No More Learning

"New views of the universality of our world, of poetry, of religion, of
kindness (human kindness), of virtue, of worth!
Think it over; these
are the objects on which our new generation is fixing its thoughts, and try-
ing to awaken yours. This it is which is so new! »
•
Translation of Madame Blaze de Bury.
Uran King


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4600
PAUL DESJARDINS
THE PRESENT DUTY
THE
HERE are many of us who at times have forgotten our per-
sonal troubles, however great they were, by picturing to
ourselves the moral distress of souls around us, and by
meditating on the possible remedy for this universal ill. Some
remain serene before this spectacle; they resign themselves to
fatal evil and inextricable doubt; they look with cold blood on
that which is. Others, like the one who speaks here, are more
affirmative because they are more impassioned, more wounded,
knowing neither how to forget nor how to be patient, nor yet
how to despair peaceably; they are less troubled by that which
is, than by that which ought to be; they have even turned
towards that which ought to be, as towards the salvation for
which their whole heart is calling. It is their weakness not to
know how to interest themselves for any length of time in what
does not in some way assume the aspect of a duty that concerns
them. They do not contest, in fact, that it is a weakness not to
be able to look with a disinterested eye on disease, corporal or
spiritual; a weakness to feel the necessity of having something to
do at the bedside of the dying, even if that something be in
vain, to employ the anguish of one's heart in preparing,
even up to the supreme moment, remedies in the shadow of the
chamber.
—
We are in a state of war. It would be almost cowardly to
be silent about our intimate beliefs, for they are contradicted and
attacked. We must not content ourselves with a pacification or
truce which will permit us with facile weakness to open all the
pores of our intelligence to ideas contrary to our conviction. It
is necessary on the contrary to gird ourselves, to intrench our-
selves. There is to-day, between us and many of our contem-
poraries, an irreconcilable disagreement that must be faced, a
great combat in which parts must be taken. As far as I can see
this is what it is. In a word, are subjection to animal instinct,
egoism, falsehood, absolutely evil, or are they merely “inele-
gances"? —that is to say, things deprecated just at present, but
which, well ornamented and perfumed with grace, might not
again attract us, satisfy us, furnish us a type of life equivalent
after all to the life of the sages and saints; for nothing shows us
with certainty that the latter is any better than the former.


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PAUL DESJARDINS
4601
Are justice and love a sure good, a sure law, and the harbor of
safety? Or are they possible illusions, probable vanities? Have
we a destiny, an ideal, or are we agitating ourselves without
cause and without purpose for the amusement of some malicious
demiurge, or simply for the absurd caprice of great Pan? This
is the question that divides consciences. A great subject of dis-
pute; surely greater than that of the divinity of Jesus Christ, for
example, than that even of the existence of a personal God, or
of any other purely speculative question you please; and above
all, one more urgent: for there are counter-blows in it, which
frighten me in my every-day existence,-me, a man kept to the
business of living from the hour I awake to the light until the
hour I go to sleep; and according to the answer I may give
myself on this point, is the spirit in which I dig in my little
garden.
Personally I have taken sides, after reflection; after experi-
ence also, I do profess with conviction that humanity has a des-
tiny and that we live for something. What is to be understood
exactly by this word humanity? In short, I know not, only that
this, of which I know nothing, does not exist yet, but it is on
the road to existence, on the road to make itself known; and
that it concerns me who am here. What must be understood
by this word destiny? I do not know much more; I have only,
so far, dreams about it, dreams born of some profound but
incommunicable love, which an equal love only could under-
stand; my conscience is not pure enough to conceive a stronger
conviction; I only affirm that this destiny of humanity, if it were
known, would be such that all men, ignorant or simple, could
participate in it. It is already something to know that, in short,
I see at least by lightning-flashes, from which side the future.
will shine; and I walk towards it, and live thus, climbing up
in a steep dark forest towards a point where a light is divined,
a light that cannot deceive me, but which the obtruding branches
of a complicated and apparent life hide from me. That which
will bring me nearer it is not arguing about the probable nature
of the light, but walking; I mean, fortifying in myself and
others a will for the Good.
We have on one side undecided and lukewarm allies, on the
other adversaries; and we are forced necessarily to combat. This
necessity will become clearer each day;
it is the "antag-
onism of negatives and positives—of those who tend to destroy


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4602
PAUL DESJARDINS
and those who tend to reconstruct. "
There is no ques-
tion here, be it understood, of knowing whether we are deceiving
ourselves in choosing such or such a particular duty; that I
would concede without trouble, having always estimated that our
moral judgments, like our acts, have need of ceaseless revision
and amelioration, according to an endless progression. There is
a question of much more; of knowing in an absolute manner
whether there be a duty for us or not.
Good is in fact
that which ought to be. Like Christ, who according to St. Paul
is not a Yes and a No, but a Yes, duty is a Yes; to slip into it
the shadow of a possibility of a No is to destroy it. .
The men of to-day are thus negatives or positives, as they
range themselves under one opinion or the other.
And they
must range themselves under one of the two. They cannot
escape. The question which divides us, to know whether we
live in vain, imposes itself upon every one who opens his lips or
moves his finger, upon every conscious being who breathes.
That So-and-so never speaks of it, never thinks of it, may be;
but their lives answer for them and testify loudly enough. I
confess that at first sight the negatives seem for the moment
the more numerous. They include many groups, which I shall
not enumerate here. I range with them the charming uncertain
ones, like M. Renan and his melodious disciples, the sombre and
nihilistic Buddhists; all those to whom the law of the completion
of man through the good is indeed foolish and chimerical, since
their lives imply the negation of it: I mean to say the immense
multitude of those who live in any kind of way, good easy
people, refined possibly, from caprice, coquetry or laziness, but in
complete moral anæsthesia.
Now we come to the positives. They include first of all, true
Christians, and all true Jews, attached to the profound spirit of
their religion; then the philosophers and poets who affirm or
sing the moral ideal, the new disciples of Plato, the Stoics, the
Kantians, famous or unknown, to whom life alone, outside of all
speculation, is a solid affirmation of the possibility and sufficiency
of the good. That the actions of these men and women, on the way
to creating themselves free beings, human beings, have the same
value as doctrine, cannot be denied. They labor and suffer here
and there, each one in his own cell; each one making his own
goodness consist in the realization of what he believes to be the
absolute good; making themselves faithful servants of something;


