No More Learning

"
AUGUST 25th, 1538, the conversation fell upon witches who
spoil milk, eggs, and butter in farm-yards. Dr. Luther said:-
"I should have no compassion on these witches; I would burn
all of them. We read in the old law that the priests threw the
first stone at such malefactors. 'Tis said this stolen butter turns
rancid and falls to the ground when any one goes to eat it. He
who attempts to counteract and chastise these witches is himself
corporeally plagued and tormented by their master the Devil.
Sundry schoolmasters and ministers have often experienced this.
Our ordinary sins offend and anger God. What then must be
his wrath against witchcraft, which we may justly designate high
treason against divine majesty, a revolt against the infinite
power of God? The jurisconsults who have so learnedly and per-
tinently treated of rebellion affirm that the subject who rebels
against his sovereign is worthy of death. Does not witchcraft,
then, merit death, being a revolt of the creature against the
Creator, a denial to God of the authority it accords to the
demon ? »
-
DR. LUTHER discussed at length concerning witchcraft and
charms. He said that his mother had had to undergo infinite


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9342
LUTHER
annoyance from one of her neighbors, who was a witch, and
whom she was fain to conciliate with all sorts of attentions; for
this witch could throw a charm upon children which made them
cry themselves to death. A pastor having punished her for some
knavery, she cast a spell upon him by means of some earth upon
which he had walked, and which she bewitched. The poor man
hereupon fell sick of a malady which no remedy could remove,
and shortly after died.
IT WAS asked: Can good Christians and God-fearing people
also undergo witchcraft? Luther replied, "Yes, for our bodies are
always exposed to the attacks of Satan. The maladies I suffer
are not natural, but devil's spells. "
"WHEN I was young, some one told me this story: Satan
had in vain set all his craft and subtlety at work to separate a
married pair that lived together in perfect harmony and love.
At last, having concealed a razor under each of their pillows,
he visited the husband, disguised as an old woman, and told
him that his wife had formed the project of killing him; he next
told the same thing to the wife. The husband, finding the razor
under his wife's pillow, became furious with anger at her sup-
posed wickedness, and cut her throat. So powerful is Satan in
his malice. "
DR. LUTHER said he had heard from the Elector of Saxony,
John Frederic, that a powerful family in Germany was de-
scended from the Devil,- the founder having been born of a suc-
cubus. He added this story:-"A gentleman had a young and
beautiful wife, who, dying, was buried. Shortly afterwards, this
gentleman and one of his servants sleeping in the same chamber,
the wife who was dead came at night, bent over the bed of the
gentleman as though she were conversing with him, and after a
while went away again. The servant, having twice observed this
circumstance, asked his master whether he knew that every night
a woman clothed in white stood by his bedside. The master
replied that he had slept soundly, and had observed nothing of
the sort. The next night he took care to remain awake. The
woman came, and he asked her who she was and what she
wanted. She answered that she was his wife. He returned,
'My wife is dead and buried. ' She answered, she had died by


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LUTHER
9343
reason of his sins; but that if he would receive her again, she
would return to him in life. He said if it were possible, he
should be well content. She told him he must undertake not
to swear, as he was wont to do; for that if he ever did so, she
should once more die, and permanently quit him. He promised
this; and the dead woman, returning to seeming life, dwelt with
him, ate, drank, and slept with him, and had children by him.
One day that he had guests, his wife went to fetch some cakes
from an adjoining apartment, and remained a long time absent.
The gentleman grew impatient, and broke out into his old oaths.
The wife not returning, the gentleman with his friends went
to seek her, but she had disappeared; only the clothes she had
worn lay on the floor. She was never again seen.
» *
"THE Devil seduces us at first by all the allurements of sin,
in order thereafter to plunge us into despair; he pampers up the
flesh, that he may by-and-by prostrate the spirit. We feel no
pain in the act of sin; but the soul after it is sad, and the con-
science disturbed. "
"THE Devil often casts this into my breast: 'How if thy
doctrine be false and erroneous, wherewith the pope, the mass,
friars and nuns are thus dejected and startled? ' at which the
sour sweat has drizzled from me. But at last, when I saw he
would not leave, I gave him this answer: 'Avoid, Satan: address
thyself to my God, and talk with him about it; for the doctrine
is not mine but his, he has commanded me to hearken unto
this Christ. '»
"BETWEEN husband and wife there should be no question as
to meum and tuum. All things should be in common between
them, without any distinction or means of distinguishing. "
"ST. AUGUSTINE said finely: 'A marriage without children is
the world without the sun. '»
DR. LUTHER said one day to his wife: "You make me do what
you will; you have full sovereignty here, and I award you with
all my heart the command in all household matters, reserving
* Barham has used this story in the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' 'The Blas-
phemer's Warning. '


