Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a Frenchman with humour;
and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise philosophy of a secular
civilisation? With a heart the most tender, delicate, loving, and
generous, a heart often in agony and torment, you had to make life
endurable (we cannot doubt it) without any whisper of promise, or hope,
or warning from Religion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all,
the mind of Pascal, proclaimed that the only help was in voluntary
blindness, that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at evens, you,
Monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see what you found
invisible.
In Religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits and
Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartufe the portrait of
their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in your play conceived
that you were girding at his neighbour), you all the while were mocking
every credulous excess of Faith. In the sermons preached to Agnès we
surely hear your private laughter; in the arguments for credulity which
are presented to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal
self-defence of superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you sought for
the permanent element of life—precisely where Pascal recognised all that
was most fleeting and unsubstantial—in _divertissement_; in the pleasure
of looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence, an observer of
the follies of mankind. Like the Gods of the Epicurean, you seem to
regard our life as a play that is played, as a comedy; yet how often the
tragic note comes in! What pity, and in the laughter what an accent of
tears, as of rain in the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human
as you; none has had a heart, like you, to feel for his butts, and to
leave them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their tormentors.
Sganarelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the rest—our sympathy,
somehow, is with them, after all; and M. de Pourceaugnac is a gentleman,
despite his misadventures.
Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays may batter and
defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not all the victory, or you
did not mean that they should win it. They go off with laughter, and
their victim with a grimace; but in him we, that are past our youth,
behold an actor in an unending tragedy, the defeat of a generation. Your
sympathy is not wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can
throw a bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has been taught
that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned in shame, in jealousy,
in endurance of the wanton pride of men (how could the poor player and
the husband of Célimène be untaught in that experience? ), you never sided
quite heartily, as other comedians have done, with young prosperity and
rank and power.
I am not the first who has dared to approach you in the Shades; for just
after your own death the author of “Les Dialogues des Morts” gave you
Paracelsus as a companion, and the author of “Le Jugement de Pluton” made
the “mighty warder” decide that “Molière should not talk philosophy. ”
These writers, like most of us, feel that, after all, the comedies of the
_Contemplateur_, of the translator of Lucretius, are a philosophy of life
in themselves, and that in them we read the lessons of human experience
writ small and clear.
What comedian but Molière has combined with such depths—with the
indignation of Alceste, the self-deception of Tartufe, the blasphemy of
Don Juan—such wildness of irresponsible mirth, such humour, such wit!
Even now, when more than two hundred years have sped by, when so much
water has flowed under the bridges and has borne away so many trifles of
contemporary mirth (_cetera fluminis ritu feruntur_), even now we never
laugh so well as when Mascarille and Vadius and M. Jourdain tread the
boards in the Maison de Molière. Since those mobile dark brows of yours
ceased to make men laugh, since your voice denounced the “demoniac”
manner of contemporary tragedians, I take leave to think that no player
has been more worthy to wear the canons of Mascarille or the gown of
Vadius than M. Coquelin of the Comédie Française. In him you have a
successor to your Mascarille so perfect, that the ghosts of playgoers of
your date might cry, could they see him, that Molière had come again.
But, with all respect to the efforts of the fair, I doubt if Mdlle.
Barthet, or Mdme. Croizette herself, would reconcile the town to the loss
of the fair De Brie, and Madeleine, and the first, the true Célimène,
Armande. Yet had you ever so merry a _soubrette_ as Mdme. Samary, so
exquisite a Nicole?
Denounced, persecuted, and buried hugger-mugger two hundred years ago,
you are now not over-praised, but more worshipped, with more servility
and ostentation, studied with more prying curiosity than you may approve.
Are not the Molièristes a body who carry adoration to fanaticism? Any
scrap of your handwriting (so few are these), any anecdote even remotely
touching on your life, any fact that may prove your house was numbered 15
not 22, is eagerly seized and discussed by your too minute historians.
Concerning your private life, these men often speak more like malicious
enemies than friends; repeating the fabulous scandals of Le Boulanger,
and trying vainly to support them by grubbing in dusty parish registers.
It is most necessary to defend you from your friends—from such friends as
the veteran and inveterate M. Arsène Houssaye, or the industrious but
puzzle-headed M. Loiseleur. Truly they seek the living among the dead,
and the immortal Molière among the sweepings of attorneys’ offices. As I
regard them (for I have tarried in their tents) and as I behold their
trivialities—the exercises of men who neglect Molière’s works to gossip
about Molière’s great-grand-mother’s second-best bed—I sometimes wish
that Molière were here to write on his devotees a new comedy, “Les
Molièristes. ” How fortunate were they, Monsieur, who lived and worked
with you, who saw you day by day, who were attached, as Lagrange tells
us, by the kindest loyalty to the best and most honourable of men, the
most open-handed in friendship, in charity the most delicate, of the
heartiest sympathy! Ah, that for one day I could behold you, writing in
the study, rehearsing on the stage, musing in the lace-seller’s shop,
strolling through the Palais, turning over the new books at Billaine’s,
dusting your ruffles among the old volumes on the sunny stalls. Would
that, through the ages, we could hear you after supper, merry with
Boileau, and with Racine,—not yet a traitor,—laughing over Chapelain,
combining to gird at him in an epigram, or mocking at Cotin, or talking
your favourite philosophy, mindful of Descartes. Surely of all the wits
none was ever so good a man, none ever made life so rich with humour and
friendship.
XIX.
_To Robert Burns_.
SIR,—Among men of Genius, and especially among Poets, there are some to
whom we turn with a peculiar and unfeigned affection; there are others
whom we admire rather than love. By some we are won with our will, by
others conquered against our desire. It has been your peculiar fortune
to capture the hearts of a whole people—a people not usually prone to
praise, but devoted with a personal and patriotic loyalty to you and to
your reputation. In you every Scot who _is_ a Scot sees, admires, and
compliments Himself, his ideal self—independent, fond of whisky, fonder
of the lassies; you are the true representative of him and of his nation.
Next year will be the hundredth since the press of Kilmarnock brought to
light its solitary masterpiece, your Poems; and next year, therefore,
methinks, the revenue will receive a welcome accession from the abundance
of whisky drunk in your honour. It is a cruel thing for any of your
countrymen to feel that, where all the rest love, he can only admire;
where all the rest are idolators, he may not bend the knee; but stands
apart and beats upon his breast, observing, not adoring—a critic. Yet to
some of us—petty souls, perhaps, and envious—that loud indiscriminating
praise of “Robbie Burns” (for so they style you in their Change-house
familiarity) has long been ungrateful; and, among the treasures of your
songs, we venture to select and even to reject. So it must be! We
cannot all love Haggis, nor “painch, tripe, and thairm,” and all those
rural dainties which you celebrate as “warm-reekin, rich! ” “Rather too
rich,” as the Young Lady said on an occasion recorded by Sam Weller.