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PAUL DESJARDINS
4603
existing outside of themselves; the city, religion, charity, justice,
truth even, or beauty, conceived as modes of adoration.
All these compose, it seems to me, one and the same Church,
having the philosophers and poets of duty for doctors of divinity,
the heroes of duty for congregation. These may be called by
the general name of "Positives. "
Let our eyes be opened: everything that surrounds us is
vitiated; many of the children playing on the promenades are
sickly, their little faces are often enough marked with livid
blotches, their bones are often enough twisted, sad symptoms of
the degradation of parents. At every street corner are distrib-
uted libertine productions by traders in the depravity of the
weak. If any one wishes to recognize the furnace of vice
burning within us, let him observe merely the looks cast upon
an honest woman as she passes, by respectable men, old men.
What savage expressions intercepted under the feverish light of
the electric lamps! What tension, what spasms of covetousness!
What hallucinations of pleasure and of gold! Tragic matter
here, but low tragedies à la Balzac, not those acted under an
open sky by heroes. A few pistol-shots from time to time, a few
poisonings, some drownings: that is all that transpires of the
interior evil. The rest passes away in suppressed tears, brooding
hatreds, in accepted shame. In such confusion the consciences
of the best, of the most disinterested ones, lose the cleanness of
their stamp.
"You are smiling there at an obscenity," said I to
a friend; he protested; then reflecting, agreed with me, quite
astonished that he had not perceived it. Honest men are trou-
bled by all this circumjacent corruption. And rightly so, for at
the bottom they are parts of it; they are distinguished from it
only by more cleanliness, education, elegance, but not by prin-
ciple.
In fact, from top to bottom, all this society lives on sensation;
that is the common trait through it all, and it is graded accord-
ing to the quality of its sensations. . . Fundamentally there
is only sensation, with here and there unequally subtle nerves.
There are no terms less reconcilable one to another than research
of sensation and moral obligation. There is nothing more op-
posed. Therefore he who expects all from his sensations depends
absolutely on externals, upon the fortuitous things of life, in all
their incoherence; he is no longer a self-centre, he feels himself
no longer responsible, his personality is dissolved, evaporated; it


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PAUL DESJARDINS
does not react, and ambient nature already absorbs him, like some
dead thing.
And this is where we are. I recognize then the evil; I see
it in its extent. Nevertheless, to paint this lamentable picture
once more is not to show our moral ideas. Our moral idea is
what we believe touching the life which shall be best; it is not
exactly our life.
Ever since the antique Medea of Ovid uttered that cry, many
others, one after another, have groaned over the fact that, seeing
the best and approving it, they yet follow the worst-alas!
Such a sorrow is to-day profound and universal; there where
vice abounds, sorrow superabounds. It is no longer that melan-
choly born of the insufficiency of external reality, once for all
recognized, that felt by Obermann and proud romanticists; but a
humble, narrow, ragged rancor, mixed with disdain, with dis-
gust, born of our insufficiency to ourselves, perceived thoroughly.
Never, I believe, have we been more generally sad than in these
times. And it is that which saves us; I find here our greatness.
He alone is lost who feels himself at ease and healthful in evil;
consciences without anxiety are the only hopeless ones.
Let us
hope then, for it cannot be denied that we feel we are very ill.
It is apparent that we are in labor with something which shall
be our cure. The symptoms of this painful labor are not lack-
ing. The works which are appearing now, pre-eminent in form,
but obscure and hesitating in principles, bear signs of the stress
in which they were conceived; soon they will seem merely spe
cious. In the poetry, romance, painting, music, of to-day, how
many exquisite works are born, not of energy guided by love,
but only of a dream of energy, a dream of love, on the shores
of inconsolable exile! The truth is, we no longer know what
become; when any one of the antique misfortunes strikes us,
death, abandonment, ruin,- we no longer bear it as our fathers
did. We no longer know the dignified, peaceful mournings of
old; but under an unexpected stroke, the torment, the compli
cated rending in the heart, show that it has been secretly under·
mined. We feel indeed divided within ourselves, and we need
to be unified; but the inward unification is possible only for the
absolutely debauched or the absolutely good man; there is
via media; half-virtue rends us.
to
no
-