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9344
LUTHER
my rights in other points. Never any good came out of female
domination. God created Adam master and lord of living creat-
ures; but Eve spoilt all, when she persuaded him to set himself
above God's will. 'Tis you women, with your tricks and artifices,
that lead men into error. "
Tis a grand thing for a married pair to live in perfect
union, but the Devil rarely permits this. When they are apart,
they cannot endure the separation; and when they are together,
they cannot endure the always seeing one another. 'Tis as the
poet says: 'Nec tecum vivere possum, nec sine te. ' Married
people must assiduously pray against these assaults of the Devil.
I have seen marriage where, at first, husband and wife seemed
as though they would eat one another up; in six months they
have separated in mutual disgust. 'Tis the Devil inspires this
evanescent ardor, in order to divert the parties from prayer. ”
DR. LUTHER said, in reference to those who write satirical
attacks upon women, that such will not go unpunished. "If the
author be one of high rank, rest assured he is not really of noble
origin, but a surreptitious intruder into the family. What defects
women have, we must check them for in private, gently by word
of mouth; for woman is a frail vessel. " The doctor then turned
round and said, "Let us talk of something else. "
THERE was at Frankfort-on-the-Oder a schoolmaster, a pious
and learned man, whose heart was fervently inclined to theology,
and who had preached several times with great applause. He
was called to the dignity of deacon; but his wife, a violent, fierce
woman, would not consent to his accepting the charge, saying
she would not be the wife of a minister.
It became a question, what was the poor man to do? which
was he to renounce, his preachership or his wife? Luther at first
said jocosely, "Oh, if he has married, as you tell me, a widow,
he must needs obey her. " But after a while he resumed severely:
"The wife is bound to follow her husband, not the husband his
wife. This must be an ill woman, nay, the Devil incarnate, to
be ashamed of a charge with which our Lord and his Apostles
were invested. If she were my wife, I should shortly say to her,
'Wilt thou follow me, aye or no? Reply forthwith; and if she
replied, 'No,' I would leave her, and take another wife. "


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LUTHER
9345
I
THE hair is the finest ornament women have. Of old, virgins
used to wear it loose, except when they were in mourning.
like women to let their hair fall down their back; 'tis a most
agreeable sight.
SAYINGS OF LUTHER
It is no
I
HAVE no pleasure in any man who despises music.
invention of ours: it is the gift of God. I place it next to
theology. Satan hates music: he knows how it drives the
evil spirit out of us.
THE strength and glory of a town does not depend on its
wealth, its walls, its great mansions, its powerful armaments;
but on the number of its learned, serious, kind, and well-educated
citizens.
GREEK and Latin are the scabbard which holds the sword of
the Spirit, the cases which inclose the precious jewels, the ves-
sels which contain the old wine, the baskets which carry the
loaves and fishes for the feeding of the multitude.
ONLY a little of the first fruits of wisdom-only a few frag-
ments of the boundless heights, breadths, and depths of truth-
have I been able to gather.
My own writings are like a wild forest, compared with the
gentle, limpid fluency of his [Brenz's] language. If small things
dare be compared with great, my words are like the Spirit of
Elijah,—a great and strong wind, rending the mountains and
breaking in pieces the rocks; and his is the still small voice.
But yet God uses also coarse wedges for splitting coarse blocks;
and besides the fructifying grain, he employs also the rending
thunder and lightning to purify the atmosphere.
I must root out the stumps and trunks, and I am a rough
woodsman who must break the road and prepare it: but Magis-
ter Philip [Melanchthon] goes on quietly and gently, plows and
plants, sows and waters joyfully.
BE TEMPERATE with your children; punish them if they lie or
steal, but be just in what you do. It is a lighter sin to take
pears and apples than to take money.
I shudder when I think
XVI-585


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9346
LUTHER
what I went through myself.
nuts once till the blood came.
she meant well.
My mother beat me about some
I had a terrible time of it; but
NEVER be hard with children. Many a fine character has
been ruined by the stupid brutality of pedagogues. The parts of
speech are a boy's pillory. I was myself flogged fifteen times
in one forenoon, over the conjugation of a verb.
Punish if you
must; but be kind too, and let the sugar-plum go with the rod.
MY BEING Such a small creature was a misfortune for the Pope.
He despised me too much. What, he thought, could a slave
like me do to him to him who was the greatest man in the
world? Had he accepted my proposal he would have extin-
guished me.
THE better a man is, the more clearly he sees how little he
is good for, and the greater mockery it is to him to hold the
notion that he has deserved reward. Miserable creatures that
we are, we earn our bread in sin. Till we are seven years old,
we do nothing but eat and drink and sleep and play; from seven
to twenty-one we study four hours a day, the rest of it we run
about and amuse ourselves; then we work till fifty, and then we
grow again to be children. We sleep half our lives; we give
God a tenth of our time; and yet we think that with our good
works we can merit heaven. What have I been doing to-day?
I have talked for two hours, I have been at meals three hours,
I have been idle four hours: ah, enter not into judgment with
thy servant, O Lord!
THE barley which we brew, the flax of which we weave our
garments, must be bruised and torn ere they come to the use
for which they were grown. So must Christians suffer. The
natural creature must be torn and threshed. The old Adam
must die, for the higher life to begin. If man to rise to
nobleness, he must first be slain.
THE principle of marriage runs through all creation, and flow-
ers as well as animals are male and female.
PRAISE be to God the Creator, who out of a dead world makes
all live again. See those shoots, how they bourgeon and swell