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
You _have_ given her a Haggis, with a vengeance, and her “gratefu’
prayer” is yours for ever. But if even an eternity of partridge may pall
on the epicure, so of Haggis too, as of all earthly delights, cometh
satiety at last. And yet what a glorious Haggis it is—the more
emphatically rustic and even Fescennine part of your verse! We have had
many a rural bard since Theocritus “watched the visionary flocks,” but
you are the only one of them all who has spoken the sincere Doric. Yours
is the talk of the byre and the plough-tail; yours is that large
utterance of the early hinds. Even Theocritus minces matters, save where
Lacon and Comatas quite out-do the swains of Ayrshire. “But thee,
Theocritus, wha matches? ” you ask, and yourself out-match him in this
wide rude region, trodden only by the rural Muse. “_Thy_ rural loves are
nature’s sel’;” and the wooer of Jean Armour speaks more like a true
shepherd than the elegant Daphnis of the “Oaristys. ”
Indeed it is with this that moral critics of your life reproach you,
forgetting, perhaps, that in your amours you were but as other Scotch
ploughmen and shepherds of the past and present. Ettrick may still, with
Afghanistan, offer matter for idylls, as Mr. Carlyle (your antithesis,
and the complement of the Scotch character) supposed; but the morals of
Ettrick are those of rural Sicily in old days, or of Mossgiel in your
days. Over these matters the Kirk, with all her power, and the Free Kirk
too, have had absolutely no influence whatever. To leave so delicate a
topic, you were but as other swains, or, as “that Birkie ca’d a lord,”
Lord Byron; only you combined (in certain of your letters) a libertine
theory with your practice; you poured out in song your audacious
raptures, your half-hearted repentance, your shame and your scorn. You
spoke the truth about rural lives and loves. We may like it or dislike
it but we cannot deny the verity.
Was it not as unhappy a thing, Sir, for you, as it was fortunate for
Letters and for Scotland, that you were born at the meeting of two ages
and of two worlds—precisely in the moment when bookish literature was
beginning to reach the people, and when Society was first learning to
admit the low-born to her Minor Mysteries? Before you how many singers
not less truly poets than yourself—though less versatile not less
passionate, though less sensuous not less simple—had been born and had
died in poor men’s cottages! There abides not even the shadow of a name
of the old Scotch song-smiths, of the old ballad-makers. The authors of
“Clerk Saunders,” of “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” of “Fair Annie,” and
“Sir Patrick Spens,” and “The Bonny Hind,” are as unknown to us as Homer,
whom in their directness and force they resemble. They never, perhaps,
gave their poems to writing; certainly they never gave them to the press.
On the lips and in the hearts of the people they have their lives; and
the singers, after a life obscure and untroubled by society or by fame,
are forgotten. “The Iniquity of Oblivion blindly scattereth his Poppy. ”
Had you been born some years earlier you would have been even as these
unnamed Immortals, leaving great verses to a little clan—verses retained
only by Memory. You would have been but the minstrel of your native
valley: the wider world would not have known you, nor you the world.
Great thoughts of independence and revolt would never have burned in you;
indignation would not have vexed you. Society would not have given and
denied her caresses. You would have been happy. Your songs would have
lingered in all “the circle of the summer hills;” and your scorn, your
satire, your narrative verse, would have been unwritten or unknown. To
the world what a loss! and what a gain to you! We should have possessed
but a few of your lyrics, as
When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrowed field,
Return sae dowf and wearie O!
How noble that is, how natural, how unconsciously Greek! You found,
oddly, in good Mrs. Barbauld, the merits of the Tenth Muse:
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho’s flame!
But how unconsciously you remind us both of Sappho and of Homer in these
strains about the Evening Star and the hour when the Day μετενίσσετο
βουλυτόνδε? Had you lived and died the pastoral poet of some silent
glen, such lyrics could not but have survived; free, too, of all that in
your songs reminds us of the Poet’s Corner in the “Kirkcudbright
Advertiser. ” We should not have read how
Phœbus, gilding the brow o’ morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade!
Still we might keep a love-poem unexcelled by Catullus,
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
But the letters to Clarinda would have been unwritten, and the thrush
would have been untaught in “the style of the Bird of Paradise. ”
A quiet life of song, _fallentis semita vitæ_, was not to be yours. Fate
otherwise decreed it. The touch of a lettered society, the strife with
the Kirk, discontent with the State, poverty and pride, neglect and
success, were needed to make your Genius what it was, and to endow the
world with “Tam o’ Shanter,” the “Jolly Beggars,” and “Holy Willie’s
Prayer. ” Who can praise them too highly—who admire in them too much the
humour, the scorn, the wisdom, the unsurpassed energy and courage? So
powerful, so commanding, is the movement of that Beggars’ Chorus, that,
methinks, it unconsciously echoed in the brain of our greatest living
poet when he conceived the “Vision of Sin. ” You shall judge for
yourself. Recall:
Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here’s to all the wandering train!
Here’s our ragged bairns and callets!
One and all cry out, Amen!
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected!
Churches built to please the priest!
Then read this:
Drink to lofty hopes that cool—
Visions of a perfect state:
Drink we, last, the public fool,
Frantic love and frantic hate.
* * * * *
Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,
While we keep a little breath!
Drink to heavy Ignorance,
Hob and nob with brother Death!
Is not the movement the same, though the modern speaks a wilder
recklessness?
So in the best company we leave you, who were the life and soul of so
much company, good and bad. No poet, since the Psalmist of Israel, ever
gave the world more assurance of a man; none lived a life more strenuous,
engaged in an eternal conflict of the passions, and by them
overcome—“mighty and mightily fallen. ” When we think of you, Byron
seems, as Plato would have said, remote by one degree from actual truth,
and Musset by a degree more remote than Byron.
XX.
_To Lord Byron_.
MY LORD,
(Do you remember how Leigh Hunt
Enraged you once by writing _My dear Byron_? )
Books have their fates,—as mortals have who punt,
And _yours_ have entered on an age of iron.
Critics there be who think your satire blunt,
Your pathos, fudge; such perils must environ
Poets who in their time were quite the rage,
Though now there’s not a soul to turn their page.
Yes, there is much dispute about your worth,
And much is said which you might like to know
By modern poets here upon the earth,
Where poets live, and love each other so;
And, in Elysium, it may move your mirth
To hear of bards that pitch your praises low,
Though there be some that for your credit stickle,
As—Glorious Mat,—and not inglorious Nichol.
(This kind of writing is my pet aversion,
I hate the slang, I hate the personalities,
I loathe the aimless, reckless, loose dispersion,
Of every rhyme that in the singer’s wallet is,
I hate it as you hated the _Excursion_,
But, while no man a hero to his valet is,
The hero’s still the model; I indite
The kind of rhymes that Byron oft would write. )
There’s a Swiss critic whom I cannot rhyme to,
One Scherer, dry as sawdust, grim and prim.
Of him there’s much to say, if I had time to
Concern myself in any wise with _him_.
He seems to hate the heights he cannot climb to,
He thinks your poetry a coxcomb’s whim,
A good deal of his sawdust he has spilt on
Shakespeare, and Molière, and you, and Milton.
Ay, much his temper is like Vivien’s mood,
Which found not Galahad pure, nor Lancelot brave;
Cold as a hailstorm on an April wood,
He buries poets in an icy grave,
His Essays—he of the Genevan hood!
Nothing so fine, but better doth he crave.
So stupid and so solemn in his spite
He dares to print that Molière could not write!
Enough of these excursions; I was saying
That half our English Bards are turned Reviewers,
And Arnold was discussing and assaying
The weight and value of that work of yours,
Examining and testing it and weighing,
And proved, the gems are pure, the gold endures.
While Swinburne cries with an exceeding joy,
The stones are paste, and half the gold, alloy.
In Byron, Arnold finds the greatest force,
Poetic, in this later age of ours;
His song, a torrent from a mountain source,
Clear as the crystal, singing with the showers,
Sweeps to the sea in unrestricted course
Through banks o’erhung with rocks and sweet with flowers;
None of your brooks that modestly meander,
But swift as Awe along the Pass of Brander.
And when our century has clomb its crest,
And backward gazes o’er the plains of Time,
And counts its harvest, yours is still the best,
The richest garner in the field of rhyme
(The metaphoric mixture, ’tis comfest,
Is all my own, and is not quite sublime).
But fame’s not yours alone; you must divide all
The plums and pudding with the Bard of Rydal!
