No More Learning

That which is habitually
assailed with sneers and sarcasm cannot long survive. Institu-
tions that have lost their roots in men's respect and faith are
doomed; and the day of their dissolution is not far off. The time
is approaching, then, when our system of social observances must
pass through some crisis, out of which it will come purified and
comparatively simple.
How this crisis will be brought about, no one can with any
certainty say. Whether by the continuance and increase of indi-
vidual protests, or whether by the union of many persons for the
practice and propagation of some better system, the future alone
can decide. The influence of dissentients acting without co-oper-
ation seems, under the present state of things, inadequate. Stand-
ing severally alone, and having no well-defined views; frowned on
by conformists, and expostulated with even by those who secretly
sympathize with them; subject to petty persecutions, and unable
to trace any benefit produced by their example,-they are apt


## p. 13747 (#577) ##########################################

HERBERT SPENCER
13747
The young
one by one to give up their attempts as hopeless.
convention-breaker eventually finds that he pays too heavily for
his nonconformity. Hating, for example, everything that bears
about it any remnant of servility, he determines, in the ardor of
his independence, that he will uncover to no one. But what he
means simply as a general protest, he finds that ladies interpret
into a personal disrespect. Though he sees that from the days of
chivalry downwards, these marks of supreme consideration paid
to the other sex have been but a hypocritical counterpart to the
actual subjection in which men have held them,-a pretended
submission to compensate for a real domination,-and though he
sees that when the true dignity of woman is recognized, the mock
dignities given to them will be abolished, yet he does not like to
be thus misunderstood, and so hesitates in his practice.
In other cases, again, his courage fails him. Such of his un-
conventionalities as can be attributed only to eccentricity, he has
no qualms about; for on the whole he feels rather complimented
than otherwise in being considered a disregarder of public opin-
ion. But when they are liable to be put down to ignorance, to
ill-breeding, or to poverty, he becomes a coward. However clearly
the recent innovation of eating some kinds of fish with knife
and fork proves the fork-and-bread practice to have had little but
caprice as its basis, yet he dares not wholly ignore that practice
while fashion partially maintains it. Though he thinks that a
silk handkerchief is quite as appropriate for drawing-room use as
a white cambric one, he is not altogether at ease in acting out
his opinion. Then, too, he begins to perceive that his resistance
to prescription brings round disadvantageous results which he
had not calculated upon. He had expected that it would save
him from a great deal of social intercourse of a frivolous kind,-
that it would offend the fools but not the sensible people; and
so would serve as a self-acting test by which those worth know-
ing would be separated from those not worth knowing. But the
fools prove to be so greatly in the majority, that by offending
them, he closes against himself nearly all the avenues through
which the sensible people are to be reached. Thus he finds that
his nonconformity is frequently misinterpreted; that there are
but few directions in which he dares to carry it consistently
out; that the annoyances and disadvantages which it brings upon
him are greater than he anticipated; and that the chances of
his doing any good are very remote. Hence he gradually loses


## p. 13748 (#578) ##########################################

13748
HERBERT SPENCER
resolution, and lapses step by step into the ordinary routine of
observances.
Abortive as individual protests thus generally turn out, it
may possibly be that nothing effectual will be done until there
arises some organized resistance to this invisible despotism by
which our modes and habits are dictated. It may happen that
the government of Manners and Fashion will be rendered less
tyrannical, as the political and religious governments have been,
by some antagonistic union. Alike in church and State, men's
first emancipations from excess of restriction were achieved by
numbers, bound together by a common creed or a common politi-
cal faith. What remained undone while there were but individ-
ual schismatics or rebels, was effected when there came to be
many acting in concert. It is tolerably clear that these earliest
installments of freedom could not have been obtained in any
other way; for so long as the feeling of personal independence
was weak, and the rule strong, there could never have been a
sufficient number of separate dissentients to produce the desired
results. Only in these later times, during which the secular and
spiritual controls have been growing less coercive, and the tend-
ency toward individual liberty greater, has it become possible for
smaller and smaller sects and parties to fight against established
creeds and laws; until now men may safely stand even alone in
their antagonism.
The failure of individual nonconformity to customs, as above
illustrated, suggests that an analogous series of changes may
have to be gone through in this case also. It is true that the
lex non scripta differs from the lex scripta in this,—that being
unwritten it is more readily altered, and that it has from time to
time been quietly ameliorated. Nevertheless we shall find that
the analogy holds substantially good. For in this case, as in
the others, the essential revolution is not the substituting of any
one set of restraints for any other, but the limiting or abolishing
the authority which prescribes restraints. Just as the fundamental
change inaugurated by the Reformation was not a superseding of
one creed by another, but an ignoring of the arbiter who before
dictated creeds; just as the fundamental change which Democracy
long ago commenced was not from this particular law to that,
but from the despotism of one to the freedom of all,- so the
parallel change yet to be wrought out in this supplementary gov-
ernment of which we are treating, is not the replacing of absurd


## p. 13749 (#579) ##########################################

HERBERT SPENCER
13749
usages by sensible ones, but the dethronement of that secret irre-
sponsible power which now imposes our usages, and the asser-
tion of the right of all individuals to choose their own usages.
In rules of living, a West End clique is our Pope; and we are all
papists, with but a mere sprinkling of heretics. On all who de-
cisively rebel comes down the penalty of excommunication, with
its long catalogue of disagreeable and indeed serious consequences.
The liberty of the subject asserted in our Constitution, and
ever on the increase, has yet to be wrested from this subtler tyr-
anny. The right of private judgment, which our ancestors wrung
from the Church, remains to be claimed from this dictator of
our habits. Or as before said, to free us from these idolatries
and superstitious conformities, there has still to come a protest-
antism in social usages. Parallel therefore as is the change to
be wrought out, it seems not improbable that it may be wrought
out in an analogous way. That influence which solitary dissent-
ients fail to gain, and that perseverance which they lack, may
come into existence when they unite. That persecution which
the world now visits upon them, from mistaking their noncon-
formity for ignorance or disrespect, may diminish when it is seen
to result from principle. The penalty which exclusion now entails
may disappear when they become numerous enough to form vis-
iting circles of their own. And when a successful stand has
been made, and the brunt of the opposition has passed, that large
amount of secret dislike to our observances which now pervades
society may manifest itself with sufficient power to effect the
desired emancipation.
Whether such will be the process, time alone can decide.
That community of origin, growth, supremacy, and decadence,
which we have found among all kinds of government, suggests
a community in modes of change also. On the other hand,
nature often performs substantially similar operations in ways
apparently different. Hence these details can never be foretold.
Meanwhile let us glance at the conclusions that have been
reached. On the one side, government (originally one, and after-
wards subdivided for the better fulfillment of its functions) must
be considered as having ever been, in all its branches,- politi-
cal, religious, and ceremonial,- beneficial, and indeed absolutely
necessary. On the other side, government under all its forms
must be regarded as subserving a temporary office, made need-
ful by the unfitness of aboriginal humanity for social life; and the