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PAUL DESJARDINS
4605
Our spiritual life being in truth miracle and mystery, I do
not know how to explain what each one knows so well; I do not
know how there is developed within us that sublime state known
and described under different names by Socrates, Plato, Plotinus,
Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, St. Paul, St. Augustine, Tauler, the
author of the 'Imitation,' Shelley, Emerson, Tolstoy: but I
know that such a state, which we all know by experience, merits
alone the name of positive morality.
Well then, history
shows that what is true of each one of us personally, is true of
society.
THE CONVERSION OF THE CHURCH
WHIL
HILE a purer spirit is visibly awakening in ailing humanity
and turning it again to Christ, the religion of Christ is
rejuvenating. His church is no longer motionless. Thus,
in the midst of a great confusion, two religious movements
which correspond with one another are defining themselves with
sufficient clearness.
On the one side, men without any precise faith, and who
thought themselves without any faith, have perceived that they
carry within themselves that which they sought: an explanation.
of themselves, say a principle of salvation. At whatever point
these thinking men arrive, it is apparent at the present that
they are progressing in the way of the Evangel, and following
the path of the cross.
On the other side, the Roman
Catholic Church, governed by a vigilant Pope, has declared
herself. She has spoken of love, at the moment when all were
thirsty for love and self-forgetfulness; she intercedes for the suf-
fering masses, at the moment when others were going to do it
outside of her, perhaps against her. And more, she is resolutely
to-day accenting spirituality, after having so long accented ritual
or policy. The new spiritualists and the renewed Christians are
thus pushed forward to a meeting with one another by the need
of their practical co-operation, and also perhaps by the conscious-
ness of their intimate kinship. They are marching from both
sides, with the same rallying cry, Fraternity and sacrifice! Here
they are flying from the city of the plain, where a material civ-
ilization reigns, and claiming to suffice all; they are emigrating,
they know not whither, if it be only towards the heights; there
1


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PAUL DESJARDINS
they are descending from their high, narrow, clerical, shut-in
fastness.
The conversion that the Church should make is a conversion
of the heart. It must become again a school of true liberty and
love. Herein lies all the anxiety of the moment; and the great
Catholic question lies not between the Church and the Republic,
but between the Church and the People, or rather between the
Church and the pure Spirit. By loving the people in truth, and
by making itself the people, it is clear that the Catholic Church
would simply be returning to its original source. Now, returning
to its original source is, in a word, all that the Church should
do; and that which, following her example, all old institutions
should do so as to live and to make us live. To last, means to
be re-born perpetually. In truth, each one of these institutions
was born in former times, from a definite need of the soul. And
at first they responded exactly to it, and that is why they pre-
vailed; all their strength came from the fact that they were
necessary; their weakness comes from the fact that they are no
longer so. At first the religious community was formed of the
imperious necessity of a deliverance from evil; it was not for
ornament, not for the charm of burning incense under arches;
neither was it formed to do what kings, warriors, and
judges are sufficient to do; these last would have absorbed it,
but they cannot, although they try to do so every day; but
they can never do so, unless the Church abandons her own func-
tions to usurp theirs. She would then, by forgetting her desti-
nation, commit suicide. But even then, another church would
form in response to the spiritual hunger and thirst which never
ceases. Thus the whole problem of the existence of an institu-
tion is to remain forever necessary, and therefore faithful to its
original source.
wc
Let us add that civil society cannot maintain itself without
also constant rejuvenation,- becoming young again; it also exists
only by the active consent of willing minds. It is essential for
the harmony of the whole that each person should be an indi-
vidual and not an automaton. As men, divided by the external
accidents of habit, condition, fortune, and united by that which is
fundamental within them, the weakening of that which is within
them disintegrates them; and thence the principal cause of our
divisions comes from hardly any one to-day being in his heart
that which he appears to be. Therefore, to bring back diverse


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PAUL DESJARDINS
4607
conditions to their original source and to the reason of their
being, to re-establish the principle in the centre of the life of
each, is to do the work of unification. To say to the priests,
"Be primitive Christians, imitate the chosen Master," is, socially
speaking, a good action which all Christians and non-Christians
should applaud, for the salvation of all depends upon it. The
remedy of our malady, without doubt, lies not in having all
France to mass, but first that all should make their faith the
rule of their actions. That which lies at the bottom of our con-
sciences is the thing by which we are brothers.
TWO IMPRESSIONS
From Notes Contemporaines >
Tw
wo impressions have remained with me. They date from a
month's wandering in Switzerland, at a time when there are
no tourists to be met. The first is of the exquisite scenes of
wintry Nature, as she shows herself at this season, when none
come to visit her- still, reposeful, silent, veiled-how much more.
touching and impressive than when profaned by the summer
crowd! This is the moment when the Jura should be seen! The
pine woods on the hills are but faintly powdered with snow, and
the patches of dry rusty vegetation beneath lie on the gray stones
like the broad red stains of blood. Seeds hang here and there on
the bare branches, mixed with the tendrils of the wild vine, or
with ghostly clusters of what were the flowers of the clematis.
The falling leaves are golden; those already fallen are of an
ashen gray.
The delicate tracery overhead is of infinite com-
plexity, exquisite in its endless detail; and the whole of this
disrobed Nature, in its unadorned simplicity, has an impress of
sincerity that reminds you of the drawings of Holbein. Flat
pools of shallow water lie about, carpeted with mosses and mir-
roring the sky; the smoke of the huts rises upward gaunt and
straight. No one is near; there are no passers-by; and there is
no sound, except that of a waterfall, fuller in its rush than at
any other season. Silence a silence so fragile that the step of
a single wayfarer on the road would be enough to break it—
reigns undisturbed, and covers everything like a winding-sheet.
My second impression is of another kind, though almost as
comforting, at least by the contrast; it was given me by the con-
versation of the peasant folk, plain humble mountaineers. The
—


