No More Learning

Alas, for I am fifty now!
But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the sombre truth,
This incubus of evil days.
Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Translation of Walter Learned.
THE GARRET
W"
Tu pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where in my youth I weathered it so long,
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song;
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun:
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Yes; 'tis a garret — let him know't who will —
There was my bed — full hard it was and small;
My table there - and I decipher still
Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun:
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one!
And see my little Jessy, first of all;
She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise:
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
And when did women look the worse in none ?
I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.


## p. 1798 (#602) ###########################################

1798
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears;
We rise, - we join in the triumphant strain, -
Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won -
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Let us begone — the place is sad and strange
How far, far off, these happy times appear!
All that I have to live I'd gladly change
For one such month as I have wasted here
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour:
Give me the days when I was twenty-one.
Version of W. M. Thackeray.
MY TOMB
(MON TOMBEAU)
W"
HAT! whilst I'm well, beforehand you design,
At vast expense, for me to build a shrine ?
Friends, 'tis absurd! to no such outlay go;
Le ve to the great the pomp and pride of woe.
Take what for marble or for brass would pay
For a dead beggar garb by far too gay -
And buy life-stirring wine on my behalf:
The money for my tomb right gayly let us quaff!
A mausoleum worthy of my thanks
At least would cost you twenty thousand francs:
Come, for six months, rich vale and balmy sky,
As gay recluses, be it ours to try.
Concerts and balls, where Beauty's self invites,
Shall furnish us our castle of delights;
I'll run the risk of finding life too sweet:
The money for my tomb right gayly let us eat!
But old I grow, and Lizzy's youthful yet:
Costly attire, then, she expects to get;
For to long fast a show of wealth resigns -
Bear witness Longchamps, where all Paris shines!


## p. 1799 (#603) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1799
You to my fair one something surely owe;
A Cashmere shawl she's looking for, I know:
'Twere well for life on such a faithful breast
The money for my tomb right gayly to invest !
No box of state, good friends, would I engage,
For mine own use, where spectres tread the stage:
What poor wan man with haggard eyes is this?
Soon must he die — ah, let him taste of bliss !
The veteran first should the raised curtain see —
There in the pit to keep a place for me,
(Tired of his wallet, long he cannot live) –
The money for my tomb to him let's gayly give!
What doth it boot me, that some learned eye
May spell my name on gravestone, by and by ?
As to the flowers they promise for my bier,
I'd rather, living, scent their perfume here.
And thou, posterity! — that ne'er mayst be —
Waste not thy torch in seeking signs of me!
Like a wise man, I deemed that I was bound
The money for my tomb to scatter gayly round!
Translation of William Young.
FROM HIS PREFACE TO HIS COLLECTED POEMS
I
HAVE treated it [the revolution of 1830] as
a power which
might have whims one should be in a position to resist. All
or nearly all my friends have taken office. I have still one
or two who are hanging from the greased pole. I am pleased
to believe that they are caught by the coat-tails, in spite of their
efforts to come down. I might therefore have had a share in the
distribution of offices. Unluckily I have no love for sinecures,
and all compulsory labor has grown intolerable to me, except per-
haps that of a copying clerk. Slanderers have pretended that I
acted from virtue. Pshaw! I acted from laziness. That defect
has served me in place of merits; wherefore I recommend it to
many of our honest men. It exposes one, however, to curious
reproaches. It is to that placid indolence that severe critics
have laid the distance I have kept myself from those of my hon-
orable friends who have attained power. Giving too much honor
to what they choose to call my fine intellect, and forgetting too
much how far it is from simple good sense to the science of


## p. 1800 (#604) ###########################################

1800
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
great affairs, these critics maintain that my counsels might have
enlightened more than one minister. If one believes them, I,
crouching behind our statesmen's velvet chairs, would have con-
jured down the winds, dispelled the storms, and enabled France
to swim in an ocean of delights. We should all have had liberty
to sell, or rather to give away, but we are still rather ignorant
of the price. Ah! my two or three friends who take a song.
writer for a magician, have you never heard, then, that power is
a bell which prevents those who set it ringing from hearing any-
thing else? Doubtless ministers sometimes consult those at hand:
consultation is a means of talking about one's self which is rarely
neglected. But it will not be enough even to consult in good
faith those who will advise in the same way. One must still act:
that is the duty of the position. The purest intentions, the most
enlightened patriotism, do not always confer it. Who has not
seen high officials leave a counselor with brave intentions, and
an instant after return to him, from I know not what fascination,
with a perplexity that gave the lie to the wisest resolutions ?
« Oh! they say, we will not be caught there again! what
drudgery! ” The more shamefaced add, “I'd like to
see you
in my place! ” When a minister says that, be sure he has no
longer a head. There is indeed one of them, but only one, who,
without having lost his head, has often used this phrase with the
utmost sincerity; he has therefore never used it to a friend.
(


## p. 1801 (#605) ###########################################

1801
GEORGE BERKELEY
(1685-1753)
Ew readers in the United States are unfamiliar with the lines,
“Westward the course of empire takes its way. ” It is
vaguely remembered that a certain Bishop Berkeley was
the author of a treatise on tar-water. There is moreover a general
impression that this Bishop Berkeley contended for the unreality of
all things outside of his own mind, and now and then some recall
Byron's lines -
«When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter,'
And proved it,—'twas no matter what he said. ”
This is the substance of the popular knowledge of one of the pro-
foundest thinkers of the early part of the eighteenth century, — the
time of Shaftesbury and Locke, of Addison
and Steele, of Butler, Pope, and Swift,
one of the most fascinating men of his
day, and one of the best of any age.
Beside, or rather above, Byron's line should
be placed Pope's tribute :