## p. 13750 (#580) ##########################################

HERBERT SPENCER
13750
successive diminutions of its coerciveness in State, in church, and
in custom, must be looked upon as steps towards its final dis-
appearance. To complete the conception, there requires to be
borne in mind the third fact, that the genesis, the maintenance,
and the decline of all governments, however named, are alike
brought about by the humanity to be controlled; from which
may be drawn the inference that on the average, restrictions of
every kind cannot last much longer than they are wanted, and
cannot be destroyed much faster than they ought to be.
Society in all its developments undergoes the process of exu-
viation. These old forms which it successively throws off have
all been once vitally united with it; have severally served as the
protective envelopes within which a higher humanity was being
evolved. They are cast aside only when they become hindrances,
-only when some inner and better envelope has been formed;
and they bequeath to us all that there was in them good. The
periodical abolitions of tyrannical laws have left the administra-
tion of justice not only uninjured but purified. Dead and buried
creeds have not carried with them the essential morality they
contained, which still exists, uncontaminated by the sloughs of
superstition. And all that there is of justice and kindness and
beauty, embodied in our cumbrous forms of etiquette, will live
perennially when the forms themselves have been forgotten.


## p. 13750 (#581) ##########################################



## p. 13750 (#582) ##########################################


EDMUND SPENSER.


## p. 13750 (#583) ##########################################

"
1
TV.
t
21
**
11
114
MEN
. 8
t
T
"')
1
1


## p. 13750 (#584) ##########################################



## p. 13751 (#585) ##########################################

13751
EDMUND SPENSER
(1552? -1599)
BY J. DOUGLAS BRUCE
DMUND SPENSER was born in London in or shortly before the
year 1552. Although the obscurity which hangs about the
life and circumstances of the poet's father has never been
quite dispelled, it seems at least certain that he belonged to the
Lancashire branch of the Spensers; and the family was connected
with the "house of auncient fame" of Spencer, which, down to our
own day, has continued to bear so honorable a part in the public life
of England. The first event in the poet's life of which we have defi-
nite knowledge—although even here the precise date is wanting -
is his admission to the Merchant Taylors' School of his native city.
This event is probably to be referred to the very first year of the
existence of this famous school-1560; but however this may be, in
1568 we find his name in the list of "poore scholers" who were
assisted in obtaining their education by the charities of Dean Now-
ell,—a list, it may be added, which in the subsequent years of the
same century was destined to include still other names hardly less
illustrious than Spenser's own. To Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, the
poet was transferred in the spring of 1569; and there, amidst studies
which apparently were often interrupted by ill-health, he passed the
next seven years of his life, receiving in due succession the degrees of
bachelor and master; but-owing to some disfavor with the author-
ities, it would seem-making no application for a fellowship, such as
would probably otherwise have been made by a student whose tastes
were so scholarly and whose means were so limited.
The years of the poet's life which immediately follow his University
career are again involved in obscurity. Shadowy, however, as are
both the lady and the circumstances, we know that this period was
marked by the love affair with Rosalind,- more famous, perhaps, than
is justified by the quality of verse which it called forth. To these
years too, most probably, we should refer the beginning of Spen-
ser's fateful connection with Ireland, since in 1577 it appears that
he accompanied to that unhappy country the then Lord Deputy, Sir
Henry Sidney, father of Sir Philip. Two years later he is again in
England, and in the house of the powerful Earl of Leicester, brother-
in-law of the Lord Deputy Sidney. From here we find him carrying


## p. 13752 (#586) ##########################################

13752
EDMUND SPENSER
on a literary correspondence with his former college-mate, Gabriel
Harvey; in which the perverse metrical theories and insufferable ped-
antry of the latter are almost atoned for by the genuineness of his
friendship for the poet, and the stimulus he afforded to his literary
activity. For this must indeed have been with Spenser - if we may
judge by the list of works which are mentioned in the course of this
correspondence, many of them lost a period of such intense activity
as can be paralleled from the lives of but few poets. The range of
his literary experiments extended even to the drama,-the branch of
literature which of all seems most alien to his genius; and we hear
of the Nine Comedies by the side of the work with which he was
about to open the great age of Elizabethan literature.
This work, the Shepherd's Calendar,'-appearing towards the
close of the year 1579, justified in the minds of contemporaries as
well as posterity the title of "The New Poet," which the author
tacitly accepted from his friend and commentator, "E. K. ”
To say
nothing of the varied command of metrical forms and of the music
of verse which the eclogues in this collection revealed, readers of
native poetry recognized in the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' for the first
time since Chaucer, a work exhibiting the sustained vigor which is an
essential of verse that is worthy of the name of literature. A plan
had been adopted of no inconsiderable scope,-one which admitted
the treatment of a great if somewhat singular variety of subjects and
situations; and notwithstanding occasional grotesqueness of diction
or injudicious choice of material,― matters as to which contempo-
rary taste was by no means the same as our own,- or even a curious
deficiency in that imaginative glow which the poet was afterwards
to exhibit so pre-eminently, this plan had been executed without
flagging from beginning to end.
But the year following this great literary success saw Spenser
finally drawn into those circumstances which were to determine the
sum of his happiness and sorrow during the rest of his too brief
career. In the summer of 1580, as secretary to the new Lord Deputy,
Arthur, Lord Grey of Wilton, the stern Arthegall of the 'Faery
Queen,' the poet once more turned his face toward Ireland; in
which country, as a servant of the English Crown in various capaci-
ties, he was destined to spend the remaining years of his life. Only
twice during this period did he revisit his native land before the final
year of 1598; when, swept away from Ireland like many another
Englishman by the storm of rebellion and devastation, he returned
to die in London a broken man, in fortunes if not in spirit. In this
savage and untamable Ireland of the closing sixteenth century, the
poet who in his works stands furthest aloof of all men from the
actual world, was called on to be a witness, and finally an actor, in
some of the sternest of the world's work. He was in reality, however,
―――
____