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PAUL DESJARDINS
speech and thought of these men is plain and direct, devoid of
artifice, clear and fathomable; they furnish you an unvarnished
tale of their own simple experience — the life experience of a
man, no more! They neither invent nor disguise, and are totally
incapable of presenting either fact or circumstances in a way that
shall suggest to the hearer another or a different sense. Our
woeful habit of ridiculing what lies indeed at the bottom
of our
hearts they have never learned; they copy, line by line and
stroke by stroke, the meaning that is in them, the intentions of
their inner mind. In our Parisian haunts, it seems to me that
their success would be a problem; but they are heedless of
<< success"; and to us, when we escape from our vitiated centres,
from an atmosphere poisoned by that perpetual straining after
effect, the pure undressed simplicity of these "primitives" is as
refreshing as to our over-excited and exhausted nerves are the
green, quiet, hidden nooks of their Alpine solitudes. With them
there is no need of imaginative expression; the trouble of
thought is useless; their words are the transparent revelation of
their beliefs. The calm brought to the hyper-civilized spirit by
this plainness and directness of Nature is absolutely indescribable;
and when I came to reflect on the profoundness of mental
quietude-I might say of consolation—that I had attained
during my wanderings, I could not help recognizing what a cruel,
fatal part is played in the lives of all of us by irony. It is, with
Frenchmen, a kind of veneer, worn even by the most unpreten-
tious in place of whatever may be real in them; and where
outward seeming is absent, they are completely at a loss.
to
Well-bred Frenchmen rarely if ever have or pronounce
an
an air of
opinion, or pass a judgment—unless with a playful obliquity of
judgment, and on things in general. They assume
knowing what they are talking about, and of having probed the
vanity of all human effort before they have ever
attempted or
approached it; and even this indifference, this disdain, this appar-
ent dislike to the responsibility of so much as an opinion,-
this is not natural, not innate; its formula is not of its own cre-
ation; it is but the repetition of what was originated by some
one else. The truth is, that in our atmosphere all affirmative
―――――――――
This habit of
It is a
action is difficult; it is hard either to be or to do.
irony has destroyed all healthful activity here.
instrument of evil; if you grasp it, it turns to mischief in your
hands, and either slips from and eludes them, or wounds you,
often as not, mortally.
mere
as


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4609
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
(1788-1846)
F
T CURRAGH CHASE, in the picturesque county of Limerick, Ire-
land, Aubrey Hunt was born in 1788. On the death of his
father he succeeded to the baronetcy and took the name
of De Vere. Though his deep love of nature prompted him while
very young to write descriptive verses, it was the drama that first
seriously attracted him. This form he chose for his first painstaking
work, Julian the Apostate. ' The play opens at the time when
Julian, having renounced the faith of his household oppressors, is
allowed as a pagan worshiper to participate
in the Eleusinian mysteries; when, it is
said, he consented to the assassination of
his uncle the Emperor Constantius. It
found an admiring and enthusiastic audi-
ence and received unstinted praise from the
critics. One wrote, "Lord Byron has pro-
duced nothing equal to it;" and another,
"Scott has nothing so intellectual or so ele-
vated among his exquisite sketches. "

SIR AUBREY DE VERE
'Mary Tudor,' a drama written two
years before his death in 1846, is his "most
considerable work," says his son, and "an
expression of his sympathy with great qual-
ities obscured by great errors and great calamities. " The sonnet
was however the form of composition he preferred, and as a son-
neteer he will be remembered. His sonnets are mainly historical,
though he wrote also some religious and descriptive ones which
Wordsworth considered "the most perfect of our age. " His earlier
ones, modeled after those of Petrarch and Filicaja, are inferior in
imagery, phraseology, and nobility of thought to those produced
under the influence of Wordsworth, a poet whose genius De Vere was
among the first to acknowledge, and whose friendship he regarded
as one of the chief honors of his life.
Like his friend, De Vere was a patriot, and in his historical son-
nets he has recorded his love for the land of his remoter ancestors,
whereas in the Lamentations of Ireland' he has expressed with
great ardor his love for the land of his birth. In 1842 he published
'The Song of Faith,' which with the exception of a few translations
was all he gave the world in twenty years. Devoted to his occu-
pations as a country gentleman, and being of a singularly modest
VIII-289


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4610
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
disposition, he neither loved nor courted fame, nor found in it any
incentive to action.
Sir Aubrey De Vere was not in the modern acceptance of the
term a national poet, nor was he, as so many of his contemporaries,
anti-Irish. He modeled his poems on the great English writers, but
all he wrote is pervaded with a deep sympathy for Ireland, and that
at a time when such sympathy was rare.
THE CRUSADERS
THE
HE flattering crowd wreathe laurels for the brow
Of blood-stained chief or regal conqueror;
To Cæsar or the Macedonian bow;
Meteors of earth that set to rise no more:
A hero-worship, as of old? Not now
Should chieftain bend with servile reverence o'er
The fading pageantry of Paynim lore.
True heroes they whose consecrated vow
Led them to Jewry, fighting for the Cross;
While not by Avarice lured, or lust of power
Inspired, they combated that Christ should reign,
And life laid down for him counted no loss.
On Dorylæum's plain, by Antioch's tower,
And Ascalon, sleep well the martyred slain.
A
THE CHILDREN BAND
From The Crusaders'
LL holy influences dwell within
The breast of childhood; instincts fresh from God
Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod
Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.
How mighty was this fervor which could win
Its way to infant souls! -and was the sod
Of Palestine by infant Croises trod?
Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,
In all their touching beauty to redeem?
And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre?
Alas! the lovely pageant, as a dream,
Faded! They sank not through ignoble fear;
They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain stream,
In sands, in fens, they died no mother near!
-