WORDSWORTH and BYRON, these the lordly names
And these the gods to whom most incense burns.
“Absurd! ” cries Swinburne, and in anger flames,
And in an Æschylean fury spurns
With impious foot your altar, and exclaims
And wreathes his laurels on the golden urns
Where Coleridge’s and Shelley’s ashes lie,
Deaf to the din and heedless of the cry.
For Byron (Swinburne shouts) has never woven
One honest thread of life within his song;
As Offenbach is to divine Beethoven
So Byron is to Shelley (_This_ is strong! ),
And on Parnassus’ peak, divinely cloven,
He may not stand, or stands by cruel wrong;
For Byron’s rank (the examiner has reckoned)
Is in the third class or a feeble second.
“A Bernesque poet” at the very most,
And “never earnest save in politics,”
The Pegasus that he was wont to boast
A blundering, floundering hackney, full of tricks,
A beast that must be driven to the post
By whips and spurs and oaths and kicks and sticks,
A gasping, ranting, broken-winded brute,
That any judge of Pegasi would shoot;
In sooth, a half-bred Pegasus, and far gone
In spavin, curb, and half a hundred woes.
And Byron’s style is “jolter-headed jargon;”
His verse is “only bearable in prose. ”
So living poets write of those that _are_ gone,
And o’er the Eagle thus the Bantam crows;
And Swinburne ends where Verisopht began,
By owning you “a very clever man. ”
Or rather does not end: he still must utter
A quantity of the unkindest things.
Ah! were you here, I marvel, would you flutter
O’er such a foe the tempest of your wings?
’Tis “rant and cant and glare and splash and splutter”
That rend the modest air when Byron sings.
There Swinburne stops: a critic rather fiery.
_Animis cælestibus tantæne iræ_?
But whether he or Arnold in the right is,
Long is the argument, the quarrel long;
_Non nobis est_ to settle _tantas lites_;
No poet I, to judge of right or wrong:
But of all things I always think a fight is
The _most_ unpleasant in the lists of song;
When Marsyas of old was flayed, Apollo
Set an example which we need not follow.
The fashion changes! Maidens do not wear,
As once they wore, in necklaces and lockets
A curl ambrosial of Lord Byron’s hair;
“Don Juan” is not always in our pockets—
Nay, a New Writer’s readers do not care
Much for your verse, but are inclined to mock its
Manners and morals. Ay, and most young ladies
To yours prefer the “Epic” called “of Hades”!
I do not blame them; I’m inclined to think
That with the reigning taste ’tis vain to quarrel,
And Burns might teach his votaries to drink,
And Byron never meant to make them moral.
You yet have lovers true, who will not shrink
From lauding you and giving you the laurel;
The Germans too, those men of blood and iron,
Of all our poets chiefly swear by Byron.
Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods!
Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit,
Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds,
Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit;
Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies’ rods,
Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit;
Beholding whom, men think how fairer far
Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! {215}
XXI.
_To Omar Khayyâm_.
WISE Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling
Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring,
The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose,
The wild white Roses you were wont to sing?
Far in the South I know a Land divine, {216}
And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine,
And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows
Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine.
You were a Saint of unbelieving Days,
Liking your Life and happy in Men’s Praise;
Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough,
Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways.
Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell,
Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell,
Content to know not all thou knowest now,
What’s Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well?
The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill,
Shall He torment them if they chance to spill?
Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast
Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will!
So still were we, before the Months began
That rounded us and shaped us into Man.
So still we _shall_ be, surely, at the last,
Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!
Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought—
How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought—
Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East,
In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought,
Which gave our England for a captive Land
To pious Chiefs of a believing Band,
A gift to the Believer from the Priest,
Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! {218}
Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave
Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save
His England, even of Harold Godwin’s son;
The high Tide murmurs by the Hero’s Grave! {219}
And _thou_ wert wreathing Roses—who can tell? —
Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well,
Or satst at Wine in Nashâpûr, when dun
The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell!
The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam!
Along the white Walls of his guarded Home
No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o’er the Wave
The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam!
And dear to him, as Roses were to thee,
Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea;
The _Swan’s Path_ of his Fathers is his Grave:
His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be.
His was the Age of Faith, when all the West
Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest;
And thou wert living then, and didst not heed
The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!
Ages of Progress! These eight hundred Years
Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or Fears,
And now! —she listens in the Wilderness
To _thee_, and half believeth what she hears!
Hadst _thou_ THE SECRET? Ah, and who may tell?
“An Hour we have,” thou saidst; “Ah, waste it well! ”
An Hour we have, and yet Eternity
Looms o’er us, and the Thought of Heaven or Hell!
Nay, we can never be as wise as thou,
O idle Singer ’neath the blossomed Bough.
Nay, and we cannot be content to die.
_We_ cannot shirk the Questions “Where? ” and “How? ”
Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content
Shall we of England go the way _he_ went—
The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose—
Nay, otherwise than _his_ our Day is spent!
Serene he dwelt in fragrant Nashâpûr,
But we must wander while the Stars endure.
_He_ knew THE SECRET: we have none that knows,
No Man so sure as Omar once was sure!
XXII.
_To Q. Horatius Flaccus_.
IN what manner of Paradise are we to conceive that you, Horace, are
dwelling, or what region of immortality can give you such pleasures as
this life afforded? The country and the town, nature and men, who knew
them so well as you, or who ever so wisely made the best of those two
worlds? Truly here you had good things, nor do you ever, in all your
poems, look for more delight in the life beyond; you never expect
consolation for present sorrow, and when you once have shaken hands with
a friend the parting seems to you eternal.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis?
So you sing, for the dear head you mourn has sunk, for ever, beneath the
wave. Virgil might wander forth bearing the golden branch “the Sibyl
doth to singing men allow,” and might visit, as one not wholly without
hope, the dim dwellings of the dead and the unborn. To him was it
permitted to see and sing “mothers and men, and the bodies outworn of
mighty heroes, boys and unwedded maids, and young men borne to the
funeral fire before their parent’s eyes. ” The endless caravan swept past
him—“many as fluttering leaves that drop and fall in autumn woods when
the first frost begins; many as birds that flock landward from the great
sea when now the chill year drives them o’er the deep and leads them to
sunnier lands. ” Such things was it given to the sacred poet to behold,
and “the happy seats and sweet pleasances of fortunate souls, where the
larger light clothes all the plains and dips them in a rosier gleam,
plains with their own new sun and stars before unknown. ” Ah, not
_frustra pius_ was Virgil, as you say, Horace, in your melancholy song.
In him, we fancy, there was a happier mood than your melancholy patience.
“Not, though thou wert sweeter of song than Thracian Orpheus, with that
lyre whose lay led the dancing trees, not so would the blood return to
the empty shade of him whom once with dread wand, the inexorable God hath
folded with his shadowy flocks; but patience lighteneth what heaven
forbids us to undo. ”
Durum, sed levius fit patietia!
It was all your philosophy in that last sad resort to which we are pushed
so often—
“With close-lipped Patience for our only friend,
Sad Patience, too near neighbour of Despair. ”
The Epicurean is at one with the Stoic at last, and Horace with Marcus
Aurelius. “To go away from among men, if there are Gods, is not a thing
to be afraid of; but if indeed they do not exist, or if they have no
concern about human affairs, what is it to me to live in a universe
devoid of gods or devoid of providence? ”
An excellent philosophy, but easier to those for whom no Hope had dawned
or seemed to set. Yes! it is harder than common, Horace, for us to think
of _you_, still glad somewhere, among rivers like Liris and plains and
vine-clad hills, that
Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
It is hard, for you looked for no such thing.
_Omnes una manet nox_
_Et calcanda semel via leti_.