## p. 13753 (#587) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13753
not less an English gentleman than a poet; and possessed not only
the sense of civic duty characteristic of his class, but the fibre neces-
sary to support the burdens of public service. Accordingly, by a
striking coincidence, we find him at the end of his career, like the
other great master of romance in our own century, filling the prosaic
yet responsible office of sheriff, at the time when the rebellion of
Tyrone burst over Munster, the province of his residence.
After a more than ten years' interval, covering the earlier years
of Spenser's life in Ireland, an interval in publication though not in
composition,-in 1590 the 'Shepherd's Calendar' was followed by the
first three books of the 'Faery Queen. ' Six years more elapsed be-
fore the remaining books saw the light; but this latter period, includ-
ing the final year, was marked by the publication of those minor
poems, which—in beauty of form at least-constitute a no less pre-
cious inheritance of English literature than the 'Faery Queen' itself.
In surveying this great body of work, the impression one receives of
its variety is hardly less than that of its power. 'Mother Hubberd's
Tale, Colin Clout's Come Home Again,' the marriage songs,- to
speak of no others,-represent achievements, in the last case of the
first rank, in the others of all but the first rank, in their respective
literary forms; achievements all the more remarkable, one might say,
in view of the absence of English models at the time. Who, for
instance, would have suspected in the author of the 'Faery Queen'
one of the keenest of satirists, but for the existence of the first of
the above-named poems? Reflection upon the range of power which
works so different exhibit, causes us to regret even the loss of those
earlier dramatic experiments.
But to the mind of the modern reader the name of Spenser is
apt to call up simply the poet of the 'Faery Queen,'—a work indeed
which filled more completely the intellectual life of its author, during
a larger proportion of the years of his maturity, than has been the
case perhaps with any other poem in literature of equal rank; and it
is this work alone which we shall be able to consider, briefly, within
the limits of this essay.
-
We may perhaps best attain a just insight into the nature and
essential characteristics of the 'Faery Queen' by a consideration of
its relation to its undoubted model, the 'Orlando Furioso. ' It was
unquestionably the example of Ariosto which led Spenser to dedicate
his genius to this new representation of the idealized life of chivalry;
and it was his object no less than that of his exemplar to render in
his pages all the immemorial charm of romance. But the absence of
one element from the Italian model could not but be keenly per-
ceptible to the grave, even Puritan, nature of the Northern poet:
the element of moral seriousness, which hardly less than the love of
beauty was of the very essence of Spenser's genius. To give then a
•


## p. 13754 (#588) ##########################################

13754
EDMUND SPENSER
moral basis to this ideal world seemed to Spenser necessary to ren-
der it complete even in its beauty, to say nothing of any more
directly didactic object he may have had at heart. The method of
allegory by which he attempts to supply this basis to the romance-
epic, with his plan of the knights representing the twelve Moral and
twelve Politic Virtues, seems a mechanical device for effecting his
purpose, and indeed soon breaks down of its own weight; yet the
nobility of Spenser's nature, his high moral seriousness from which
the conception of the allegory sprang, diffuses itself through the
whole poem, so that after all he might rightly appear to the great
Puritan poet of the next generation as "a better teacher than Scotus
or Aquinas. "
Even superior to these qualities of moral earnestness and purity,
as an element of power in the 'Faery Queen,' is the passionate love
of beauty to which the poet here gives the most luxuriant and vivid
expression to be met with in English verse. In no English poet
until Keats do we again find this pursuit of ideal beauty in the same
degree the dominant element in the poet's genius; and here the
superior moral vigor of Spenser supplied a check on the tendencies
to sensuous excess, which was wanting in the case of Keats. It is
especially in the management of his verse, and in the exercise of his
unequaled powers of description, that Spenser's sensibility to beauty
and capacity for its expression appear most striking. From no met-
rical instrument, perhaps, has a poet drawn richer harmonies than
Spenser from his immortal stanza; and his descriptive powers, whether
applied to the heroic figures who are the actors in his story, or to
such splendid conceptions as the Cave of Mammon or the Bower of
Bliss, mark the limits perhaps of the achievement of poetry in this
direction.
But after all, it is doubtless the ideal aloofness of the world of
the Faery Queen' from that which lies about us, that gives its
greatest charm to the poem. From this new world of the imagina-
tion the commonplace is excluded; and if we encounter here again
evil and ugliness, they have taken on forms of terror which are
hardly less ideal than those of purity and beauty. We wander on at
will amidst this endless variety of incident and figure, all steeped in
the colors of the imagination, without being reminded that there are
bounds to the world we have entered, such as are recalled to us even
in the depths of the Forest of Arden.
And finally, the 'Faery Queen' is not without its philosophy, a
philosophy in conformity with the unsubstantiality of its world. In
accordance with the nature of Spenser's genius, we must not expect
to see him present the problems of destiny and moral evil with the
direct and tragic power of the chief masters of human character, as
exemplified above all in the dramas of his great contemporary. No


## p. 13755 (#589) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13755
other poet, however, has expressed with equal power the mystery of
change as the most fundamental of all the conditions of existence,
as subjecting to its law the very heart of the world. This mystery
of "mutability » seemed to lie like a burden on Spenser's spirit; and
it is the depth of his feeling and reflection on this idea which has
imparted an incomparable sublimity to the posthumous cantos of the
'Faery Queen,' where the solution to the mystery which Nature pro-
poses, differs perhaps but little after all from that of ages maturer in
science.
J. Douglas Amer
PROTHALAMION; OR, A SPOUSALL VERSE
C
ALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I (whom sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In princes court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brayne)
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shoare of silver-streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adorn'd with dainty gemmes,
Fit to decke maydens bowres,
And crowne their paramours,
Against the brydale day, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
There, in a meadow, by the rivers side,
A flocke of Nymphes I chauncèd to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde.
As each had bene a bryde;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entraylèd curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.


## p. 13756 (#590) ##########################################

13756
EDMUND SPENSER
Of every sort which in that meadow grew
They gathered some: the violet, pallid blew,
The little dazie, that at evening closes,
The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegroomes posies
Against the brydale day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew,
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as heavens light,
Against their brydale day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
Eftsoones, the Nymphes, which now had flowers their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the cristal flood;
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd still,
Their wondring eyes to fill:
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre,
Of fowles so lovely that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly seede,
But rather angels, or of angels breede:
Yet were they bred of Somers heat, they say,
In sweetest season, when each flower and weede
The earth did fresh aray;
So fresh they seem'd as day,
Even as their brydale day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.


## p. 13757 (#591) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13757
:
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yeild,
All which upon those goodly birds they threw,
And all the waves did strew,
That like old Peneus waters they did seeme,
When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,
Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store,
Like a brydes chamber flore.
Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two garlands bound
Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim array,
Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crown'd,
Whilst one did sing this lay,
Prepar'd against that day,-
Against their brydale day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
"Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,
And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your loves couplement !
And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love,
With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.
Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joyes redound
Upon your brydale day, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song. "
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,


## p. 13758 (#592) ##########################################

13758
EDMUND SPENSER
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
'Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enrangèd well,
Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
At length they all to mery London came,-
To mery London, my most kyndly nurse,
That to me gave this lifes first native sourse,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of auncient fame:
There when they came whereas those bricky towres
The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,
Till they decay'd through pride;
Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace
Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feels my freendles case;
But ah! here fits not well
Olde woes, but joyes, to tell
Against the brydale daye, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
Great Englands glory, and the worlds wide wonder,
Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thun-
And Hercules two pillors standing neere
[der,
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie!
That fillest England with thy triumphs fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes,
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
Through all the world, fil'd with thy wide alarmes,