« To Berkeley, every virtue under Heaven. ”
an
Swift pre-
Berkeley was born in Ireland, probably
at Dysart Castle in the Valley of the Nore,
near Kilkenny, March 12, 1685. The fam-
ily having but lately come into Ireland,
Berkeley always accounted himself
GEORGE BERKELEY
Englishman. At Kilkenny School he met
the poet Prior, who became his intimate friend, his business repre-
sentative, and his most regular correspondent for life.
ceded him at this school and at Trinity College, Dublin, whither
Berkeley went March 21, 1700, being then fifteen years of age. Here
as at Kilkenny he took rank much beyond his years, and was soon
deep in philosophical speculations.
In Professor Fraser's edition of the Life and Works of Berkeley)
appears a Common-Place Book,' kept during the Trinity College
terms, and full of most remarkable memoranda for a youth of his
years. In 1709, while still at Trinity, he published an Essay
toward a New Theory of Vision, which foreshadowed imperfectly
his leading ideas. In the following year he published a 'Treatise


## p. 1802 (#606) ###########################################

1802
GEORGE BERKELEY
concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge. Two or three
years later he went to London, where he was received with unusual
favor and quickly became intimate in the literary circles of the day.
He made friends everywhere, being attractive in all ways, young,
handsome, graceful, fascinating in discourse, enthusiastic, and full of
thought. Swift was especially impressed by him, and did much to
further his fortunes.
His philosophical conceptions he at this time popularized in
(Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous,' a work rated by
some critics as at the head of its class.
Before going to London, Berkeley had been made a Fellow of
Trinity, had been appointed to various college offices, and had taken
orders. He remained away from Dublin for about eight years, on
leave frequently extended, writing in London, and traveling, teach-
ing, and writing on the Continent. On his return from his foreign
travels in 1720 or 1721, he found society completely demoralized by
the collapse of the South Sea bubble. He was much depressed by
the conditions around him, and sought to awaken the moral sense
of the people by (An Essay toward Preventing the Ruin of Great
Britain. Returning to Dublin and resuming college duties, he was
shortly made Dean of Dromore, and then Dean of Derry. Hardly
had he received these dignified appointments when he began plan-
ning to rid himself of them, being completely absorbed in a scheme
for a University in the Bermudas, which should educate scholars,
teachers, and ministers for the New World, to which his hope
turned. To this scheme he devoted himself for many years. A
singular occurrence, which released him from pecuniary cares, en-
abled him to give his time as well as his heart to the work. Miss
Vanhomrigh, the Vanessa' of Swift, upon her mother's death, left
London, and went to live in Ireland, to be near her beloved Dean;
and there she was informed of Swift's marriage to Stella. ' The
news killed her, but she revoked the will by which her fortune was
bequeathed to Swift, and left one-half of it, or about £4,000, to
Berkeley, whom she had met but once. He must have kept an
atmosphere,” as Bagehot says of Francis Horner.
Going to London on fire with his great scheme, prepared to resign
his deanery and cast in his lot with that of the proposed University,
Berkeley wasted years in the effort to secure a charter and grant
from the administration. His enthusiasın and his fascinating manners
effected much, and over and over again only the simplest formalities
seemed necessary to success. Only the will of Sir Robert Walpole
stood in the way, but Walpole's will sufficed. At last, in September,
1728, tired of waiting at court, Berkeley, who had just married, sailed
with three or four friends, including the artist Sinibert, for Rhode


## p. 1803 (#607) ###########################################

GEORGE BERKELEY
1803
Island, intending to await there the completion of his grant, and
then proceed to Bermuda. He bought a farm near Newport, and
built a house which he called Whitehall, in which he lived for about
three years, leaving a tradition of a benignant but retired and scho-
lastic life. Among the friends who were here drawn to him was the
Rev. Samuel Johnson of Stratford, afterward the first President of
King's (now Columbia) College, with whom he corresponded during
the remainder of his life, and through whom he was able to aid
greatly the cause of education in America.
The Newport life was idyllic. Berkeley wrote home that the
winters were cooler than those of the South of Ireland, but not worse
than he had known in Italy. He brought over a good library, and
read and wrote. The principal work of this period, written in a
romantic cleft in the rocks, was (Alciphron, or the Minute Philoso-
pher,' in seven dialogues, directed especially against atheism.
At length, through Lord Percival, Berkeley learned that Walpole
would not allow the parliamentary grant of £20,000 for the Bermuda
College, and returned to England at the close of 1732. His White-
hall estate he conveyed to Yale College for the maintenance of
certain scholarships. From England he sent over nearly a thousand
volumes for the Yale library, the best collection of books ever
brought at one time to America, being helped in the undertaking by
some of the Bermuda subscribers. A little later he sent a collection
of books to Harvard College also, and presented a valuable organ to
Trinity Church in Newport.
Shortly after his return, Berkeley was appointed Bishop of Cloyne,
near Cork in Ireland, and here he remained for about eighteen years.
Although a recluse, he wrote much, and he kept up his loving rela-
tions with old friends who still survived. He had several children
to educate, and he cultivated music and painting. He attempted to
establish manufactures, and to cultivate habits of industry and refine-
ment among the people. The winter of 1739 was bitterly cold. This
was followed by general want, famine, and disease. Berkeley and his
family lived simply and gave away what they could save. Large num-
bers of the people died from an epidemic. In America Berkeley's
attention had been drawn to the medicinal virtues of tar, and he
experimented successfully with tar-water as a remedy. Becoming
more and more convinced of its value, he exploited his supposed dis-
covery with his usual ardor, writing letters and essays, and at length
A Chain of Philosophical Reflections and Enquiries concerning the
Virtues of Tar-water and divers other subjects connected together and
arising one from another. ' This was called (Siris) in a second edition
which was soon demanded. Beginning with the use of tar-water as
a remedy, the treatise gradually developed into the treatment of the