You could not tell Mæcenas that you would meet him again; you could only
promise to tread the dark path with him.
_Ibimus_, _ibimus_,
_Utcunque præcedes_, _supremum_
_Carpere iter comites parati_.
Enough, Horace, of these mortuary musings. You loved the lesson of the
roses, and now and again would speak somewhat like a death’s head over
your temperate cups of Sabine _ordinaire_. Your melancholy moral was but
meant to heighten the joy of your pleasant life, when wearied Italy,
after all her wars and civic bloodshed, had won a peaceful haven. The
harbour might be treacherous; the prince might turn to the tyrant; far
away on the wide Roman marches might be heard, as it were, the endless,
ceaseless monotone of beating horses’ hoofs and marching feet of men.
They were coming, they were nearing, like footsteps heard on wool; there
was a sound of multitudes and millions of barbarians, all the North,
_officina gentium_, mustering and marshalling her peoples. But their
coming was not to be to-day, nor to-morrow, nor to-day was the budding
Empire to blossom into the blood-red flower of Nero. In the lull between
the two tempests of Republic and Empire your odes sound “like linnets in
the pauses of the wind. ”
What joy there is in these songs! what delight of life, what an exquisite
Hellenic grace of art, what a manly nature to endure, what tenderness and
constancy of friendship, what a sense of all that is fair in the
glittering stream, the music of the waterfall, the hum of bees, the
silvery grey of the olive woods on the hillside! How human are all your
verses, Horace! what a pleasure is yours in the straining poplars,
swaying in the wind! what gladness you gain from the white crest of
Soracte, beheld through the fluttering snowflakes while the logs are
being piled higher on the hearth. You sing of women and wine—not all
wholehearted in your praise of them, perhaps, for passion frightens you,
and ’tis pleasure more than love that you commend to the young. Lydia
and Glycera, and the others, are but passing guests of a heart at ease in
itself, and happy enough when their facile reign is ended. You seem to
me like a man who welcomes middle age, and is more glad than Sophocles
was to “flee from these hard masters” the passions. In the fallow
leisure of life you glance round contented, and find all very good save
the need to leave all behind. Even that you take with an Italian
good-humour, as the folk of your sunny country bear poverty and hunger.
_Durum_, _sed levius fit patientia_!
To them, to you, the loveliness of your land is, and was, a thing to live
for. None of the Latin poets your fellows, or none but Virgil, seem to
me to have known so well as you, Horace, how happy and fortunate a thing
it was to be born in Italy. You do not say so, like your Virgil, in one
splendid passage, numbering the glories of the land as a lover might
count the perfections of his mistress. But the sentiment is ever in your
heart and often on your lips.
Me nec tam patiens Lacedæmon,
Nec tam Larissæ percussit campus opimæ,
Quam domus Albuneæ resonantis
Et præceps Anio, ac Tiburni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis. {229}
So a poet should speak, and to every singer his own land should be
dearest. Beautiful is Italy with the grave and delicate outlines of her
sacred hills, her dark groves, her little cities perched like eyries on
the crags, her rivers gliding under ancient walls; beautiful is Italy,
her seas, and her suns: but dearer to me the long grey wave that bites
the rock below the minster in the north; dearer are the barren moor and
black peat-water swirling in tauny foam, and the scent of bog myrtle and
the bloom of heather, and, watching over the lochs, the green
round-shouldered hills.
In affection for your native land, Horace, certainly the pride in great
Romans dead and gone made part, and you were, in all senses, a lover of
your country, your country’s heroes, your country’s gods. None but a
patriot could have sung that ode on Regulus, who died, as our own hero
died on an evil day, for the honour of Rome, as Gordon for the honour of
England.
Fertur pudicæ conjugis osculum,
Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor,
Ab se removisse, et virilem
Torvus humi posuisse voltum:
Donec labantes consilio patres
Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato,
Interque mærentes amicos
Egregius properaret exul.
Atqui sciebat, quæ sibi barbarus
Tortor pararet: non aliter tamen
Dimovit obstantes propinquos,
Et populum reditus morantem,
Quam si clientum longa negotia
Dijudicata lite relinqueret,
Tendens Venafranos in agros
Aut Lacedæmonium Tarentum. {231}
We talk of the Greeks as your teachers. Your teachers they were, but
that poem could only have been written by a Roman! The strength, the
tenderness, the noble and monumental resolution and resignation—these are
the gifts of the lords of human things, the masters of the world.
Your country’s heroes are dear to you, Horace, but you did not sing them
better than your country’s Gods, the pious protecting spirits of the
hearth, the farm, the field; kindly ghosts, it may be, of Latin fathers
dead or Gods framed in the image of these. What you actually believed we
know not, _you_ knew not. Who knows what he believes? _Parcus Deorum
cultor_ you bowed not often, it may be, in the temples of the state
religion and before the statues of the great Olympians; but the pure and
pious worship of rustic tradition, the faith handed down by the homely
elders, with _that_ you never broke. Clean hands and a pure heart,
these, with a sacred cake and shining grains of salt, you could offer to
the Lares. It was a benignant religion, uniting old times and new, men
living and men long dead and gone, in a kind of service and sacrifice
solemn yet familiar.
_Te nihil attinet_
_Tentare multa cæde bidentium_
_Parvos coronantem marino_
_Rore deos fragilique myrto_.
_Immunis aram si tetigit manus_,
_Non sumptuosa blandior hostia_
_Mellivit aversos Penates_
_Farre pio et saliente mica_, {233}
Farewell, dear Horace; farewell, thou wise and kindly heathen; of mortals
the most human, the friend of my friends and of so many generations of
men.
_Ave atque Vale_!
the Englishman who called you “a damned Atheist” in the post-office at
Pisa. He finds that you had “a little turned-up nose,” a feature no less
important in his system than was the nose of Cleopatra (according to
Pascal) in the history of the world. To be in harmony with your nose,
you were a “phenomenal” liar, an ill-bred, ill-born, profligate, partly
insane, an evil-tempered monster, a self-righteous person, full of
self-approbation—in fact you were the Beast of this pious Apocalypse.
Your friend Dr. Lind was an embittered and scurrilous apothecary, “a bad
old man. ” But enough of this inopportune brawler.
For Humanity, of which you hoped such great things, Science predicts
extinction in a night of Frost. The sun will grow cold, slowly—as slowly
as doom came on Jupiter in your “Prometheus,” but as surely. If this
nightmare be fulfilled, perhaps the Last Man, in some fetid hut on the
ice-bound Equator, will read, by a fading lamp charged with the dregs of
the oil in his cruse, the poetry of Shelley. So reading, he, the latest
of his race, will not wholly be deprived of those sights which alone
(says the nameless Greek) make life worth enduring. In your verse he
will have sight of sky, and sea, and cloud, the gold of dawn and the
gloom of earthquake and eclipse. He will be face to face, in fancy, with
the great powers that are dead, sun, and ocean, and the illimitable azure
of the heavens. In Shelley’s poetry, while Man endures, all those will
survive; for your “voice is as the voice of winds and tides,” and perhaps
more deathless than all of these, and only perishable with the perishing
of the human spirit.
XVIII.
_To Monsieur de Molière_, _Valet de Chambre du Roi_.
MONSIEUR,—With what awe does a writer venture into the presence of the
great Molière! As a courtier in your time would scratch humbly (with his
comb! ) at the door of the Grand Monarch, so I presume to draw near your
dwelling among the Immortals. You, like the king who, among all his
titles, has now none so proud as that of the friend of Molière—you found
your dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to the
dignity of an empire: what Louis XIV. did for France you achieved for
French comedy; and the baton of Scapin still wields its sway though the
sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim. For the King the Pyrenees, or so
he fancied, ceased to exist; by a more magnificent conquest you overcame
the Channel. If England vanquished your country’s arms, it was through
you that France _ferum victorem cepit_, and restored the dynasty of
Comedy to the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden
borrowed “L’Etourdi,” our tardy apish nation has lived (in matters
theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France.