## p. 13759 (#593) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13759
Which some brave Muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the brydale day, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre
In th' ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre,
Descended to the rivers open vewing,
With a great traine ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,'
Beseeming well the bower of any queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the Twins of Jove they seem'd in sight,
Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,
Receiv'd those two faire Brides, their loves delight;
(Which, at th' appointed tyde,
Each one did make his Bryde,)
Against their brydale day, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
BELPHOEBE THE HUNTRESS
From the Faery Queene'
FTSOONES there stepped forth
E
A goodly lady clad in hunters weed,
That seem'd to be a woman of great worth,
And by her stately portance born of heavenly birth.
Her face so fair, as flesh it seemèd not,
But heavenly portrait of bright angels hue,
Clear as the sky, withouten blame or blot,
Through goodly mixture of complexions due;
And in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew
Like roses in a bed of lilies shed,
The which ambrosial odours from them threw,
And gazers' sense with double pleasure fed,
Able to heal the sick and to revive the dead.
In her fair eyes two living lamps did flame,
Kindled above at th' heavenly Makers light,


## p. 13760 (#594) ##########################################

13760
EDMUND SPENSER
And darted fiery beams out of the same,
So passing persaunt and so wondrous bright,
That quite bereaved the rash beholder's sight:
In them the blinded god his lustful fire
To kindle oft essay'd, but had no might;
For, with dread majesty and awful ire,
She broke his wanton darts, and quenchèd base desire.
Her ivory forehead full of bounty brave,
Like a broad table did itself dispread,
For Love his lofty triumphs to engrave,
And write the battles of his great godhead:
All good and honour might therein be read;
For there their dwelling was.
And when she spake,
Sweet words like dropping honey she did shed;
And twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake
A silver sound, that heavenly music seem'd to make.
Upon her eyelids many graces sate,
Under the shadow of her even brows,
Working belgrades and amorous retrate;
And every one her with a grace endows,
And every one with meekness to her bows:
So glorious mirror of celestial grace,
And sovereign moniment of mortal vows,
How shall frail pen describe her heavenly face,
For fear, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace?
So fair, and thousand thousand times more fair,
She seem'd, when she presented was to sight:
And was yclad for heat of scorching air,
All in a silken Camus, lily white,
Purfled upon with many a folded plight,
Which all above besprinkled was throughout
With golden aygulets that glist'red bright,
Like twinkling stars; and all the skirt about
Was hemm'd with golden fringe.
Her yellow locks, crispèd like golden wire,
About her shoulders weren loosely shed,
And when the wind amongst them did inspire,
They waved like a pennon wide dispread,
And low behind her back were scattered;
And whether art it were or heedless hap,
As through the flow'ring forest rash she fled,


## p. 13761 (#595) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13761
In her rude hairs sweet flow'rs themselves did lap,
And flourishing fresh leaves and blossoms did enwrap.
Such as Diana by the sandy shore
Of swift Eurotas, or on Cynthus green,
Where all the nymphs have her unwares forlore,
Wand'reth alone with bow and arrows keen,
To seek her game; or as that famous queen
Of Amazons, whom Pyrrhus did destroy
The day that first of Priam she was seen,
Did show herself in great triumphant joy,
To succour the weak state of sad afflicted Troy.
THE CAVE OF MAMMON
From the Faery Queene'
quoth he, "and see. "
So
"Through that thick covert he him led, and found
A darksome way which no man could descry,
That deep descended through the hollow ground,
And was with dread and horror compassèd around.
At length they came into a larger space,
That stretched itself into an ample plain,
Through which a beaten broad highway did trace,
That straight did lead to Pluto's griesly reign:
By that way's side there sate infernal Pain,
And fast beside him sate tumultuous Strife;
The one in hand an iron whip did strain,
The other brandishèd a bloody knife;
And both did gnash their teeth, and both did threaten life.
XXIII-861
On th' other side in one consort there sate
Cruel Revenge, and rancorous Despite,
Disloyal Treason, and heart-burning Hate;
But gnawing Jealousy, out of their sight
Sitting alone, his bitter lips did bite;
And trembling Fear still to and fro did fly,
And found no place where safe he shroud him might;
Lamenting Sorrow did in darkness lie;
And Shame his ugly face did hide from living eye.
And over them sad Horror with grim hue
Did always soar, beating his iron wings;


## p. 13762 (#596) ##########################################

13762
EDMUND SPENSER
And after him owls and night-ravens flew,
The hateful messengers of heavy things,
Of death and dolour telling sad tidings:
Whiles sad Celeno, sitting on a clift,
A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings,
That heart of flint asunder could have rift;
Which having ended, after him she flieth swift.
All these before the gates of Pluto lay;
By whom they passing spake unto them nought.
But th' Elfin knight with wonder all the way
Did feed his eyes, and fill'd his inner thought.
At last him to a little door he brought,
That to the gate of hell, which gapèd wide,
Was next adjoining, ne them parted ought;
Betwixt them both was but a little stride,
That did the House of Riches from Hell-mouth divide.
Before the door sate self-consuming Care,
Day and night keeping wary watch and ward,
For fear lest Force or Fraud should unaware
Break in, and spoil the treasure there in guard:
Ne would he suffer Sleep once thither-ward
Approach, albe his drowsy den were next;
For next to Death is Sleep to be compared,
Therefore his house is unto his annext:
Here Sleep, there Riches, and Hell-gate them both betwixt.
So soon as Mammon there arrived, the door
To him did open and afforded way:
Him follow'd eke Sir Guyon evermore;
Ne darkness him ne danger might dismay.
Soon as he ent'red was, the door straightway
Did shut, and from behind it forth there leapt
An ugly fiend, more foul than dismal day;
The which with monstrous stalk behind him stept,
And ever as he went due watch upon him kept.
Well hoped he, ere long that hardy guest,
If ever covetous hand or lustful eye
Or lips he laid on thing that liked him best,
Or ever sleep his eye-strings did untie,
Should be his prey; and therefore still on high
He over him did hold his cruel claws,
Threat'ning with greedy gripe to do him die,


## p. 13763 (#597) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13763
And rend in pieces with his ravenous paws,
If ever he transgress'd the fatal Stygian laws.
That house's form within was rude and strong,
Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift,
From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung
Embost with massy gold of glorious gift;
And with rich metal loaded every rift,
That heavy ruin they did seem to threat;
And over them Arachne high did lift
Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net,
Enwrapped in foul smoke and clouds more black than jet.
Both roof and floor and walls were all of gold,
But overgrown with dust and old decay,
And hid in darkness, that none could behold
The hue thereof; for view of cheerful day
Did never in that house itself display,
But a faint shadow of uncertain light:
Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away;
Or as the moon, clothed with cloudy night,
Does show to him that walks in fear and sad affright.
In all that room was nothing to be seen
But huge great iron chests, and coffers strong,
All barr'd with double bands, that none could ween
Them to enforce by violence or wrong;
On every side they placed were along.
But all the ground with sculls was scattered
And dead mens bones, which round about were flung;
Whose lives, it seemèd, whylome there were shed,
And their vile carcasses now left unburièd.
They forward pass; ne Guyon yet spoke word
Till that they came unto an iron door,
Which to them openèd of his own accord,
And show'd of riches such exceeding store
As eye of man did never see before,
Ne ever could within one place be found,
Though all the wealth which is or was of yore
Could gather'd be through all the world around,
And that above were added to that under ground.
The charge thereof unto a covetous spright
Commanded was, who thereby did attend,