## p. 1804 (#608) ###########################################

1804
GEORGE BERKELEY
largest themes, and offered the ripest fruits of the Bishop's phi-
losophy.
Berkeley's system was neither consistent nor complete, but much
of it remains sound. In brief, he contended that matter has no inde-
pendent existence, but is an idea in the supreme mind, which is
realized in various forms by the human mind. Without mind noth-
ing exists. Cause cannot exist except as it rests in mind and will.
All so-called physical causes are merely cases of constant sequence
of phenomena. Far from denying the reality of phenomena, Berke-
ley insists upon it; but contends that reality depends upon the suprem-
acy of mind. Abstract matter does not and cannot exist. The mind
can only perceive qualities of objects, and infers the existence of the
objects from them; or as a modern writer tersely puts it, “The only
thing certain is mind. · Matter is a doubtful and uncertain inference
of the human intellect. ”
The essay upon Tar-water attracted great attention. The good
bishop wrote much also for periodicals, mainly upon practical themes;
and in The Querist, an intermittent journal, considered many matters
of ethical and political importance to the country. Though a bishop
of the Established Church, he lived upon the most friendly terms
with his Roman Catholic neighbors, and his labors were highly ap-
preciated by them.
But his life was waning. His friends had passed away, he had
lost several children, his health was broken. He desired to retire to
Oxford and spend the remainder of his life in scholarly seclusion.
He asked to exchange his bishopric for a canonry, but this could not
be permitted. He then begged to be allowed to resign his charge,
but the king replied that he might live where he pleased, but that
he should die a bishop in spite of himself. In August, 1752, Bishop
Berkeley removed himself, his wife, his daughter, and his goods to
Oxford, where his son George was a student; and here on the four-
teenth of the following January, as he was resting on his couch by
the fireside at tea-time, his busy brain stopped thinking, and his kind
heart ceased to beat.


## p. 1805 (#609) ###########################################

GEORGE BERKELEY
1805
ON THE PROSPECT OF
PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA
THE
HE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame:
In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true;
In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools:
There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay:
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way. ;
The four first Acts already past,
A fifth shall close the Drama with the day:
Time's noblest offspring is the last.
ESSAY ON TAR-WATER
From (Siris)
He seeds of things seem to lie latent in the air, ready to
,
proper matrix. The extremely small seeds of fern, mosses,
mushrooms, and some other plants, are concealed and wafted
about in the air, every part whereof seems replete with seeds of
one kind or other. The whole atmosphere seems alive. There
is everywhere acid to corrode, and seed to engender. Iron will


## p. 1806 (#610) ###########################################

1806
GEORGE BERKELEY
rust, and mold will grow, in all places. Virgin earth becomes
fertile, crops of new plants ever and anon show themselves, all
which demonstrate the air to be a common seminary and recept-
acle of all vivifying principles.
The eye by long use comes to see, even in the darkest cav-
ern; and there is no subject so obscure, but we may discern
some glimpse of truth by long poring on it. Truth is the cry of
all, but the game of a few. Certainly where it is the chief pas-
sion, it doth not give way to vulgar cares and views; nor is it
contented with a little ardor in the early time of life; active,
perhaps, to pursue, but not so fit to weigh and revise. He that
would make a real progress in knowledge, must dedicate his age
as well as youth, the later growth as well as first fruits, at the
altar of truth.
As the nerves are instruments of sensation, it follows that
spasms in the nerves may produce all symptoms, and therefore a
disorder in the nervous system shall imitate all distempers, and
occasion, in appearance, an asthma for instance, a pleurisy, or a
fit of the stone. Now, whatever is good for the nerves in gen-
eral is good against all such symptoms. But tar-water, as it
includes in an eminent degree the virtues of warm gums and
resins, is of great use for comforting and strengthening the
nerves, curing twitches in the nervous fibres, cramps also, and
numbness in the limbs, removing anxieties and promoting sleep,
in all which cases I have known it very successful.
This safe and cheap medicine suits all circumstances and all
constitutions, operating easily, curing without disturbing, raising
the spirits without depressing them, a circumstance that deserves
repeated attention, especially in these climates, where strong
liquors so fatally and so frequently produce those very distresses
they are designed to remedy; and if I am not misinformed, even
among the ladies themselves, who are truly much to be pitied.
Their condition of life makes them a prey to imaginary woes,
which never fail to grow up in minds unexercised and unem-
ployed. To get rid of these, it is said, there are who betake
themselves to distilled spirits. And it is not improbable they
are led gradually to the use of those poisons by a certain com-
plaisant pharmacy, too much used in the modern practice, palsy
drops, poppy cordial, plague water, and such-like, which being
in truth nothing but drams disguised, yet coming from the
apothecaries, are considered only as medicines.