## p. 4611 (#401) ###########################################

SIR AUBREY DE VERE
4611
THE ROCK OF CASHEL
R
OYAL and saintly Cashel! I would gaze
Upon the wreck of thy departed powers
Not in the dewy light of matin hours,
Nor in the meridian pomp of summer blaze,
But at the close of dim autumnal days,
When the sun's parting glance, through slanting showers,
Sheds o'er thy rock-throned battlements and towers
Such awful gleams as brighten o'er decay's
Prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks,
There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless aisles
A melancholy moral; such as sinks
On the lone traveler's heart amid the piles
Of vast Persepolis on her mountain stand,
Or Thebes half buried in the desert sand.
THE RIGHT USE OF PRAYER
TH
HEREFORE when thou wouldst pray, or dost thine alms,
Blow not a trump before thee; hypocrites
Do thus, vaingloriously; the common streets
Boast of their largess, echoing their psalms.
On such the laud of man, like unctuous balms,
Falls with sweet savor. Impious counterfeits!
Prating of heaven, for earth their bosom beats!
Grasping at weeds, they lose immortal palms!
God needs not iteration nor vain cries:
That man communion with his God might share
Below, Christ gave the ordinance of prayer:
Vague ambages and witless ecstasies
Avail not: ere a voice to prayer be given,
The heart should rise on wings of love to heaven.
THE CHURCH
Y, WISELY do we call her Mother-she
Α΄
Who from her liberal breath breathes sustenance
To nations; a majestic charity!
No marble symbol cold, in suppliant glance
Deceitful smiling; strenuous her advance,


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4612
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
Yet calm; while holy ardors, fancy-free,
Direct her measured steps: in every chance
Sedate as Una 'neath the forest tree
-
Encompassed by the lions. Why, alas!
Must her perverse and thoughtless children turn
From her example? Why must the sulky breath
Of Bigotry stain Charity's pure glass?
Poison the springs of Art and Science-burn
The brain through life, and sear the heart in death?
SONNET
SAD
AD is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In currents unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing —
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing —
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them
Not for their sake, but His who grants them, or denies them!


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4613
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
(1498-1593)
B
ERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO, one of the chief chroniclers of the
conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards, was born at Medina
del Campo in Old Castile, about the year 1498. Concerning
the date of his death, authorities differ widely. He died in Guate-
mala, perhaps not long after 1570, but some say not until 1593.
Of humble origin, he determined while still a youth to seek his
fortune in the New World. In 1514 he went with Pedrarias to Darien
and Cuba. He was a common soldier with Córdoba in the first expe-
dition to Yucatan in 1517. He accompanied Grijalva to Mexico in
the following year, and finally enlisted under the banner of Cortés.
In every event that marked the career of that brilliant commander
in Mexico, Diaz had a part; he was engaged in one hundred and nine-
teen battles, and was present at the siege and surrender of the cap-
ital in 1521. Of unswerving loyalty and bravery, according to his own
naïve statement, he was frequently appointed by Cortés to highly
important missions. When Cortés set out to subdue the defection
under Cristoval de Olid at Honduras, Diaz followed his old chief in
the terrible journey through the forests and swamps.
On his return he presumably adopted the life of a planter,
although he had complained loudly of the meagre allotment of land
and laborers which the conqueror gave him. In 1568, however, after
the lapse of half a century, when Cortés had been dead twenty-one
years, we find the veteran comfortably established as regidor (a civic
officer) of the city of Guatemala, and busily engaged on the narra-
tive of the heroic deeds of his youth. In his introduction to the
'Historia Diaz frankly admits that his principal motive in taking
up his pen was to vindicate the valor of himself and others, who
had been completely overshadowed by the exaggerated reputation of
Cortés.
When fairly started, he happened to run across the 'Crónica de la
Nueva España (Saragossa, 1554) of Gomara, secretary and chaplain.
to Cortés, 1540-47. At first the rough old soldier threw down his
pen in despair, on noting the polished style of the scholar; but when
he became aware of the gross inaccuracies of his predecessor, who
had never even set foot in America, he determined, so he declares,
to write above all things a faithful narrative of the stirring events
in which he had participated. Thus was completed his 'Historia


## p. 4614 (#404) ###########################################

4614
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
Verdadera de la Conquista de la Nueva España. ' For some reason
this valuable manuscript lay neglected in a private library for about
sixty years.
Finally it fell into the hands of Father Alonso Remor,
a sagacious priest, who published it at Madrid in 1632.
The narrative of this soldier historian, although clumsy, full of
digressions and repetitions, and laying bare his ignorance, simplicity,
and vanity, will nevertheless always be read with far more interest
than the weightier works of Las Casas, Gomara, or Herrera. Pres-
cott explained the secret of its fascination when he said:
"Bernal Diaz, the untutored child of nature, is a most true and literal
copyist of nature. He transfers the scenes of real life by a sort of daguerreo-
type process, if I may so say, to his pages. He is among chroniclers what
Defoe is among novelists.
All the picturesque scenes and romantic
incidents of the campaign are reflected in his pages as in a mirror. The
lapse of fifty years has had no power over the spirit of the veteran. The fire
of youth glows in every line of his rude history, and as he calls up the scenes
of the past, the remembrance of the brave companions who are gone gives, it
may be, a warmer coloring to the picture than if it had been made at an
earlier period. »
A fairly good English translation of the work of Bernal Diaz ap-
peared in London in 1800, under the title of True History of the
Conquest of Mexico. '
FROM THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO›
Translation of Maurice Keatinge: London, 1800
THE CAPTURE OF GUATIMOTZIN
SAND
ANDOVAL at this moment made a signal for the flotilla to close
up to him, and perceived that Guatimotzin was prisoner to
Holguin, who was taking him to Cortés. Upon this he
ordered his rowers to exert their utmost to bring him up to Hol-
guin's vessel, and having arrived by the side of it, he demanded
Guatimotzin to be delivered to him as general of the whole force;
but Holguin refused, alleging that he had no claim whatever.
A vessel which went to carry the intelligence of the great
event, brought also to Cortés, who was then on the summit of the
great temple in the Taltelulco, very near the part of the lake
where Guatimotzin was captured, an account of the dispute be-
tween his officers. Cortés immediately dispatched Luis Marin and
Francisco de Lugo to bring the whole party together to his quar-
ters, and thus to stop all litigation; but he enjoined them not to
omit treating Guatimotzin and his queen with the greatest respect.