## p. 13764 (#598) ##########################################

13764
EDMUND SPENSER
And warily awaited day and night,
From other covetous fiends it to defend,
Who it to rob and ransack did intend.
Then Mammon, turning to that warrior, said:
"Lo, here the worldès bliss! lo, here the end
To which all men do aim, rich to be made!
Such grace now to be happy is before thee laid. "
"Certes," said he, "I n'ill thine off'red grace,
Ne to be made so happy do intend!
Another bliss before mine eyes I place,
Another happiness, another end.
To them that list, these base regards I lend;
But I in arms, and in achievements brave,
Do rather choose my fleeting hours to spend,
And to be lord of those that riches have,
Than them to have myself, and be their servile slave. "
Thereat the fiend his gnashing teeth did grate,
And grieved, so long to lack his greedy prey:
For well he weenèd that so glorious bait
Would tempt his guest to take thereof assay;
Had he so done, he had him snatch'd away
More light than culver in the falcon's fist:
Eternal God thee save from such decay!
But whenas Mammon saw his purpose miss'd,
Him to entrap unwares another way he wist.
Thence, forward he him led, and shortly brought
Unto another room, whose door forthright
To him did open as it had been taught;
Therein an hundred ranges weren pight,
And hundred furnaces all burning bright:
By every furnace many fiends did bide,-
Deformed creatures, horrible in sight;
And every fiend his busy pains applied
To melt the golden metal, ready to be tried.
――
One with great bellows gather'd filling air,
And with forced wind the fuel did inflame;
Another did the dying brands repair
With iron tongs, and sprinkled of the same
With liquid waves, fierce Vulcan's rage to tame,
Who, mast'ring them, renew'd his former heat;
Some scumm'd the dross that from the metal came;


## p. 13765 (#599) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13765
Some stirr'd the molten ore with ladles great;
And every one did swinck, and every one did sweat.
But when an earthly wight they present saw
Glist'ring in arms and battailous array,
From their hot work they did themselves withdraw
To wonder at the sight; for till that day,
They never creature saw that came that way:
Their staring eyes, sparkling with fervent fire.
And ugly shapes, did nigh the Man dismay,
That, were it not for shame, he would retire;
Till that him thus bespake their sovereign lord and sire:
"Behold, thou Faerys son, with mortal eye
That living eye before did never see!
The thing that thou didst crave so earnestly,
To weet whence all the wealth late show'd by me
Proceeded, lo! now is reveal'd to thee.
Here is the fountain of the worldès good!
Now therefore if thou wilt enrichèd be,
Avise thee well, and change thy willful mood;
Lest thou perhaps hereafter wish, and be withstood. "
"Suffice it then, thou money-god," quoth he,
"That all thine idle offers I refuse.
All that I need I have: what needeth me
To covet more than I have cause to use?
With such vain shows thy worldlings vile abuse;
But give me leave to follow mine emprize. "
Mammon was much displeased, yet n'ote he choose
But bear the rigor of his bold mesprise :
And thence him forward led, him further to entice.
SIR GUYON AND THE PALMER VISIT AND DESTROY THE
BOWER OF BLISS
From the Faery Queene'
HUS being ent'red they behold around
Τ
A large and spacious plain on every side
Strowed with pleasaunce; whose fair grassy ground
Mantled with green, and goodly beautified
With all the ornaments of Floras pride,


## p. 13766 (#600) ##########################################

13766
EDMUND SPENSER
Wherewith her mother Art, as half in scorn
Of niggard Nature, like a pompous bride
Did deck her, and too lavishly adorn,
When forth from virgin bow'r she comes in th' early morn.
Thereto the heavens always jovial
Look'd on them lovely, still in steadfast state,
Ne suff'red storm nor frost on them to fall,
Their tender buds or leaves to violate;
Nor scorching heat, nor cold intemperate,
T' afflict the creatures which therein did dwell;
But the mild air with season moderate
Gently attemp'red and disposed so well,
That still it breath'd forth sweet spirit and wholesome smell.
More sweet and wholesome than the pleasant hill
Of Rhodope, on which the nymph that bore
A giant babe, herself for grief did kill;
Or the Thessalian Tempe, where of yore
Fair Daphne Phoebus's heart with love did gore;
Or Ida, where the gods loved to repair,
Whenever they their heavenly bow'rs forlore;
Or sweet Parnasse, the haunt of Muses fair;
Or Eden self, if ought with Eden mote compare.
Much wond'red Guyon at the fair aspéct
Of that sweet place, yet suff'red no delight
To sink into his sense, nor mind affect;
But passèd forth, and look'd still forward right,
Bridling his will and mastering his might:
Till that he came unto another gate;
No gate, but like one, being goodly dight
With boughs and branches, which did broad dilate
Their clasping arms in wanton wreathings intricate.
So fashioned a porch with rare device,
Arch'd overhead with an embracing vine,
Whose bunches hanging down seem'd to entice
All passers-by to taste their luscious wine,
And did themselves into their hands incline,
As freely offering to be gathered;
Some deep empurplèd as the hyacine,
Some as the ruby laughing sweetly red,
Some like fair emeralds, not yet well ripenèd.


## p. 13767 (#601) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13767
And them amongst some were of burnish'd gold,
So made by art to beautify the rest,
Which did themselves amongst the leaves enfold,
As lurking from the view of covetous guest,
That the weak boughs with so rich load opprest
Did bow adown as overburdenèd.
Under that porch a comely dame did rest,
Clad in fair weeds but foul disorderèd,
And garments loose that seem'd unmeet for womanhead.
In her left hand a cup of gold she held,
And with her right the riper fruit did reach,
Whose sappy liquor, that with fullness swell'd,
Into her cup she scruzed with dainty breach
Of her fine fingers, without foul empeach,
That so fair wine-press made the wine more sweet:
Thereof she used to give to drink to each
Whom passing by she happened to meet;
It was her guise all strangers goodly so to greet.
So she to Guyon off'red it to taste,
Who, taking it out of her tender hond,
The cup to ground did violently cast,
That all in pieces it was broken fond,
And with the liquor stainèd all the lond:
Whereat Excess exceedingly was wroth,
Yet no'te the same amend, ne yet withstond,
But suffer'd him to pass, all were she loth:
Who, nought regarding her displeasure, forward go'th.
There the most dainty paradise on ground
Itself doth offer to his sober eye,
In which all pleasures plenteously abound,
And none does others happiness envy:
The painted flow'rs; the trees upshooting high;
The dales for shade; the hills for breathing space;
The trembling groves; the crystal running by;
And that which all fair works doth most aggrace—
The art which all that wrought-appeared in no place.
One would have thought (so cunningly the rude
And scorned parts were mingled with the fine)
That Nature had for wantonness ensued
Art, and that Art at Nature did repine;
So striving each th' other to undermine,