In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered. While you
lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was the congenial
business of English playwrights to foist their rustic grossness and their
large Fescennine jests into the urban page of Molière. Now they are
diversely occupied; and it is their affair to lend modesty where they
borrow wit, and to spare a blush to the cheek of the Lord Chamberlain.
But still, as has ever been our wont since Etherege saw, and envied, and
imitated your successes—still we pilfer the plays of France, and take our
_bien_, as you said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We
are the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that a
comedy pleases the town which has not first been “cut out” from the
countrymen of Molière. Why this should be, and what “tenebriferous star”
(as Paracelsus, your companion in the “Dialogues des Morts,” would have
believed) thus darkens the sun of English humour, we know not; but
certainly our dependence on France is the sincerest tribute to you.
Without you, neither Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor “a wilderness of monkeys”
like Scarron, could ever have given Comedy to France and restored her to
Europe.
While we owe to you, Monsieur, the beautiful advent of Comedy, fair and
beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, it is still to you that
we must turn when of comedies we desire the best. If you studied with
daily and nightly care the works of Plautus and Terence, if you “let no
musty _bouquin_ escape you” (so your enemies declared), it was to some
purpose that you laboured. Shakespeare excepted, you eclipsed all who
came before you; and from those that follow, however fresh, we turn: we
turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, from Sheridan and Goldsmith, from
Musset and Pailleron and Labiche, to that crowded world of your
creations. “Creations” one may well say, for you anticipated Nature
herself: you gave us, before she did, in Alceste a Rousseau who was a
gentleman not a lacquey; in a _mot_ of Don Juan’s, the secret of the new
Religion and the watchword of Comte, _l’amour de l’humanité_.
Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a Frenchman with humour;
and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise philosophy of a secular
civilisation? With a heart the most tender, delicate, loving, and
generous, a heart often in agony and torment, you had to make life
endurable (we cannot doubt it) without any whisper of promise, or hope,
or warning from Religion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all,
the mind of Pascal, proclaimed that the only help was in voluntary
blindness, that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at evens, you,
Monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see what you found
invisible.
In Religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits and
Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartufe the portrait of
their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in your play conceived
that you were girding at his neighbour), you all the while were mocking
every credulous excess of Faith. In the sermons preached to Agnès we
surely hear your private laughter; in the arguments for credulity which
are presented to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal
self-defence of superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you sought for
the permanent element of life—precisely where Pascal recognised all that
was most fleeting and unsubstantial—in _divertissement_; in the pleasure
of looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence, an observer of
the follies of mankind. Like the Gods of the Epicurean, you seem to
regard our life as a play that is played, as a comedy; yet how often the
tragic note comes in! What pity, and in the laughter what an accent of
tears, as of rain in the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human
as you; none has had a heart, like you, to feel for his butts, and to
leave them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their tormentors.
Sganarelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the rest—our sympathy,
somehow, is with them, after all; and M. de Pourceaugnac is a gentleman,
despite his misadventures.
Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays may batter and
defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not all the victory, or you
did not mean that they should win it. They go off with laughter, and
their victim with a grimace; but in him we, that are past our youth,
behold an actor in an unending tragedy, the defeat of a generation. Your
sympathy is not wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can
throw a bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has been taught
that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned in shame, in jealousy,
in endurance of the wanton pride of men (how could the poor player and
the husband of Célimène be untaught in that experience? ), you never sided
quite heartily, as other comedians have done, with young prosperity and
rank and power.
I am not the first who has dared to approach you in the Shades; for just
after your own death the author of “Les Dialogues des Morts” gave you
Paracelsus as a companion, and the author of “Le Jugement de Pluton” made
the “mighty warder” decide that “Molière should not talk philosophy. ”
These writers, like most of us, feel that, after all, the comedies of the
_Contemplateur_, of the translator of Lucretius, are a philosophy of life
in themselves, and that in them we read the lessons of human experience
writ small and clear.
What comedian but Molière has combined with such depths—with the
indignation of Alceste, the self-deception of Tartufe, the blasphemy of
Don Juan—such wildness of irresponsible mirth, such humour, such wit!
Even now, when more than two hundred years have sped by, when so much
water has flowed under the bridges and has borne away so many trifles of
contemporary mirth (_cetera fluminis ritu feruntur_), even now we never
laugh so well as when Mascarille and Vadius and M. Jourdain tread the
boards in the Maison de Molière. Since those mobile dark brows of yours
ceased to make men laugh, since your voice denounced the “demoniac”
manner of contemporary tragedians, I take leave to think that no player
has been more worthy to wear the canons of Mascarille or the gown of
Vadius than M. Coquelin of the Comédie Française. In him you have a
successor to your Mascarille so perfect, that the ghosts of playgoers of
your date might cry, could they see him, that Molière had come again.
But, with all respect to the efforts of the fair, I doubt if Mdlle.
Barthet, or Mdme. Croizette herself, would reconcile the town to the loss
of the fair De Brie, and Madeleine, and the first, the true Célimène,
Armande. Yet had you ever so merry a _soubrette_ as Mdme. Samary, so
exquisite a Nicole?
Denounced, persecuted, and buried hugger-mugger two hundred years ago,
you are now not over-praised, but more worshipped, with more servility
and ostentation, studied with more prying curiosity than you may approve.
Are not the Molièristes a body who carry adoration to fanaticism? Any
scrap of your handwriting (so few are these), any anecdote even remotely
touching on your life, any fact that may prove your house was numbered 15
not 22, is eagerly seized and discussed by your too minute historians.
Concerning your private life, these men often speak more like malicious
enemies than friends; repeating the fabulous scandals of Le Boulanger,
and trying vainly to support them by grubbing in dusty parish registers.
It is most necessary to defend you from your friends—from such friends as
the veteran and inveterate M. Arsène Houssaye, or the industrious but
puzzle-headed M. Loiseleur. Truly they seek the living among the dead,
and the immortal Molière among the sweepings of attorneys’ offices. As I
regard them (for I have tarried in their tents) and as I behold their
trivialities—the exercises of men who neglect Molière’s works to gossip
about Molière’s great-grand-mother’s second-best bed—I sometimes wish
that Molière were here to write on his devotees a new comedy, “Les
Molièristes. ” How fortunate were they, Monsieur, who lived and worked
with you, who saw you day by day, who were attached, as Lagrange tells
us, by the kindest loyalty to the best and most honourable of men, the
most open-handed in friendship, in charity the most delicate, of the
heartiest sympathy! Ah, that for one day I could behold you, writing in
the study, rehearsing on the stage, musing in the lace-seller’s shop,
strolling through the Palais, turning over the new books at Billaine’s,
dusting your ruffles among the old volumes on the sunny stalls. Would
that, through the ages, we could hear you after supper, merry with
Boileau, and with Racine,—not yet a traitor,—laughing over Chapelain,
combining to gird at him in an epigram, or mocking at Cotin, or talking
your favourite philosophy, mindful of Descartes. Surely of all the wits
none was ever so good a man, none ever made life so rich with humour and
friendship.
XIX.
_To Robert Burns_.