## p. 4615 (#405) ###########################################

BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
4615
During the interval he employed himself in arranging a state, as
well as he could, with cloths and mantles. He also prepared a
table with refreshments, to receive his prisoners. As soon as
they appeared he went forward to meet them, and embracing
Guatimotzin, treated him and all his attendants with every mark
of respect.
The unfortunate monarch, with tears in his eyes, and sinking
under affliction, then addressed him in the following words:-
«< Malintzin! I have done that which was my duty in the defense
of my kingdom and people; my efforts have failed, and being
now brought by force a prisoner in your hands, draw that pon-
iard from your side and stab me to the heart. ”
Cortés embraced and used every expression to comfort him, by
assurances that he held him in high estimation for the valor and
firmness he had shown, and that he had required a submission
from him and the people at the time that they could no longer
reasonably hope for success, in order to prevent further destruc-
tion; but that was all past, and no more to be thought of it; he
should continue to reign over the people as he had done before.
Cortés then inquired after his queen, to which Guatimotzin re-
plied that in consequence of the compliance of Sandoval with his
request, she and her women remained in the piraguas until Cortés
should decide as to their fate. The general then caused them to
be sent for, and treated them in the best manner his situation
afforded. The evening was drawing on, and it appeared likely
to rain; he therefore sent the whole royal family to Cuyoacan,
under the care of Sandoval. The rest of the troops then returned
to their former quarters; we to ours of Tacuba, and Cortés, pro-
ceeding to Cuyoacan, took the command there, sending Sandoval
to resume his station at Tepeaquilla. Thus was the siege of
Mexico brought to a conclusion by the capture of Guatimotzin
and his chiefs, on the thirteenth of August, at the hour of ves-
pers, being the day of St. Hyppolitus, in the year of our Lord
one thousand five hundred and twenty-one. Glorified by our Lord
Jesus Christ, and Our Lady the Holy Virgin Mary his blessed
mother, Amen!
Guatimotzin was of a noble appearance both in person and
countenance; his features were rather large and cheerful, with
lively eyes.
His age was about twenty-three or four years, and
his complexion very fair for an Indian. His queen, the niece of
Montezuma, was young and very handsome.


## p. 4616 (#406) ###########################################

4616
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
THE MORTALITY AT THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO
say
WHAT I am going to mention is truth, and I swear and
amen to it. I have read of the destruction of Jerusalem, but I
cannot conceive that the mortality there exceeded this of Mex-
ico; for all the people from the distant provinces which belonged
to this empire had concentrated themselves here, where they
mostly died. The streets, the squares, the houses, and the courts
of the Taltelulco were covered with dead bodies; we could not
step without treading on them; the lake and canals were filled
with them, and the stench was intolerable. For this reason, our
troops, immediately after the capture of the royal family, retired
to their former quarters. Cortés himself was for some time ill
from the effect of it.
CORTÉS
I WILL now proceed to describe the person and disposition of
the Marquis [Cortés]. He was of good stature and strongly built,
of a rather pale complexion and serious countenance. His feat-
ures were, if faulty, rather too small; his eyes mild and grave.
His beard was black, thin, and scanty; his hair in the same
manner. His breast and shoulders were broad, and his body
very thin.
He was very well limbed, and his legs rather bowed;
an excellent horseman, and dexterous in the use of arms. He
also possessed the heart and mind which is the principal part of
the business. I have heard that when he was a lad in Hispan-
iola he was very wild about women, and that he had several
duels with able swordsmen, in which he always came off with
victory. He had the scar of a sword wound near his under lip,
which appeared through his beard if closely examined, and which
he received in some of those affairs. In his appearance, man-
ners, transactions, conversation, table, and dress, everything bore
the appearance of a great lord. His clothes were according to
the fashion of the time; he was not fond of silks, damasks, or
velvets, but everything plain, and very handsome; nor did he
wear large chains of gold, but a small one of fine workmanship
bearing the image of Our Lady the Blessed Virgin with her
precious Son in her arms, and a Latin motto; and on the reverse,
St. John the Baptist with another motto. He wore on his finger
a ring with a very fine diamond, and in his cap, which according
to the fashion of that day was of velvet, he bore a medal, the