## p. 13768 (#602) ##########################################

13768
EDMUND SPENSER
Each did the others work more beautify;
So diff'ring both in wills agreed in fine:
So all agreed, through sweet diversity,
This garden to adorn with all variety.
And in the midst of all a fountain stood,
Of richest substance that on earth might be,
So pure and shiny that the silver flood
Through every channel running one might see;
Most goodly it with curious imagery
Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boys.
Of which some seem'd of lively jollity
To fly about, playing their wanton toys,
Whilst others did themselves embay in liquid joys.
And over all of purest gold was spread
A trail of ivy in his native hue;
For the rich metal was so colorèd,
That wight, who did not well avised it view,
Would surely deem it to be ivy true.
Low his lascivious arms adown did creep,
That themselves dipping in the silver dew
Their fleecy flow'rs they fearfully did steep,
Which drops of crystal seem'd for wantonness to weep.
Infinite streams continually did well
Out of this fountain, sweet and fair to see,
The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantity,
That like a little lake it seem'd to be;
Whose depth exceeded not three cubits height,
That through the waves one might the bottom see,
All paved beneath with jasper shining bright,
That seem'd the fountain in that sea did sail upright.
Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
To read what manner music that mote be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear
Was there consorted in one harmony:
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree;


## p. 13769 (#603) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13769
The joyous birds shrouded in cheerful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attemp'red sweet;
Th' angelical soft trembling voices made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet;
The silver-sounding instruments did meet
With the base murmur of the waters' fall;
The waters' fall with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call;
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.
The whiles some one did chant this lovely lay:—
"Ah! see, whoso fair thing dost fain to see,
In springing flow'r the image of thy day!
Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly she
Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty;
That fairer seems the less ye see her may!
Lo! see soon after how more bold and free
Her bared bosom she doth broad display;
Lo! see soon after how she fades and falls away!
"So passeth, in the passing of a day,
Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flow'r;
Ne more doth flourish after first decay,
That erst was sought to deck both bed and bow'r
Of many a lady and many a paramour.
Gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime,
For soon comes age that will her pride deflow'r;
Gather the rose of love whilest yet is time,
Whilst loving thou mayst lovèd be with equal crime. "
He ceased; and then 'gan all the quire of birds
Their diverse notes t'attune unto his lay,
As in approvance of his pleasing words.
The constant pair heard all that he did say,
Yet swervèd not, but kept their forward way
Through many covert groves and thickets close,
In which they creeping did at last display
That wanton lady, with her lover loose,
Whose sleepy head she in her lap did soft dispose.
The noble elf and careful palmer drew
So nigh them, minding naught but lustful game,
That sudden forth they on them rush'd and threw
A subtle net, which only for that same
The skillful palmer formally did frame:


## p. 13770 (#604) ##########################################

13770
EDMUND SPENSER
So held them under fast; the whiles the rest
Fled all away for fear of fouler shame.
The fair enchantress, so unwares opprest,
Tried all her arts and all her sleights thence out to wrest;
And eke her lover strove: but all in vain;
For that same net so cunningly was wound,
That neither guile nor force might it distrain.
They took them both, and both them strongly bound
In captive bands, which there they ready found:
But her in chains of adamant he tied,
For nothing else might keep her safe and sound;
But Verdant (so he hight) he soon untied,
And counsel sage instead thereof to him applied.
But all those pleasant bow'rs, and palace brave,
Guyon broke down with rigor pitiless;
Ne ought their goodly workmanship might save
Them from the tempest of his wrathfulness,
But that their bliss he turn'd to balefulness:
Their groves he fell'd; their gardens did deface;
Their arbors spoil; their cabinets suppress;
Their banquet-houses burn; their buildings raze;
And of the fairest late, now made the foulest place.
Then led they her away, and eke that knight
They with them led, both sorrowful and sad:
The way they came, the same return'd they right,
Till they arrivèd where they lately had
Charm'd those wild beasts that raged with fury mad;
Which, now awaking, fierce at them 'gan fly,
As in their mistress' rescue, whom they lad:
But them the palmer soon did pacify.
Then Guyon ask'd, what meant those beasts which there did
lie?
Said he: "These seeming beasts are men indeed,
Whom this enchantress hath transformèd thus;
Whylome her lovers, which her lusts did feed,
Now turned into figures hideous,
According to their minds like monstruous.
Sad end," quoth he, "of life intemperate,
And mournful meed of joys delicious!
But, palmer, if it mote thee so aggrate,
Let them returnèd be unto their former state. "


## p. 13771 (#605) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13771
Straightway he with his virtuous staff them strook,
And straight of beasts they comely men became :
Yet being men, they did unmanly look
And stared ghastly; some for inward shame,
And some for wrath to see their captive dame:
But one above the rest in special
That had an hog been late, hight Grylle by name,
Repinèd greatly, and did him miscall
That had from hoggish form him brought to natural.
Said Guyon: "See the mind of beastly man,
That hath so soon forgot the excellence
Of his creation, when he life began,
That now he chooseth with vile difference
To be a beast, and lack intelligence! "
To whom the palmer thus: "The dunghill kind
Delights in filth and foul incontinence:
Let Gryll be Gryll, and have his hoggish mind;
But let us hence depart whilest weather serves and wind. "


## p. 13772 (#606) ##########################################

13772
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
(1829-)
W
ORKS SO widely different as Gutzkow's 'Knights of the Mind,'
Freytag's 'Debit and Credit,' and Spielhagen's 'Problem-
atic Natures,' all acknowledge in Wilhelm Meister' their
common spiritual ancestor. (Wilhelm Meister' is at once the finest
blossom of German novelistic literature, and the seed-sack of its later
yield. Romanticist and realist alike have found in this granary of
thought some seed to plant in their own minds, and to develop in
their own ways.
It is far from being a model of form and compo-
sition, but it is an inexhaustible treasure-
house of ideas; and to these subsequent
writers of fiction have gone, choosing each
that which best suited him, and transform-
ing it into something new and fair, and
withal his own. Structurally these later
novelists have made a great advance over
(Wilhelm Meister. ' As the complex George
Eliot was the lineal descendant of the sim-
ple Madame de La Fayette, so Spielhagen,
with his mastery of technique, is the de-
scendant of Goethe, with his careless con-
struction and often amorphous heaping-up
of thoughts. Problematic Natures' is re-
lated to Wilhelm Meister' in this respect
also, that it contains materials enough to furnish forth half a dozen
average novels: it is notable for its exuberance of creative power.
Friedrich Spielhagen was born at Magdeburg on February 24th,
1829. His taste for philosophical and philological pursuits was grat-
ified at Berlin, Bonn, and Greifswald; but gradually he came to find
in pure literature his surest and at last exclusive stay. In the auto-
biography which he published in 1890, under the title of 'Finder und
Erfinder' (Finders and Inventors), we have a detailed and voluminous
account of Spielhagen's early years. His young literary predilec-
tions were fostered chiefly by chance: in his father's house there
was no complete set of Goethe: only 'Hermann and Dorothea' and
the first part of 'Faust. ' Good fortune threw an old set of Lessing
into his hands. Heine's 'Book of Songs' and Freiligrath's poems were