SIR,—Among men of Genius, and especially among Poets, there are some to
whom we turn with a peculiar and unfeigned affection; there are others
whom we admire rather than love. By some we are won with our will, by
others conquered against our desire. It has been your peculiar fortune
to capture the hearts of a whole people—a people not usually prone to
praise, but devoted with a personal and patriotic loyalty to you and to
your reputation. In you every Scot who _is_ a Scot sees, admires, and
compliments Himself, his ideal self—independent, fond of whisky, fonder
of the lassies; you are the true representative of him and of his nation.
Next year will be the hundredth since the press of Kilmarnock brought to
light its solitary masterpiece, your Poems; and next year, therefore,
methinks, the revenue will receive a welcome accession from the abundance
of whisky drunk in your honour. It is a cruel thing for any of your
countrymen to feel that, where all the rest love, he can only admire;
where all the rest are idolators, he may not bend the knee; but stands
apart and beats upon his breast, observing, not adoring—a critic. Yet to
some of us—petty souls, perhaps, and envious—that loud indiscriminating
praise of “Robbie Burns” (for so they style you in their Change-house
familiarity) has long been ungrateful; and, among the treasures of your
songs, we venture to select and even to reject. So it must be! We
cannot all love Haggis, nor “painch, tripe, and thairm,” and all those
rural dainties which you celebrate as “warm-reekin, rich! ” “Rather too
rich,” as the Young Lady said on an occasion recorded by Sam Weller.
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
You _have_ given her a Haggis, with a vengeance, and her “gratefu’
prayer” is yours for ever. But if even an eternity of partridge may pall
on the epicure, so of Haggis too, as of all earthly delights, cometh
satiety at last. And yet what a glorious Haggis it is—the more
emphatically rustic and even Fescennine part of your verse! We have had
many a rural bard since Theocritus “watched the visionary flocks,” but
you are the only one of them all who has spoken the sincere Doric. Yours
is the talk of the byre and the plough-tail; yours is that large
utterance of the early hinds. Even Theocritus minces matters, save where
Lacon and Comatas quite out-do the swains of Ayrshire. “But thee,
Theocritus, wha matches? ” you ask, and yourself out-match him in this
wide rude region, trodden only by the rural Muse. “_Thy_ rural loves are
nature’s sel’;” and the wooer of Jean Armour speaks more like a true
shepherd than the elegant Daphnis of the “Oaristys. ”
Indeed it is with this that moral critics of your life reproach you,
forgetting, perhaps, that in your amours you were but as other Scotch
ploughmen and shepherds of the past and present. Ettrick may still, with
Afghanistan, offer matter for idylls, as Mr. Carlyle (your antithesis,
and the complement of the Scotch character) supposed; but the morals of
Ettrick are those of rural Sicily in old days, or of Mossgiel in your
days. Over these matters the Kirk, with all her power, and the Free Kirk
too, have had absolutely no influence whatever. To leave so delicate a
topic, you were but as other swains, or, as “that Birkie ca’d a lord,”
Lord Byron; only you combined (in certain of your letters) a libertine
theory with your practice; you poured out in song your audacious
raptures, your half-hearted repentance, your shame and your scorn. You
spoke the truth about rural lives and loves. We may like it or dislike
it but we cannot deny the verity.
Was it not as unhappy a thing, Sir, for you, as it was fortunate for
Letters and for Scotland, that you were born at the meeting of two ages
and of two worlds—precisely in the moment when bookish literature was
beginning to reach the people, and when Society was first learning to
admit the low-born to her Minor Mysteries? Before you how many singers
not less truly poets than yourself—though less versatile not less
passionate, though less sensuous not less simple—had been born and had
died in poor men’s cottages! There abides not even the shadow of a name
of the old Scotch song-smiths, of the old ballad-makers. The authors of
“Clerk Saunders,” of “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” of “Fair Annie,” and
“Sir Patrick Spens,” and “The Bonny Hind,” are as unknown to us as Homer,
whom in their directness and force they resemble. They never, perhaps,
gave their poems to writing; certainly they never gave them to the press.
On the lips and in the hearts of the people they have their lives; and
the singers, after a life obscure and untroubled by society or by fame,
are forgotten. “The Iniquity of Oblivion blindly scattereth his Poppy. ”
Had you been born some years earlier you would have been even as these
unnamed Immortals, leaving great verses to a little clan—verses retained
only by Memory. You would have been but the minstrel of your native
valley: the wider world would not have known you, nor you the world.
Great thoughts of independence and revolt would never have burned in you;
indignation would not have vexed you. Society would not have given and
denied her caresses. You would have been happy. Your songs would have
lingered in all “the circle of the summer hills;” and your scorn, your
satire, your narrative verse, would have been unwritten or unknown. To
the world what a loss! and what a gain to you! We should have possessed
but a few of your lyrics, as
When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrowed field,
Return sae dowf and wearie O!
How noble that is, how natural, how unconsciously Greek! You found,
oddly, in good Mrs. Barbauld, the merits of the Tenth Muse:
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho’s flame!
But how unconsciously you remind us both of Sappho and of Homer in these
strains about the Evening Star and the hour when the Day μετενίσσετο
βουλυτόνδε? Had you lived and died the pastoral poet of some silent
glen, such lyrics could not but have survived; free, too, of all that in
your songs reminds us of the Poet’s Corner in the “Kirkcudbright
Advertiser. ” We should not have read how
Phœbus, gilding the brow o’ morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade!
Still we might keep a love-poem unexcelled by Catullus,
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
But the letters to Clarinda would have been unwritten, and the thrush
would have been untaught in “the style of the Bird of Paradise. ”
A quiet life of song, _fallentis semita vitæ_, was not to be yours. Fate
otherwise decreed it. The touch of a lettered society, the strife with
the Kirk, discontent with the State, poverty and pride, neglect and
success, were needed to make your Genius what it was, and to endow the
world with “Tam o’ Shanter,” the “Jolly Beggars,” and “Holy Willie’s
Prayer. ” Who can praise them too highly—who admire in them too much the
humour, the scorn, the wisdom, the unsurpassed energy and courage? So
powerful, so commanding, is the movement of that Beggars’ Chorus, that,
methinks, it unconsciously echoed in the brain of our greatest living
poet when he conceived the “Vision of Sin. ” You shall judge for
yourself. Recall:
Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here’s to all the wandering train!
Here’s our ragged bairns and callets!
One and all cry out, Amen!
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected!
Churches built to please the priest!
Then read this:
Drink to lofty hopes that cool—
Visions of a perfect state:
Drink we, last, the public fool,
Frantic love and frantic hate.
* * * * *
Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,
While we keep a little breath!
Drink to heavy Ignorance,
Hob and nob with brother Death!
Is not the movement the same, though the modern speaks a wilder
recklessness?
So in the best company we leave you, who were the life and soul of so
much company, good and bad. No poet, since the Psalmist of Israel, ever
gave the world more assurance of a man; none lived a life more strenuous,
engaged in an eternal conflict of the passions, and by them
overcome—“mighty and mightily fallen. ” When we think of you, Byron
seems, as Plato would have said, remote by one degree from actual truth,
and Musset by a degree more remote than Byron.
XX.
_To Lord Byron_.
MY LORD,
(Do you remember how Leigh Hunt
Enraged you once by writing _My dear Byron_? )
Books have their fates,—as mortals have who punt,
And _yours_ have entered on an age of iron.
Critics there be who think your satire blunt,
Your pathos, fudge; such perils must environ
Poets who in their time were quite the rage,
Though now there’s not a soul to turn their page.
Yes, there is much dispute about your worth,
And much is said which you might like to know
By modern poets here upon the earth,
Where poets live, and love each other so;
And, in Elysium, it may move your mirth
To hear of bards that pitch your praises low,
Though there be some that for your credit stickle,
As—Glorious Mat,—and not inglorious Nichol.