## p. 4617 (#407) ###########################################

BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
4617
head and motto of which I do not recollect; but latterly he wore
a plain cloth cap without any ornament.
His table was always magnificently attended and served, with
four major-domos or principal officers, a number of pages, and a
great quantity of plate, both gold and silver. He dined heartily
at midday, and drank a glass of wine mixed with water, of about
half a pint. He was not nice in his food, nor expensive, except
on particular occasions where he saw the propriety of it. He
was very affable with all his captains and soldiers, especially
those who accompanied him in his first expedition from Cuba.
He was a Latinist, and as I have been told, a bachelor of laws.
He was also something of a poet, and a very good rhetorician;
very devout to Our Holy Virgin and to St. Peter, St. Jago, and
St. John the Baptist, and charitable to the poor. When he swore
he used to say, "By my conscience! " and when he was angry
with any of us his friends, he would say, "Oh! may you repent
it. »
When he was very angry, the veins in his throat and fore-
head used to swell, and when in great wrath he would not utter
a syllable to any one. He was very patient under insults or
injuries; for some of the soldiers were at times very rude and
abusive to him; but he never resented their conduct, although he
had often great reason to do so. In such cases he used only to
"Be silent! " or
say
«< Go away, in God's name, and take care not
to repeat this conduct or I will have you punished. " He was very
determined and headstrong in all business of war, not attending
to any remonstrances on account of danger; an instance of
which he showed in the attack of those fortresses called the
Rocks of the Marquis, which he forced us to scale, contrary
to our opinions, and when neither courage, council, nor wisdom
could give any rational hope of success.
Where we had to erect a fortress, Cortés was the hardest
laborer in the trenches; when we were going into battle, he was
as forward as any.
Cortés was very fond of play, both at cards and dice, and
while playing he was very affable and good-humored. He used
frequently at such times those cant expressions which are cus-
tomary amongst persons who game. In military service he prac-
ticed the most strict attention to discipline, constantly going the
rounds in person during the night, visiting the quarters of the
soldiers and severely reprehending those whom he found with-
out their armor and appointments and not ready to turn out;


## p. 4618 (#408) ###########################################

4618
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
repeating to them the proverb that "It is a bad sheep which
cannot carry own wool. "
On our expedition to Higueras I perceived that he had ac-
quired a habit which I had never before observed in him, and it
was this: after eating, if he did not get his siesta or sleep, his
stomach was affected and he fell sick. For this reason, when
on the journey, let the rain be ever so heavy or the sun ever
so hot, he always reposed for a short time after his repast, a
carpet or cloak being spread under a tree, on which he lay down;
and having slept a short time, he mounted his horse and pro-
ceeded on his journey. When we were engaged in the wars
during the conquest of New Spain, he was very thin and slen-
der; but after his return from Higueras he grew fat, and acquired
a belly. He at this time trimmed his beard, which had now
begun to grow white, in the short fashion. In his early life he
was very liberal, but grew close latterly, some of his servants
complaining that he did not pay them as he ought; and I have
also to observe that in his latter undertakings he never succeeded.
Perhaps such was the will of Heaven, his reward being reserved
for another place; for he was a good cavalier, and very devout
to the Holy Virgin, and also to St. Paul and other Holy Saints.
God pardon him his sins, and me mine; and give me a good
end, which is better than all conquests and victories over Indians.
OF DIVINE AID IN THE BATTLE OF SANTA MARIA DE LA VITORIA
IN HIS account of this action, Gomara says that previous to
the arrival of the main body of the cavalry under Cortés, Fran-
cisco de Morla appeared in the field upon a gray dappled horse,
and that it was one of the holy Apostles, St. Peter or St. Jago,
disguised under his person. I say that all our works and victories
are guided by the hand of our Lord Jesus Christ, and that in
this battle there were so many enemies to every one of us, that
they could have buried us under the dust they could have held
in their hands, but that the great mercy of God aided us through-
out. What Gomara asserts might be the case, and I, sinner as I
am, was not worthy to be permitted to see it. What I did see
was Francisco de Morla, riding in company with Cortés and the
rest upon a chestnut horse; and that circumstance and all the
others of that day appear to me, at this moment that I am
writing, as if actually passing in view of these sinful eyes. But


## p. 4619 (#409) ###########################################

BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
4619
although I, unworthy sinner that I am, was unfit to behold either
of those holy Apostles, upwards of four hundred of us were pres-
ent: let their testimony be taken. Let inquiry also be made how
it happened that when the town was founded on that spot, it was
not named after one or other of those holy Apostles, and called
St. Jago de la Vitoria, or St. Pedro de la Vitoria, as it was Santa
Maria, and a church erected and dedicated to one of those holy
saints. Very bad Christians were we indeed, according to the
account of Gomara, who, when God sent us his Apostles to fight
at our head, did not every day after acknowledge and return
thanks for so great a mercy! Would to heaven that it were so;
but until I read the chronicle of Gomara I never heard of it, nor
was it ever mentioned amongst the conquerors who were then
present.
CORTÉS DESTROYS CERTAIN IDOLS
THERE was on the island of Cozumel a temple, and some hid-
eous idols, to which all the Indians of the neighboring districts.
used to go frequently in solemn procession.
Cortés sum-
moned all the caciques and chief persons to come to him, and as
well as he could, by signs and interpretations, explained to them
that the idols which they worshiped were not gods, but evil
things which would draw their souls down to hell, and that if
they wished to remain in a brotherly connection with us, they
must pull them down and place in their stead the crucifix of
our Lord, by whose assistance they would obtain good harvests
and the salvation of their souls; with many other good and holy
reasons, which he expressed very well. The priests and chiefs
replied that they worshiped these gods as their ancestors had
done, because they were kind to them; and that if we attempted
to molest them, the gods would convince us of their power by
destroying us in the sea. Cortés then ordered them to be pros-
trated, which we immediately did, rolling them down some steps.
He next sent for lime, of which there was abundance in the
place, and Indian masons, by whom under our direction a very
handsome altar was constructed, whereon we placed an image of
the Holy Virgin; and the carpenters having made a crucifix,
which was erected in a small chapel close to the altar, mass was
said by the Reverend Father Juan Diaz, and listened to by the
priests, chiefs, and the rest of the natives, with great attention.
·