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN


## p. 13773 (#607) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13773
likewise fortuitous favorites. But the rapid and strong growth of his
literary genius he attributes above all to Homer, in whose works he
saw nature transfigured. It was a weary and disheartening struggle
with Spielhagen before he was able to make his love of poetry the
central fact of his life. For him as for many another, the choice
of a career raised obstinate questionings; and between his native
impulses and torturing doubts of his own ability he for a long time
wavered. His first novelistic ventures, 'Clara Vere' (1857), and 'Auf
der Düne (On the Dune: 1858), made no impression. It was not
until 1860, with the publication of the first part of 'Problematische
Naturen in four volumes, that his fame as a German novelist was
established. A position as feuilletonist for a Hanoverian newspaper
was offered to him; and he was under a contract to produce four
volumes of fiction a year. He now shudders at the thought; but
he did not then. Moreover, he had four volumes ready in his mind:
these formed the second part of his famous work, to which against
the author's judgment a different title was given,-'Durch Nacht
zum Licht' (Through Night to Light). With the completion of this.
book, Spielhagen was fairly launched upon the ocean of literature;
and thenceforth he has been an indefatigable voyager on its many
seas.
An attempt to give in brief space a notion of the wide range of
interests and ideas covered by Spielhagen's many novels would be
fruitless. His is essentially a bourgeois mind: with methodical facil-
ity he has produced works on most diverse themes. Writing easily
and rapidly, he has made it a point never to let the printer's devil
get at his heels. He has always taken life very seriously, though not
lacking in humor, as his Skeleton in the House' shows.
His con-
temporaries sat to him for his characters, and events amid which he
lived furnished him with materials. This resulted in some cases in
giving too much emphasis to passing states of public feeling; in other
cases the enthusiasm of the partisan disturbed that serene aloofness
from the strife of opinions which is essential to the poetic creator.
But Spielhagen has kept pace with the progress of things, and has in
some respects outgrown himself. An eminent English critic has said
of him, that he more than any other seems to have retained his
youth. Those who love him as the author of 'Problematic Natures'
and 'In Reih' und Glied' (In Rank and File) must be disappointed
in his more recent work. Overproduction has indeed caused a dete-
rioration in quality; and we miss in the latest books that fineness
and firmness which distinguish 'Quisisana' (1880). Quisisana' is
free from tendency, psychologically interesting, faithful, direct, and
tender: it best exhibits Spielhagen's best qualities. It is a romance
of the man of fifty: a type which Goethe introduced into German
literature, as Balzac introduced the woman of thirty into French.


## p. 13774 (#608) ##########################################

13774
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
This hale and vigorous man of fifty is in love with his beautiful
ward; but he heroically sacrifices his own happiness by marrying her
to the young man whom she loves, while her lavish filial affection
for himself only augments his own anguish. This simple tale is in
its workmanship and feeling at once delicate and strong.
Spielhagen was only twenty-two years of age when he began to
work upon his first great novel. After a weary trip from publisher
to publisher, it appeared in Berlin eight years later. Young authors
naturally identify themselves with their heroes; and in their early
works seek to reveal their own microcosm. This book is in essence,
though not in form, a novel of the first person. Its title is taken
from phrase of Goethe's: "There are some problematical natures
who are unsuited to any situation in life, and whom no situation
suits. Thus there arises a terrible conflict, in which life is consumed
without enjoyment. " For a time Spielhagen believed himself to be
such a nature: but as the novel advanced, confidence in himself grew;
slowly he detached himself from his hero, and gained in objectivity.
The title, which originally read 'A Problematic Nature,' was changed
to the plural. In it is depicted the strife between the anciently in-
trenched feudalism and the resistlessly advancing industrialism. The
inner problem however is, to use the author's own words,—
"to portray the life of a man, most richly endowed by nature, who, in
spite of his struggle towards the good, is ruined because he does not know
how to set bounds to himself; and makes the discovery too late that the most
enthusiastic efforts to attain ideal ends are doomed to failure, and the striver
himself to destruction, if he refuse to recognize the conditions of our earthly
existence. »
In spite of the author's great productivity, and the wide popular-
ity of many of his later novels, it is always 'Problematic Natures'
that one first recalls when Spielhagen's name is mentioned.
Of the dominant importance of this work in the author's life, he
himself seems to be conscious. The circumstances, both inward and
outward, under which it came to be written, are the leading theme
of the autobiography. His theories of his craft in general are set
forth in his Technique of the Novel,' a companion-piece to Freytag's
'Technique of the Drama. ' Spielhagen also wrote several dramas,
some of which attained a moderate success. He enriched the Ger-
man reading public by translations from the French and English;
several works of Michelet, Roscoe's 'Lorenzo de' Medici,' and Emer-
son's 'English Traits. ' He was from his youth shy about publishing
poems: his first collection appeared in 1893; in which many a poem
reveals some soul experience in the poet's early life.
Spielhagen, however, is first of all the novelist. If his works
display a "tendency," his democratic principles and philosophy show


## p. 13775 (#609) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13775
themselves in the development of the plot, and are never directly
preached from the pages; his generalizations are under artistic re-
straint. "It is the business of novelists," he says, "to give world
pictures, pictures of their nation and its aspirations during a cer-
tain period. " Thus each of Spielhagen's works has added a touch to
his great picture of the age in which he lived; and the mass of his
creations is a thoughtful and poetical portrayal of persons and events
that have an actual counterpart in the private annals or public his-
tory of our time.
-
FROM 'QUISISANA ›
[Uncle Bertram, in the grief of his hopeless and unconfessed love, has
sought relief in the excitement of political life; and a brilliant career is open-
ing before him, when his health, undermined by his secret sorrow and fever-
ish activity, gives way. On the morrow he is to make an important speech;
his physician has warned him that it would be "undesirable. " In death he
"recovers his health," and this lends to the title of the novel a subtle moral
significance: "Where one grows well again. "]
"THE
HEN you insist upon joining in to-morrow's debate? " the
doctor was saying.
"I flatter myself that it is necessary! " replied Bertram.
"As a political partisan I admit it; as your medical adviser I
repeat, it is impossible. "
«<
Come, my good friend, you said just now it is undesirable;
now from that to impossible is rather a bold step. We had bet-
ter stick to the first statement. "
The doctor, who had taken up his hat and stick a few min-
utes before, laid both down again; pushed Bertram into the chair
before his writing-table; sat down again facing him; and said:-
"Judging from your momentary condition, it is merely desir-
able that you should have at present absolute repose for at least
a few days. But I very much fear that to-morrow's inevitable
excitement will make you worse; and then the downright neces-
sity for rest will arise, and that not only for a few days. Let me
speak quite frankly, Bertram. I know that I shall not frighten
you, although I should rather like to do so. You are causing
me real anxiety. I greatly regret that I kept you last autumn
from your projected Italian trip, and that I pushed and urged you
into the fatigues of an election campaign, and into the harassing
anxieties of parliamentary life. I assumed that this energetic
activity would contribute to your complete restoration to health;
•