## p. 1807 (#611) ###########################################

GEORGE BERKELEY
1807
The soul of man was supposed by many ancient sages to be
thrust into the human body as into a prison, for punishment of
past offenses.
But the worst prison is the body of an indolent
epicure, whose blood is inflamed by fermented liquors and high
sauces, or rendered putrid, sharp, and corrosive by a stagnation
of the animal juices through sloth and indolence; whose mem-
branes are irritated by pungent salts; whose mind is agitated by
painful oscillations of the nervous system, and whose nerves are
mutually affected by the irregular passions of his mind. This
ferment in the animal economy darkens and confounds the intel-
lect. It produceth vain terrors and vain conceits, and stimulates
the soul with mad desires, which, not being natural, nothing in
nature can satisfy. No wonder, therefore, there are so many
fine persons of both sexes, shining themselves, and shone on by
fortune, who are inwardly miserable and sick of life.
The hardness of stubbed vulgar constitutions renders them
insensible of a thousand things that fret and gall those delicate
people, who, as if their skin was peeled off, feel to the quick
everything that touches them. The remedy for this exquisite
and painful sensibility is commonly sought from fermented, per-
haps from distilled liquors, which render many lives wretched
that would otherwise have been only ridiculous. The tender
nerves and low spirits of such poor creatures would be much
relieved by the use of tar-water, which might prolong and cheer
their lives. I do therefore recommend to them the use of a
cordial, not only safe and innocent, but giving health and spirit
as sure as other cordials destroy them.
I do verily think there is not any other medicine whatsoever
so effectual to restore a crazy constitution and cheer a dreary
mind, or so likely to subvert that gloomy empire of the spleen
which tyrannizeth over the better sort (as they are called) of
these free nations, and maketh them, in spite of their liberty
and property, more wretched slaves than even the subjects of ab-
solute power who breathe clear air in a sunny climate, while
men of low degree often enjoy a tranquillity and content that no
advantage of birth or fortune can equal. Such indeed was the
case while the rich alone could afford to be debauched; but
when even beggars became debauchees, the case was altered.
The public virtue and spirit of the British legislature never
showed itself more conspicuous in any act, than in that for
suppressing the immoderate use of distilled spirits among the


## p. 1808 (#612) ###########################################

1808
GEORGE BERKELEY
people, whose strength and numbers constitute the true wealth of
a nation: though evasive arts will, it is feared, prevail so long
as distilled spirits of any kind are allowed, the character of
Englishmen in general being that of Brutus, Quicquid vult valde
vult [whatever he desires he desires intensely). But why should
such a canker be tolerated in the vitals of a State, under any
pretense, or in any shape whatsoever ? Better by far the whole
present set of distillers were pensioners of the public, and their
trade abolished by law; since all the benefit thereof put together
would not balance the hundredth part of its mischief.
This tar-water will also give charitable relief to the ladies,
who often want it more than the parish poor; being many of
them never able to make a good meal, and sitting pale and puny,
and forbidden like ghosts, at their own table, victims of vapors
and indigestion.
Studious persons also, pent up in narrow holes, breathing bad
air, and stooping over their books, are much to be pitied. As
they are debarred the free use of air and exercise, this I will
venture to recommend as the best succedaneum to both; though
it were to be wished that modern scholars would, like the ancients,
meditate and converse more in walks and gardens and open air,
which upon the whole would perhaps be no hindrance to their
learning, and a great advantage to their health. My own sed-
entary course of life had long since thrown me into an ill habit,
attended with many ailments, particularly a nervous colic, which
rendered my life a burden, and the more so because my pains
were exasperated by exercise. But since the use of tar-water, I
find, though not a perfect recovery from my old and rooted ill-
ness, yet such a gradual return of health and ease, that I esteem
my having taken this medicine the greatest of all temporal bless-
ings, and am convinced that under Providence I owe my life
to it.


## p. 1809 (#613) ###########################################

1809
HECTOR BERLIOZ
(1803-1869)
name
THE concert-goer the
Hector Berlioz calls up a
series of vast and magnificent whirlwinds of vocal and
orchestral sonority, the thoughts of scores that sound and
look imposingly complex to the eyes and ears of both the educated
and uneducated in the composer's art. We have a vision of close
pages embodying the most unequivocal and drastic of musical “real-
ism. ” The full audacity and mastery of a certain sort of genius are
represented in his vast works. They bespeak, too, the combative
musician and reformer. Berlioz took the
kingdom of music by violence.
His chef d'æuvres do not all say to us as
much as he meant them to say, not as much
as they all uttered twenty years ago.
There
is much clay as well as gold in them. But
such tremendous products of his energy and
intellect as the “Requiem,' the “Te Deum,'
(The Damnation of Faust,' his best descript-
ive symphonies such as the “Romeo and
Juliet,' are yet eloquent to the public and
to the critical-minded. His best was so very
good that his worst weighed as a matter
of principle or execution, regarded as music HECTOR BERLIOZ
or “programme music " - can be excused.
Berlioz's actual biography is a long tale of storm and stress. Not
only was he slow in gaining appreciation while he lived; full com-
prehension of his power was not granted him till after his energetic
life was over. Recognition in his own country is incomplete to day.
He was born in 1803, near picturesque Grenoble, in the little town of
Côte St.
André, the son of an excellent country doctor. Sent to
Paris to study medicine, he became a musician against his father's
wish, and in lieu of the allowance that his father promptly withdrew,
the young man lived by engaging in the chorus of the Gymnase, and
by catching at every straw for subsistence. He became a regular
music-student of the Conservatory, under the admirable Lesueur and
Reicha; quitted the Conservatory in disgust at its pedantry, in 1825;
and lived and advanced in musical study as best he could for a con-
siderable time. His convictions in art were founded largely on the
JII-114