## p. 4620 (#410) ###########################################

4620
CHARLES DIBDIN
(1745-1814)
TOG HE saying, "Let me make the songs of a nation and I care
not who makes its laws," receives an interesting illustration
in the sea songs of Charles Dibdin. They were written at
a momentous period in English history. The splendid gallantry and
skill of England's sailors, and the genius of her naval commanders,
had made her mistress of the seas, and the key of all combinations
against the French Cæsar. The sterling qualities of the British sea-
man are the inspiration of Dibdin's songs.
Many of these were first given at Dib-
din's monodramatic entertainments at the
Sans Souci Theatre in London, or as parts
of his musical dramas. They appealed at
once to Englishmen, and were sung by
every ship's crew; they fired the national
spirit, and played so important a part in
the quickening of English patriotism that
the government, recognizing their stirring
force in animating the naval enthusiasm
during the Napoleonic wars, granted a pen-
sion of £200 a year to the "Ocean Bard of
England. "

CHARLES DIBDIN
Charles Dibdin was born in 1745, in a
small village near the great seaport of Southampton. His love of
the salt air drew him often to the ocean's shores, where he saw the
ships of all lands pass and repass, and heard the merry sailors'
songs. And yet his own songs, upon which his title to a place in
literature rests, were incidental products of his active mind. He
was an actor, a dramatist, and a composer as well. He wrote some
thirty minor plays and the once popular operettas of The Shep-
herd's Artifice,' 'The Padlock,' The Quaker,' and 'The Waterman. '
He wrote also a 'History of the Stage,' 'Musical Tour through
England,' and an autobiography which bore the title 'Professional
Life,' His two novels are now forgotten, but it is interesting to
recall that for the Stratford Jubilee in honor of Shakespeare, the
words of which were by Garrick, Dibdin composed the much admired
songs, dances, and serenades. He wrote more than thirteen hundred
songs, most of which had of course only a brief existence; but there


## p. 4621 (#411) ###########################################

CHARLES DIBDIN
4621
were enough of them, burning with genuine lyric fire, to entitle him
to grateful remembrance among England's poets.
In all of these songs, whether the theme be his native land or the
wind-swept seas that close it round, love is the poet's real inspira-
tion; love of old England and her sovereign, love of the wealth-
bringing ocean, love of the good ship that sails its waves. This
fundamental affection for the things of which he sings has endeared
the songs of Dibdin to the heart of the British sailor; and in this
lies the proof of their genuineness. His songs are simple and me-
lodious; there is a manly ring in their word and rhythm; they have
the swagger and the fearlessness of the typical tar; they have, too,
the beat of his true heart, his kindly waggery, his sturdy fidelity to
his country and his king. There is nothing quite like them in any
other literature.
SEA SONG
SAILED in the good ship the Kitty,
I
With a smart blowing gale and rough sea;
Left my Polly, the lads call so pretty,
Safe at her anchor. Yo, Yea!
She blubbered salt tears when we parted,
And cried "Now be constant to me! "
I told her not to be down-hearted,
So up went the anchor. Yo, Yea!
And from that time, no worse nor no better,
I've thought on just nothing but she,
Nor could grog nor flip make me forget her,-
She's my best bower-anchor. Yo, Yea!
When the wind whistled larboard and starboard,
And the storm came on weather and lee,
The hope I with her should be harbored
Was my cable and anchor. Yo, Yea!
And yet, my boys, would you believe me?
I returned with no rhino from sea;
Mistress Polly would never receive me,
So again I heav'd anchor. Yo, Yea!


## p. 4622 (#412) ###########################################

4622
CHARLES DIBDIN
G
SONG: THE HEART OF A TAR
YET
ET though I've no fortune to offer,
I've something to put on a par;
Come, then, and accept of my proffer,-
'Tis the kind honest heart of a tar.
Ne'er let such a trifle as this is,
Girls, be to my pleasure a bar;
You'll be rich though 'tis only in kisses,
With the kind honest heart of a tar.
Besides, I am none of your ninnies;
The next time I come from afar,
I'll give you a lapful of guineas,
With the kind honest heart of a tar.
Your lords, with such fine baby faces,
That strut in a garter and star,
Have they, under their tambour and laces,
The kind honest heart of a tar?
POOR JACK
O PATTER to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;
A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me,
And it ain't to a little I'll strike.
Though the tempest topgallant-mast smack smooth should
smite
And shiver each splinter of wood,
Clear the deck, stow the yards, and house everything tight,
And under reef foresail we'll scud:
Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft,
To be taken for trifles aback;
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!
I heard our good chaplain palaver one day
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such;
And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay;
Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch;
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see,
Without orders that come down below;


## p. 4623 (#413) ###########################################

CHARLES DIBDIN
4623
And a many fine things that proved clearly to me oft
That Providence takes us in tow:
For, says he, do you mind me, let storms ne'er so oft
Take the topsails of sailors aback,
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!
I said to our Poll (for d'ye see, she would cry
When last we weighed anchor for sea),
What argufies sniveling and piping your eye?
Why, what a young fool you must be!
Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all,
Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ?
And so if to old Davy I go, my dear Poll,
Why, you never will hear of me more.
What then? all's a hazard: come, don't be so soft;
Perhaps I may, laughing, come back;
For d'ye see? there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
D'ye mind me? a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,
And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch,
From the moment the anchor's a-trip.
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,
Naught's a trouble from duty that springs;
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,
And as for my life, 'tis the King's.
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft;
As for grief to be taken aback;
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack.
TOM BOWLING
H
ERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For Death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.


## p. 4624 (#414) ###########################################

4624
CHARLES DIBDIN
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly;
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doffed;
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.


## p. 4624 (#415) ###########################################



## p. 4624 (#416) ###########################################


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