## p. 13776 (#610) ##########################################

13776
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
and I find that I made a grievous mistake.
aware exactly where the mistake was made.
parliamentary duties with such perfect ease, you entered the
arena so well prepared and armed from top to toe, you used your
weapons with all the skill of a past master, and you were borne
along by such an ample measure of success-and that of course
has its great value. Well, according to all human understand-
ing and experience, the splendid and relatively easy discharge of
duties for which you are so eminently fitted should contribute to
your well-being; and yet the very opposite is occurring. In spite
of all my cogitations I can find but one theory to account for it.
In spite of the admirable equanimity which you always preserve,
in spite of the undimmed serenity of your disposition and appear-
ance, by which you charm your friends whilst you frequently dis-
arm your foes, there must be a hidden something in your soul
that gnaws away at your vitals, -a deep, dark undercurrent of
grief and pain. Am I right? You know that I am not asking
the question from idle curiosity. "
And yet I am not
You mastered your
"I know it," replied Bertram; "and therefore I answer: you
are right and yet not right, or right only if you hold me respons-
ible for the effect of a cause I was guiltless of. "
"You answer in enigmas, my friend. ”
"Let me try a metaphor. Say, somebody is compelled to
live in a house in which the architect made some grave mistake
at the laying of the foundations, or at some important period
or other of its erection. The tenant is a quiet, steady man, who
keeps the house in good order; then comes a storm, and the ill-
constructed building is terribly shaken and strained. The steady-
going tenant repairs the damage as best he can, and things go
on fairly enough for a time, a long time; until there comes
another and a worse storm, which makes the whole house topple
together over his head. "
The doctor's dark eyes had been dwelling searchingly and
sympathizingly upon the speaker. Now he said:
"I think I understand your metaphor. Of course it only meets
a portion of the case. I happen to know the house in question
extremely well. True, there was one weak point in it from the
beginning, in spite of its general excellent construction, but—»
"But me no buts," interrupted Bertram eagerly. "Given the
one weak point, and all the rest naturally follows. I surely need
not point out to such a faithful disciple of Spinoza's, that thought
and expansion are but attributes of one and the same substance;


## p. 13777 (#611) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13777
that there is no physiological case that does not, rightly viewed,
turn to a psychological one; that so excitable a heart as mine
must needs be impressed by things more than other hearts whose
bands do not snap, happen what may and notwithstanding all the
storms of Fate. Or are you sure that if you had had to examine
the heart of Werther, or of Eduard in the 'Elective Affinities,'
you would not have found things undreamed-of by æsthetic phi-
losophers? I belong to the same race. I neither glory in this nor
do I blush for it; I simply state a fact, a fact which embod-
ies my fate, before whose power I bow, or rather whose power
bows me down in spite of my resistance. For however much I
may by disposition belong to the last century, yet I am also a cit-
izen of our own time; nor can I be deaf to its bidding. I know
full well that modern man can no longer live and die exclusively
for his private joys and sorrows; I know full well that I have a
fatherland whose fame, honor, and greatness I am bound to hold
sacred, and to which I am indebted as long as a breath stirs
within me. I know it; and I believe that I have proved it accord-
ing to my strength, both formerly, and again now when-"
He covered forehead and eyes with his hands, and so sat for
a while in deep emotion, which his medical friend respected by
keeping perfectly silent. Then looking up again, Bertram went
on in a hushed voice: -
-
-
"My friend, that last storm was very, very strong. It shook
the feeble building to its very foundation. What is now causing
your anxiety is indeed but a consequence of that awful tempest.
The terribly entrancing details no one as yet knows except one
woman, whom an almost identical fate made my confidante; and
who will keep my secret absolutely. So would you, I know.
You have been before this my counselor and my father-confessor.
And so you will be another time, perhaps, if you desire it and
deem it necessary. To-day only this one remark more, for your
own satisfaction: I read in your grave countenance the same
momentous question which my confidante put to me, Whether I
am willing to recover? I answered to the best of my knowledge
and belief, Yes! I consider it my duty to be willing. It is a
duty simply towards my electors, who have not honored me with
their votes that I may lay me down and die of an unhappy and
unrequited attachment. If the latter does happen,- I mean my
dying, you will bear witness that it was done against my will,
solely in consequence of that mistake in the original construction
which the architect was guilty of. But in order that it may not
XXIII-862


## p. 13778 (#612) ##########################################

13778
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
happen, or may at least not happen so soon, you, my friend, must
allow me to do the very thing which you have forbidden. The
dream I dreamed was infinitely beautiful; and to speak quite
frankly, real life seems barren and dreary in comparison with it.
The contrast is too great; and I can only efface it somewhat by
mixing with the insipid food a strong spice of excitement, such
as our parliamentary kitchen is just now supplying in the best
quality, and of which our head cook is sure to give us an extra
dose to-morrow. And therefore I must be in my place at the
table to-morrow and make my dinner speech. Quod erat demon-
strandum. "
He held out his hand with a smile. His friend smiled too.
It was a very melancholy smile, and vanished again forthwith.
"What a pity," he said, "that the cleverest patients are the
most intractable. But I have vowed I will never have a clever
one again, after you. "
"In truth," replied Bertram, "I am giving you far too much
trouble. In your great kindness and friendship you come to me
almost in the middle of the night, when you ought to be resting
from your day's heavy toil; you come of your own accord, sim-
ply impelled by a faithful care for my well-being; and finally,
you have to return with ingratitude and disobedience for your
reward. Well, well, let us hope for better things; and let me
have the pleasure of seeing you again to-morrow. "
Konski came in with a candle to show the doctor the way
down; for the lights in the house had long since been extin-
guished. The gentlemen were once more shaking hands, and the
physician slipped his on to Bertram's wrist. Then he shook his
head.
"Konski," he said, turning to the servant, "if your master
has a fancy one of these days to drink a glass of champagne,
you may give him one, as an exception; but only one. ”
"Now remember that, Konski! " said Bertram.
"It is not likely that it will happen," grumbled Konski.
«< Konski will leave me to-morrow," explained Bertram.
"Will, is it? No, I won't, but-"
"All right! " said his master: we must not bother the doctor
with our private affairs. Good-by, my friend! With your leave
I will dine with you to-morrow.