## p. 1810 (#614) ###########################################

1810
HECTOR BERLIOZ
was
a
rock of Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber; and however modern,
and however widely his work departs from such academic models,
Berlioz never forswore a certain allegiance to these great and serene
masters. He returned to the Conservatory, studied hard, gained the
Prix de Rome, gradually took a prominent place among Parisian com-
posers, and was as enthusiastically the subject of a cult as
Wagner. His concerts and the production of his operas encountered
shameful cabals. His strongest works were neglected or ill-served.
To their honor, German musicians understood him, Schumann and Liszt
in especial. Only in Germany to-day are his colossal operas heard.
The Italian Paganini showed a generous interest in his struggles.
Russia and Austria too admired him, while his compatriots hissed.
His career was one of endless work, disappointments, brief successes,
battles, hopes, and despairs. Personally, too, it was full of the hap-
piness and unhappiness of the artistic temperament.
It was between the two periods of his Conservatory life that he
endured his chief sentimental misfortune,— his falling in love with
and finally marrying Henrietta Smithson. Miss Smithson was
young English actress playing Shakespearean rôles in France with
a passing success. She was exquisitely lovely - Delaroche has painted
her spirituelle beauty in his Ophelia. The marriage was the typi-
cally unfortunate artist-match; and she became a paralytic invalid
for years. After her death, tours in Germany and elsewhere, new
works, new troubles, enthusiasms, and disappointments filled up the
remainder of the composer's days. He returned to his beloved
Dauphiné, war-worn and almost as one who has outlived life. In
his provincial retreat he composed the huge operatic duology (The
Trojans at Carthage,' and 'The Taking of Troy,' turning once more
to Virgil, his early literary love. Neither of them is often heard
now, any more than his amazing Benvenuto Cellini. Their author
died in Dauphiné in 1869, weary, disenchanted, but conscious that he
would be greater in the eyes of a coming generation than ever he
had been during his harassed life.
Berlioz's literary remains are valuable as criticisms, and their per-
sonal matter is of brisk and varied charm. His intense feeling for
Shakespeare influenced his whole ästhetic life. He was extremely
well read. His most unchecked tendency to romanticism was bal-
anced by a fine feeling for the classics. He loved the greater Greek
and Latin writers. His Autobiography is a perfect picture of him-
self emotionally, and exhibits his wide æsthetic nature. His Letters
are equally faithful as portraiture. He possessed a distinctively
literary style. He tells us how he fell in love -- twice, thrice; re-
cords the disgraceful cabals and intrigues against his professional
success, and explains how a landscape affected his nerves. He is


## p. 1811 (#615) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1811
excellent reading, apparently without taking much pains to be so.
Vivacity, wit, sincerity, are salient traits. In his volume of musical
essays entitled À Travers Chants) (an untranslatable title which
may be paraphrased Memoirs of Music and Musicians') are supe-
rior appreciations of musicians and interpreters and performances in
opera-house and concert-hall, expressed with grace and taste in the
feuilletonist's best manner. In the Journal des Débats, year by year,
he wrote himself down indisputably among the great French critics;
and he never misused his critical post to make it a lever for his
own advantage. His great treatise on Orchestration is a standard
work not displaced by Gevaert or more recent authorities. He was
not only a musical intelligence of enormous capacity: he offers per-
haps as typical an embodiment of the French artistic temperament
as can be pointed out.
THE ITALIAN RACE AS MUSICIANS AND AUDITORS
From Berlioz's Autobiography
SO
I"
well sung
APPEARS, however, at least I am assured, — that the
Italians do occasionally listen. But at any rate, music to the
Milanese, no less than to the Neapolitans, Romans, Floren-
tines, and Genoese, means nothing but an air, a duet, or a trio,
For anything beyond this they feel simply aversion
or indifference. Perhaps these antipathies are mainly due to the
wretched performance of their choruses and orchestras, which
effectually prevents their knowing anything good outside the
beaten track they have so long followed. Possibly, too, they
may to a certain extent understand the flights of men of genius,
if these latter are careful not to give too rude a shock to their
rooted predilections. The great success of Guillaume Tell’at
Florence supports this opinion, and even Spontini's sublime
Vestale obtained a series of brilliant representations at Naples
some twenty-five years ago. Moreover, in those towns which are
under the Austrian rule, you will see the people rush after a
military band, and listen with avidity to the beautiful German
melodies, so unlike their usual insipid cavatinas. Nevertheless,
in general it is impossible to disguise the fact that the Italians
as a nation really appreciate only the material effects of music,
and distinguish nothing but its exterior forms.
Indeed, I am much inclined to regard them as more inaccess-
ible to the poetical side of art, and to any conceptions at all


## p. 1812 (#616) ###########################################

1812
HECTOR BERLIOZ
above the common, than any other European nation. To the
Italians music is a sensual pleasure, and nothing more. For this
most beautiful form of expression they have scarcely more
respect than for the culinary art. In fact, they like music which
they can take in at first hearing, without reflection or attention,
just as they would do with a plate of macaroni.
Now, we French, mean and contemptible musicians as we
are, although we are no better than the Italians when we furi-
ously applaud a trill or a chromatic scale by the last new singer,
and miss altogether the beauty of some grand recitative or ani-
mated chorus, yet at least we can listen, and if we do not take
in a composer's ideas it is not our fault. Beyond the Alps, on
the contrary, people behave in a manner so humiliating both to
art and to artists, whenever any representation is going on, that
I confess I would as soon sell pepper and spice at a grocer's in
the Rue St. Denis as write an opera for the Italians — nay, I
would sooner do it.
Added to this, they are slaves to routine and to fanaticism to
a degree one hardly sees nowadays, even at the Academy. The
slightest unforeseen innovation, whether in melody, harmony,
rhythm, or instrumentation, puts them into a perfect fury; so
much so, that the dilcttanti of Rome, on the appearance of Ros-
sini's Barbiere di Seviglia' (which is Italian enough in all con-
science), were ready to kill the young maestro for having the
insolence to do anything unlike Paisiello.
But what renders all hope of improvement quite chimerical,
and tempts one to believe that the musical feeling of the Italians
mere necessary result of their organization,- the opinion
both of Gall and Spurzheim,- is their love for all that is dan-
cing, brilliant, glittering, and gay, to the utter neglect of the
various passions by which the characters are animated, and the
confusion of time and place - in a word, of good sense itself.
Their music is always laughing: and if by chance the composer
in the course of the drama permits himself for one moment not
to be absurd, he at once hastens back to his prescribed style, his
melodious roulades and grupetti, his trills and contemptible fri-
volities, either for voice or orchestra; and these, succeeding so
abruptly to something true to life, have an unreal effect, and give
the opera seria all the appearance of a parody or caricature.
I could quote plenty of examples from famous works; but
speaking generally of these artistic questions, is it not from Italy
is a