(This kind of writing is my pet aversion,
I hate the slang, I hate the personalities,
I loathe the aimless, reckless, loose dispersion,
Of every rhyme that in the singer’s wallet is,
I hate it as you hated the _Excursion_,
But, while no man a hero to his valet is,
The hero’s still the model; I indite
The kind of rhymes that Byron oft would write. )
There’s a Swiss critic whom I cannot rhyme to,
One Scherer, dry as sawdust, grim and prim.
Of him there’s much to say, if I had time to
Concern myself in any wise with _him_.
He seems to hate the heights he cannot climb to,
He thinks your poetry a coxcomb’s whim,
A good deal of his sawdust he has spilt on
Shakespeare, and Molière, and you, and Milton.
Ay, much his temper is like Vivien’s mood,
Which found not Galahad pure, nor Lancelot brave;
Cold as a hailstorm on an April wood,
He buries poets in an icy grave,
His Essays—he of the Genevan hood!
Nothing so fine, but better doth he crave.
So stupid and so solemn in his spite
He dares to print that Molière could not write!
Enough of these excursions; I was saying
That half our English Bards are turned Reviewers,
And Arnold was discussing and assaying
The weight and value of that work of yours,
Examining and testing it and weighing,
And proved, the gems are pure, the gold endures.
While Swinburne cries with an exceeding joy,
The stones are paste, and half the gold, alloy.
In Byron, Arnold finds the greatest force,
Poetic, in this later age of ours;
His song, a torrent from a mountain source,
Clear as the crystal, singing with the showers,
Sweeps to the sea in unrestricted course
Through banks o’erhung with rocks and sweet with flowers;
None of your brooks that modestly meander,
But swift as Awe along the Pass of Brander.
And when our century has clomb its crest,
And backward gazes o’er the plains of Time,
And counts its harvest, yours is still the best,
The richest garner in the field of rhyme
(The metaphoric mixture, ’tis comfest,
Is all my own, and is not quite sublime).
But fame’s not yours alone; you must divide all
The plums and pudding with the Bard of Rydal!
WORDSWORTH and BYRON, these the lordly names
And these the gods to whom most incense burns.
“Absurd! ” cries Swinburne, and in anger flames,
And in an Æschylean fury spurns
With impious foot your altar, and exclaims
And wreathes his laurels on the golden urns
Where Coleridge’s and Shelley’s ashes lie,
Deaf to the din and heedless of the cry.
For Byron (Swinburne shouts) has never woven
One honest thread of life within his song;
As Offenbach is to divine Beethoven
So Byron is to Shelley (_This_ is strong! ),
And on Parnassus’ peak, divinely cloven,
He may not stand, or stands by cruel wrong;
For Byron’s rank (the examiner has reckoned)
Is in the third class or a feeble second.
“A Bernesque poet” at the very most,
And “never earnest save in politics,”
The Pegasus that he was wont to boast
A blundering, floundering hackney, full of tricks,
A beast that must be driven to the post
By whips and spurs and oaths and kicks and sticks,
A gasping, ranting, broken-winded brute,
That any judge of Pegasi would shoot;
In sooth, a half-bred Pegasus, and far gone
In spavin, curb, and half a hundred woes.
And Byron’s style is “jolter-headed jargon;”
His verse is “only bearable in prose. ”
So living poets write of those that _are_ gone,
And o’er the Eagle thus the Bantam crows;
And Swinburne ends where Verisopht began,
By owning you “a very clever man. ”
Or rather does not end: he still must utter
A quantity of the unkindest things.
Ah! were you here, I marvel, would you flutter
O’er such a foe the tempest of your wings?
’Tis “rant and cant and glare and splash and splutter”
That rend the modest air when Byron sings.
There Swinburne stops: a critic rather fiery.
_Animis cælestibus tantæne iræ_?
But whether he or Arnold in the right is,
Long is the argument, the quarrel long;
_Non nobis est_ to settle _tantas lites_;
No poet I, to judge of right or wrong:
But of all things I always think a fight is
The _most_ unpleasant in the lists of song;
When Marsyas of old was flayed, Apollo
Set an example which we need not follow.
The fashion changes! Maidens do not wear,
As once they wore, in necklaces and lockets
A curl ambrosial of Lord Byron’s hair;
“Don Juan” is not always in our pockets—
Nay, a New Writer’s readers do not care
Much for your verse, but are inclined to mock its
Manners and morals. Ay, and most young ladies
To yours prefer the “Epic” called “of Hades”!
I do not blame them; I’m inclined to think
That with the reigning taste ’tis vain to quarrel,
And Burns might teach his votaries to drink,
And Byron never meant to make them moral.
You yet have lovers true, who will not shrink
From lauding you and giving you the laurel;
The Germans too, those men of blood and iron,
Of all our poets chiefly swear by Byron.
Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods!
Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit,
Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds,
Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit;
Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies’ rods,
Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit;
Beholding whom, men think how fairer far
Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! {215}
XXI.
_To Omar Khayyâm_.
WISE Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling
Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring,
The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose,
The wild white Roses you were wont to sing?
Far in the South I know a Land divine, {216}
And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine,
And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows
Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine.
You were a Saint of unbelieving Days,
Liking your Life and happy in Men’s Praise;
Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough,
Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways.
Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell,
Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell,
Content to know not all thou knowest now,
What’s Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well?
The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill,
Shall He torment them if they chance to spill?
Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast
Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will!
So still were we, before the Months began
That rounded us and shaped us into Man.
So still we _shall_ be, surely, at the last,
Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!
Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought—
How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought—
Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East,
In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought,
Which gave our England for a captive Land
To pious Chiefs of a believing Band,
A gift to the Believer from the Priest,
Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! {218}
Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave
Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save
His England, even of Harold Godwin’s son;
The high Tide murmurs by the Hero’s Grave! {219}
And _thou_ wert wreathing Roses—who can tell? —
Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well,
Or satst at Wine in Nashâpûr, when dun
The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell!
The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam!
Along the white Walls of his guarded Home
No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o’er the Wave
The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam!
And dear to him, as Roses were to thee,
Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea;
The _Swan’s Path_ of his Fathers is his Grave:
His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be.
His was the Age of Faith, when all the West
Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest;
And thou wert living then, and didst not heed
The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!
Ages of Progress! These eight hundred Years
Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or Fears,
And now! —she listens in the Wilderness
To _thee_, and half believeth what she hears!
Hadst _thou_ THE SECRET? Ah, and who may tell?
“An Hour we have,” thou saidst; “Ah, waste it well! ”
An Hour we have, and yet Eternity
Looms o’er us, and the Thought of Heaven or Hell!
Nay, we can never be as wise as thou,
O idle Singer ’neath the blossomed Bough.
Nay, and we cannot be content to die.
_We_ cannot shirk the Questions “Where? ” and “How? ”
Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content
Shall we of England go the way _he_ went—
The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose—
Nay, otherwise than _his_ our Day is spent!
Serene he dwelt in fragrant Nashâpûr,
But we must wander while the Stars endure.
_He_ knew THE SECRET: we have none that knows,
No Man so sure as Omar once was sure!
XXII.
_To Q. Horatius Flaccus_.
IN what manner of Paradise are we to conceive that you, Horace, are
dwelling, or what region of immortality can give you such pleasures as
this life afforded? The country and the town, nature and men, who knew
them so well as you, or who ever so wisely made the best of those two
worlds? Truly here you had good things, nor do you ever, in all your
poems, look for more delight in the life beyond; you never expect
consolation for present sorrow, and when you once have shaken hands with
a friend the parting seems to you eternal.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis?