## p. 1813 (#617) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1813
that we get those stereotyped conventional forms adopted by so
many French composers, resisted by Cherubini and Spontini alone
among the Italians, though rejected entirely by the Germans ?
What well-organized person with any sense of musical expression
could listen to a quartet in which four characters, animated by
totally conflicting passions, should successively employ the same
melodious phrase to express such different words as these: “0, toi
que j'adore ! » "Quelle terreur me glace! ” “Mon cæur bat de
plaisir! ” "La fureur me transporte! ) To suppose that music
is a language so vague that the natural inflections of fury will
serve equally well for fear, joy, and love, only proves the absence
of that sense which to others makes the varieties of expression in
music as incontestable a reality as the existence of the sun.
I regard the course taken by Italian composers as the inevitable
result of the instincts of the public, which react more or less on
the composers themselves.
THE FAMOUS «SNUFF-BOX TREACHERY»
From the Autobiography
ow for another intrigue, still more cleverly contrived, the
black depths of which I hardly dare fathom. I incriminate
no one; I simply give the naked facts, without the smallest
commentary, but with scrupulous exactness. General Bernard
having himself informed me that my Requiem was to be per-
formed on certain conditions,
I was about to begin my
rehearsals when I was sent for by the Director of the Beaux-Arts.
“You know,” said he, “that Habeneck has been commissioned
to conduct all the great official musical festivals ? ” (“Come,
good! ” thought I: “here is another tile for my devoted head. ”)
“It is true that you are now in the habit of conducting the per-
formance of your works yourself; but Habeneck is an old man
(another tile), “and I happen to know that he will be deeply
hurt if he does not preside at your Requiem. What terms are
you on with him ? »
«What terms? We have quarreled. I hardly know why. For
three years he has not spoken to me. I am not aware of his
motives, and indeed have not cared to ask. He began by rudely
refusing to conduct one of my concerts. His behavior towards
me has been as inexplicable as it is uncivil. However, as I see


## p. 1814 (#618) ###########################################

1814
HECTOR BERLIOZ
plainly that he wishes on the present occasion to figure at Mar-
shal Damrémont's ceremony, and as it would evidently be agree-
able to you, I consent to give up the baton to him, on condition
that I have at least one full rehearsal. ”
"Agreed,” replied the Director; "I will let him know about
it. ”
The rehearsals were accordingly conducted with great care.
Habeneck spoke to me as if our relations with each other had
never been interrupted, and all seemed likely to go well.
The day of the performance arrived, in the Church of the
Invalides, before all the princes, peers, and deputies, the French
press, the correspondents of foreign papers, and an immense
crowd. It was absolutely essential for me to have a great suc-
cess; a moderate one would have been fatal, and a failure would
have annihilated me altogether.
Now listen attentively.
The various groups of instruments in the orchestra were
tolerably widely separated, especially the four brass bands intro-
duced in the Tuba mirum, each of which occupied a corner of
the entire orchestra. There is no pause between the "Dies Iræ'
and the ‘Tuba mirum,' but the pace of the latter movement is
reduced to half what it was before. At this point the whole of
the brass enters, first all together, and then in passages, answer-
ing and interrupting, each a third higher than the last. It is
obvious that it is of the greatest importance that the four beats
of the new tempo should be distinctly marked, or else the ter-
rible explosion, which I had so carefully prepared with combina-
tions and proportions never attempted before or since, and which,
rightly performed, gives such a picture of the Last Judgment as
I believe is destined to live, would be a mere enormous and
hideous confusion.
With my habitual mistrust, I had stationed myself behind
Habeneck, and turning my back on him, overlooked the group
of kettle-drums, which he could not see, when the moment
approached for them to take part in the general mêlée. There
are perhaps one thousand bars in my Requiem. Precisely in
that of which I have just been speaking, when the movement is
retarded, and the wind instruments burst in with their terrible
flourish of trumpets; in fact, just in the one bar where the con-
ductor's motion is absolutely indispensable, Habeneck puts down
his baton, quietly takes out his snuff box, and proceeds to take a


## p. 1815 (#619) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1815
pinch of snuff.
I always had my eye in his direction, and
instantly turned rapidly on one heel, and springing forward
before him, I stretched out my arm and marked the four great
beats of the new movement. The orchestras followed me, each
in order. I conducted the piece to the end, and the effect which
I had longed for was produced. When, at the last words of the
chorus, Habeneck saw that the Tuba mirum' was saved, he
said, "What a cold perspiration I have been in! Without you
we should have been lost. " "Yes, I know, I answered, looking
fixedly at him. I did not add another word.
Had he
done it on purpose ?
Could it be possible that this man
had dared to join my enemy, the Director, and Cherubini's
friends, in plotting and attempting such rascality? I don't wish
to believe it . . but I cannot doubt it. God forgive me if
I am doing the man injustice!
.
ON GLUCK
From the Autobiography
O"
F ALL the ancient composers, Gluck has, I believe, the least
to fear from the incessant revolutions of art. He sacri-
ficed nothing either to the caprices of singers, the exigen-
cies of fashion, or the inveterate routine with which he had to
contend on his arrival in France, after his protracted struggles
with the Italian theatres. Doubtless his conflicts at Milan,
Naples, and Parma, instead of weakening him, had increased his
strength by revealing its full extent to himself; for in spite of
the fanaticism then prevalent in our artistic customs, he broke
these miserable trammels and trod them underfoot with the
greatest ease. True, the clamor of the critics once succeeded in
forcing him into a reply; but it was the only indiscretion with
which he had to reproach himself, and thenceforth, as before,
he went straight to his aim in silence. We all know what that
aim was; we also know that it was never given to any man to
succeed more fully. With less conviction or less firmness, it is
probable that, notwithstanding his natural genius, his degenerate
works would not have long survived those of his mediocre rivals
now completely forgotten. But truth of expression, purity of
style, and grandeur of form belong to all time. Gluck's fine
passages will always be fine. Victor Hugo is right: the heart
never grows old.


## p. 1816 (#620) ###########################################

1816
HECTOR BERLIOZ
ON BACH
From the Autobiography
You
fou will not, my dear Demarest, expect an analysis from me
of Bach's great work: such a task would quite exceed my
prescribed limits. Indeed, the movement performed at the
Conservatoire three years ago may be considered the type of the
author's style throughout the work. The Germans profess an
unlimited admiration for Bach's recitatives; but their peculiar
characteristic necessarily escaped me, as I did not understand
the language and was unable to appreciate their expression.
Whoever is familiar with our musical customs in Paris must wit-
ness, in order to believe, the attention, respect, and even rever-
ence with which a German public listens to such a composition.
Every one follows the words on the book with his eyes; not a
movement among the audience, not a murmur of praise or blame,
not a sound of applause; they are listening to a solemn dis-
course, they are hearing the gospel sung, they are attending
divine service rather than a concert. And really such music
ought to be thus listened to. They adore Bach, and believe in
him, without supposing for a moment that his divinity could ever
be called into question. A heretic would horrify them, he is
forbidden even to speak of him. God is God and Bach is Bach.
Some days after the performance of Bach's chef d'æuvre, the
Singing Academy announced Graun's "Tod Jesu. ' This is another
sacred work, a holy book; the worshipers of which are, however,
mainly to be found in Berlin, whereas the religion of Bach is
professed throughout the north of Germany.
MUSIC AS AN ARISTOCRATIC ART
From the Autobiography
D"
RAMATIC art in the time of Shakespeare was more appreciated
by the masses than it is in our day by those nations which
lay most claim to possess a feeling for it. Music is essen-
tially aristocratic; it is a daughter of noble race, such as princes
only can dower nowadays; it must be able to live poor and un-
mated rather than form a mésalliance.


## p. 1817 (#621) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1817
THE BEGINNING OF A "GRAND PASSION »
From the Autobiography
I
HAVE now come to the grand drama of my life; but I shall
not relate all its painful details. It is enough to say that
an English company came over to perform Shakespeare's
plays, then entirely unknown in France, at the Odéon.
I was
present at the first performance of Hamlet,' and there, in the
part of Ophelia, I saw Miss Smithson, whom I married five years
afterward. I can only compare the effect produced by her won-
derful talent, or rather her dramatic genius, on my imagination
and heart, with the convulsion produced on my mind by the
work of the great poet whom she interpreted. It is impossible
to say more.
This sudden and unexpected revelation of Shakespeare over-
whelmed me. The lightning-flash of his genius revealed the
whole heaven of art to me, illuminating its remotest depths in a
single flash. I recognized the meaning of real grandeur, real
beauty, and real dramatic truth; and I also realized the utter
absurdity of the ideas circulated by Voltaire in France about
Shakespeare, and the pitiful pettiness of our old poetic school,
the offspring of pedagogues and frères ignorantins.
But the shock was too great, and it was a long while before
I recovered from it. I became possessed by an intense, over-
powering sense of sadness, that in my then sickly, nervous state
produced a mental condition adequately to describe which would
take a great physiologist. I could not sleep, I lost my spirits,
my favorite studies became distasteful to me, and I spent my
time wandering aimlessly about Paris and its environs. During
that long period of suffering, I can only recall four occasions on
which I slept, and then it was the heavy, death-like sleep pro-
duced by complete physical exhaustion. These were one night
when I had thrown myself down on some sheaves in a field near
Ville-Juif; one day in a meadow in the neighborhood of Sceaux;
once on the snow on the banks of the frozen Seine, near Neuilly;
and lastly, on a table in the Café du Cardinal at the corner of
the Boulevard des Italiens and the Rue Richelieu, where I slept
for five hours, to the terror of the garçons, who thought I was
dead and were afraid to come near me.


## p. 1818 (#622) ###########################################

1818
HECTOR BERLIOZ
It was on my return from one of these wanderings, in which
I must have seemed like one seeking his soul, that my eyes fell
on Moore's Irish Melodies,' lying open on my table at the song
beginning “When he who adores thee. " I seized my pen, and
then and there wrote the music to that heart-rending farewell,
which is published at the end of my collection of songs, 'Irlande,'
under the title of 'Elégie. ' This is the only occasion on which I
have been able to vent any strong feeling in music while still
under its influence. And I think that I have rarely reached
such intense truth of musical expression, combined with so much
realistic power of harmony.
ON THEATRICAL MANAGERS IN RELATION TO ART
From the Autobiography)
I
HAVE often wondered why theatrical managers everywhere
have such a marked predilection for what genuine artists,
cultivated minds, and even, a certain section of the public
itself persist in regarding as very poor manufacture, short-lived
productions, the handiwork of which is as valueless as the raw
material itself. Not as though platitudes always succeeded better
than good works; indeed, the contrary is often the case. Neither
is it that careful compositions entail more expense than shoddy. ”
It is often just the other way. Perhaps it arises simply from the
fact that the good works demand the care, study, attention, and,
in certain cases, even the mind, talent, and inspiration of every
one in the theatre, from the manager down to the prompter.
The others, on the contrary, being made especially for lazy,
mediocre, superficial, ignorant, and silly people, naturally find a
great many supporters. Well! a manager likes, above every-
thing, whatever brings him in amiable speeches and satisfied
looks from his underlings, he likes things that require no learn-
ing and disturb no accepted ideas or habits, which gently go
with the stream of prejudice, and wound no self-love, because
they reveal no incapacity; in a word, things which do not take
too long to get up.