So you sing, for the dear head you mourn has sunk, for ever, beneath the
wave. Virgil might wander forth bearing the golden branch “the Sibyl
doth to singing men allow,” and might visit, as one not wholly without
hope, the dim dwellings of the dead and the unborn. To him was it
permitted to see and sing “mothers and men, and the bodies outworn of
mighty heroes, boys and unwedded maids, and young men borne to the
funeral fire before their parent’s eyes. ” The endless caravan swept past
him—“many as fluttering leaves that drop and fall in autumn woods when
the first frost begins; many as birds that flock landward from the great
sea when now the chill year drives them o’er the deep and leads them to
sunnier lands. ” Such things was it given to the sacred poet to behold,
and “the happy seats and sweet pleasances of fortunate souls, where the
larger light clothes all the plains and dips them in a rosier gleam,
plains with their own new sun and stars before unknown. ” Ah, not
_frustra pius_ was Virgil, as you say, Horace, in your melancholy song.
In him, we fancy, there was a happier mood than your melancholy patience.
“Not, though thou wert sweeter of song than Thracian Orpheus, with that
lyre whose lay led the dancing trees, not so would the blood return to
the empty shade of him whom once with dread wand, the inexorable God hath
folded with his shadowy flocks; but patience lighteneth what heaven
forbids us to undo. ”
Durum, sed levius fit patietia!
It was all your philosophy in that last sad resort to which we are pushed
so often—
“With close-lipped Patience for our only friend,
Sad Patience, too near neighbour of Despair. ”
The Epicurean is at one with the Stoic at last, and Horace with Marcus
Aurelius. “To go away from among men, if there are Gods, is not a thing
to be afraid of; but if indeed they do not exist, or if they have no
concern about human affairs, what is it to me to live in a universe
devoid of gods or devoid of providence? ”
An excellent philosophy, but easier to those for whom no Hope had dawned
or seemed to set. Yes! it is harder than common, Horace, for us to think
of _you_, still glad somewhere, among rivers like Liris and plains and
vine-clad hills, that
Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
It is hard, for you looked for no such thing.
_Omnes una manet nox_
_Et calcanda semel via leti_.
You could not tell Mæcenas that you would meet him again; you could only
promise to tread the dark path with him.
_Ibimus_, _ibimus_,
_Utcunque præcedes_, _supremum_
_Carpere iter comites parati_.
Enough, Horace, of these mortuary musings. You loved the lesson of the
roses, and now and again would speak somewhat like a death’s head over
your temperate cups of Sabine _ordinaire_. Your melancholy moral was but
meant to heighten the joy of your pleasant life, when wearied Italy,
after all her wars and civic bloodshed, had won a peaceful haven. The
harbour might be treacherous; the prince might turn to the tyrant; far
away on the wide Roman marches might be heard, as it were, the endless,
ceaseless monotone of beating horses’ hoofs and marching feet of men.
They were coming, they were nearing, like footsteps heard on wool; there
was a sound of multitudes and millions of barbarians, all the North,
_officina gentium_, mustering and marshalling her peoples. But their
coming was not to be to-day, nor to-morrow, nor to-day was the budding
Empire to blossom into the blood-red flower of Nero. In the lull between
the two tempests of Republic and Empire your odes sound “like linnets in
the pauses of the wind. ”
What joy there is in these songs! what delight of life, what an exquisite
Hellenic grace of art, what a manly nature to endure, what tenderness and
constancy of friendship, what a sense of all that is fair in the
glittering stream, the music of the waterfall, the hum of bees, the
silvery grey of the olive woods on the hillside! How human are all your
verses, Horace! what a pleasure is yours in the straining poplars,
swaying in the wind! what gladness you gain from the white crest of
Soracte, beheld through the fluttering snowflakes while the logs are
being piled higher on the hearth. You sing of women and wine—not all
wholehearted in your praise of them, perhaps, for passion frightens you,
and ’tis pleasure more than love that you commend to the young. Lydia
and Glycera, and the others, are but passing guests of a heart at ease in
itself, and happy enough when their facile reign is ended. You seem to
me like a man who welcomes middle age, and is more glad than Sophocles
was to “flee from these hard masters” the passions. In the fallow
leisure of life you glance round contented, and find all very good save
the need to leave all behind. Even that you take with an Italian
good-humour, as the folk of your sunny country bear poverty and hunger.
_Durum_, _sed levius fit patientia_!
To them, to you, the loveliness of your land is, and was, a thing to live
for. None of the Latin poets your fellows, or none but Virgil, seem to
me to have known so well as you, Horace, how happy and fortunate a thing
it was to be born in Italy. You do not say so, like your Virgil, in one
splendid passage, numbering the glories of the land as a lover might
count the perfections of his mistress. But the sentiment is ever in your
heart and often on your lips.
Me nec tam patiens Lacedæmon,
Nec tam Larissæ percussit campus opimæ,
Quam domus Albuneæ resonantis
Et præceps Anio, ac Tiburni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis. {229}
So a poet should speak, and to every singer his own land should be
dearest. Beautiful is Italy with the grave and delicate outlines of her
sacred hills, her dark groves, her little cities perched like eyries on
the crags, her rivers gliding under ancient walls; beautiful is Italy,
her seas, and her suns: but dearer to me the long grey wave that bites
the rock below the minster in the north; dearer are the barren moor and
black peat-water swirling in tauny foam, and the scent of bog myrtle and
the bloom of heather, and, watching over the lochs, the green
round-shouldered hills.
In affection for your native land, Horace, certainly the pride in great
Romans dead and gone made part, and you were, in all senses, a lover of
your country, your country’s heroes, your country’s gods. None but a
patriot could have sung that ode on Regulus, who died, as our own hero
died on an evil day, for the honour of Rome, as Gordon for the honour of
England.
Fertur pudicæ conjugis osculum,
Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor,
Ab se removisse, et virilem
Torvus humi posuisse voltum:
Donec labantes consilio patres
Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato,
Interque mærentes amicos
Egregius properaret exul.
Atqui sciebat, quæ sibi barbarus
Tortor pararet: non aliter tamen
Dimovit obstantes propinquos,
Et populum reditus morantem,
Quam si clientum longa negotia
Dijudicata lite relinqueret,
Tendens Venafranos in agros
Aut Lacedæmonium Tarentum. {231}
We talk of the Greeks as your teachers. Your teachers they were, but
that poem could only have been written by a Roman! The strength, the
tenderness, the noble and monumental resolution and resignation—these are
the gifts of the lords of human things, the masters of the world.
Your country’s heroes are dear to you, Horace, but you did not sing them
better than your country’s Gods, the pious protecting spirits of the
hearth, the farm, the field; kindly ghosts, it may be, of Latin fathers
dead or Gods framed in the image of these. What you actually believed we
know not, _you_ knew not. Who knows what he believes? _Parcus Deorum
cultor_ you bowed not often, it may be, in the temples of the state
religion and before the statues of the great Olympians; but the pure and
pious worship of rustic tradition, the faith handed down by the homely
elders, with _that_ you never broke. Clean hands and a pure heart,
these, with a sacred cake and shining grains of salt, you could offer to
the Lares. It was a benignant religion, uniting old times and new, men
living and men long dead and gone, in a kind of service and sacrifice
solemn yet familiar.
_Te nihil attinet_
_Tentare multa cæde bidentium_
_Parvos coronantem marino_
_Rore deos fragilique myrto_.
_Immunis aram si tetigit manus_,
_Non sumptuosa blandior hostia_
_Mellivit aversos Penates_
_Farre pio et saliente mica_, {233}
Farewell, dear Horace; farewell, thou wise and kindly heathen; of mortals
the most human, the friend of my friends and of so many generations of
men.
_Ave atque Vale_!