## p. 1819 (#623) ###########################################

1819
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
(1091-1153)
B
ORN in 1091, at Fontaines, a castle of his father Tescelin, near
Dijon, France, and devotedly instructed by his pious and
gentle mother Aleth, Bernard of Clairvaux was from early
childhood imbued with an active religious enthusiasm. When the
time came to choose his way of life, instead of going into battle
with his knighted brothers, he made them, as well as his uncle the
count of Touillon, join a band of thirty companions, with whom he
knelt in the rude chapel at Citeaux to beg the tonsure from Abbot
Stephen Harding. To rise at two o'clock
in the morning and chant the prayer-offices
of the church until nine, to do hard manual
labor until two, when the sole meal of the
day — composed of vegetable food only -
was taken, to labor again until nightfall
and sing the vespers until an early bed-
time hour: such was the Cistercian's daily
observance of his vows of poverty, chastity,
and obedience,- vows which Bernard and
his followers were to lay down only upon
the cross of ashes spread upon the hard
cell floor to receive their outstretched,
SAINT BERNARD
dying bodies.
Citeaux became famous from the coming of these new recruits.
There was, in those tough old days, a soldierly admiration for faith-
fulness to discipline; and when Bernard was professed in 1114, Abbot
Stephen was obliged to enlarge the field of work. Bernard was sent
in 1115 to build a house and clear and cultivate a farm in a thickly
wooded and thief-infested glen to the north of Dijon, known as the
Valley of Wormwood. Here at the age of twenty-four, in a rude
house built by their own hands with timber cut from the land, the
young abbot and his companions lived like the sturdy pioneers of
our Northwest, the earth their floor and narrow wooden bunks in a
low dark loft their beds. Of course the stubborn forest gave way
slowly, and grudgingly opened sunny hillsides to the vine and wheat-
sheaf. The name of the settlement was changed to Clairvaux, but
for many years the poor monks' only food was barley bread, with
broth made from boiled beech leaves. Here Tescelin came in his old



## p. 1820 (#624) ###########################################

1820
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
age to live under the rule of his sons; and Humbeline, the wealthy
and rank-proud daughter, one day left her gay retinue at the door of
their little abbey and went to join the nuns at Jouilly.
While Bernard was studying and planting at Clairvaux, the word
of his piety and worth went everywhere through the land, and he
came to be consulted not only by his Superior at Citeaux, but by
villein and noble, even to the august persons of Louis the Fat of
France and Henry the Norman of England. His gentleness and
integrity became the chief reliance of the royal house of France,
and his sermons and letters began to be quoted at council board and
synod even as far as Rome. The austerity and poverty of the Cis-
tercians had caused some friends of the monks of Cluny to fall under
Bernard's zealous indignation. He wrote to William of St. Thierry
a famous letter, mildly termed an Apology; in which, by the most
insinuating and biting satire, the laxity and indulgence which had
weakened or effaced the power of monastic example (from which
arraignment the proud house of Cluny was deemed not to escape
scot-free) were lashed with uncompromising courage.
France and Burgundy, with the more or less helpful aid of the
Norman dukes in England, had been very loyal to the interests of
the Papacy. When the schism of Anacletus II. arose in 1130, Inno-
cent II. , driven from Rome by the armed followers of Peter de
Leon, found his way at once to the side of Louis VI. There he
found Bernard, and upon him he leaned from that time until the
latter had hewed a road for him back to Rome through kings, prel-
ates, statesmen, and intriguers, with the same unflinching steadfast-
ness with which he had cut a way to the sunlight for his vines and
vegetables in the Valley of Wormwood. Bernard it was who per-
suaded Henry of England to side with Innocent, and it was he who
stayed the revival of the question of investitures and won the Em-
peror to the Pope at Liège. At the Council of Rheims in October
1131, Bernard was the central figure; and when the path was open
for a return to Italy, the restored Pope took the abbot with him,
leaving in return a rescript releasing Citeaux from tithes. Bernard
stayed in Italy until 1135, and left Innocent secure in Rome.
After a short period of peace at Clairvaux, he had to hurry off
again to Italy on account of the defection of the influential mon-
astery of Monte Casino to Anacletus.
Not long after his last return from Italy, Bernard met Pierre
Abélard. This brilliant and unfortunate man had incurred the
charge of heresy, and at some time in the year 1139 Bernard was
induced to meet and confer with him. Nothing seems to have re-
sulted from the conference, for Abélard went in 1140 to the Bishop
of Sens and demanded an opportunity of being confronted with


## p. 1821 (#625) ###########################################

SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
1821
Bernard at an approaching synod. The abbot of Clairvaux, although
unwilling, was at last persuaded to accept the challenge. . Louis
VII. , King of France, Count Theobald of Champagne, and the nobles
of the realm assembled to witness the notable contest. Abélard
came with a brilliant following; but on the second day of the synod,
to the surprise of everybody, ne abruptly closed the proceeding by
appealing to Rome. The works of Abélard were condemned, but his
appeal and person were respected, and Bernard prepared a strong
condemnatory letter to be sent to the Pope. As the great scholar
was on his way to Rome to follow his appeal, he stayed to rest at
Cluny with Peter the Venerable. who persuaded him to go to Ber-
nard. When the two great nearts met in the quiet of Clairvaux, all
animosities were resolved in peace; and Abélard, returning to Cluny,
abandoned his appeal and observed the rule of the house until his
death, which he endured, as Peter the Venerable wrote to Héloise,
fully prepared and comforted, at Châlons in 1142.
The infidels of the East having taken Edessa in 1146, the power
of the Christians in the Holy Land was broken; and Eugenius III.