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LUTHER
9347
on this April day! Image of the resurrection of the dead! Win-
ter is death; summer is the resurrection. Between them the
spring and autumn, as the period of uncertainty and change.
The proverb says-
"Trust not a day
Ere birth of May. "
Let us pray our Father in heaven to give us this day our
daily bread.
――――――――
WE ARE in the dawn of a new era; we are beginning to think
something of the natural world which was ruined in Adam's fall.
We are learning to see all around us the greatness and glory
of the Creator. We can see the Amighty hand-the infinite
goodness in the humblest flower. We praise him, we thank
him, we glorify him; we recognize in creation the power of his
word. He spoke, and it was there. The stone of the peach is
hard, but the soft kernel swells and bursts when the time comes.
An egg- what a thing is that! If an egg had never been seen
in Europe, and a traveler had brought one from Calcutta, how
would all the world have wondered!
IF A man could make a single rose, we should give him an
empire; yet roses, and flowers no less beautiful, are scattered in
profusion over the world, and no one regards them.


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9348
THE EARL OF LYTTON
(1831-1891)
DWARD ROBERT, first earl of Lytton, a son of Bulwer the
novelist, and known to literature as "Owen Meredith," was
born November 8th, 1831, at London. He was educated at
Harrow, and privately at Bonn, Germany. He went early into diplo-
matic service, becoming private secretary to his uncle, Sir H. L.
Bulwer, then British minister at Washington. Various diplomatic posi-
tions followed: in 1874 he was made Minister at Lisbon; in 1878-80
Governor-General of India; and from 1887 to his death in Paris, No-
vember 24th, 1891, Ambassador to France.

Considering the political complexion of
his life and his importance as a figure in
the social world, Lytton wrote voluminously
and published many books. He aimed, first
and always, at being a poet; and did not
receive the critical recognition he desired,
being regarded as a fluent, graceful verse-
writer with more culture and knack than
original gift. Throughout his career he was
either underestimated or overpraised by his
adherents or opponents in statecraft.
He
began to write when a youth in the twen-
ties. Clytemnestra' (1855); The Wanderer'
(1859); Lucile' (1860); (Serbski Pesme, or
National Songs of Servia' (1861); The Ring of Amasis,' a novel (1863);
Chronicles and Characters' and 'Poems' (1867); Orval' (1869); 'Julian
Fane (1871); Fables in Song' (1874); Poems (1877); 'The Life,
Letters, and Literary Remains of Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton'
(1883), an incomplete memoir of his father; Glenaveril; or, The Meta-
morphoses (1885); a volume of stories translated from the German
(1886); 'After Paradise' (1887); and the posthumous King Poppy'
(1892), make up the rather formidable list.
<
(
Owen Meredith's literary reputation rests in the main upon the
lyrics in the volume entitled 'The Wanderer,' and the clever verse
narrative Lucile'; which were given to the public in successive
years, and were all written when he was under thirty. A few
of the poems in the former volume have enough of grace, music,
LORD LYTTON


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THE EARL OF LYTTON
9349
and sentiment to give them a vogue more than temporary. 'Aux
Italiens,' perhaps the poem which keeps Lytton's name steadily before
the public, although it is liked best in the storm-and-stress period of
uncritical youth, has elements which commend it to maturer judg-
ment. It seizes on an incident of fashionable social life and imbues
it with the pathos of the past, with a sense of the irrevocableness of
old deeds and the glamour of early love. Certain stanzas in it have
the true touch; and as a whole, sophisticated production as it is, it
possesses power and beauty. Lucile,' which shows the influence of
Byron, and has had a popularity out of proportion to its importance,
is nevertheless a very successful thing in its kind, a brilliant tour
de force in social verse, of the light, bright, half cynical, half senti-
mental sort. Its dashing metre and its vivacity of presentation must
be conceded, in the same breath that one denies it the name of
poetry It is no easy matter to tell a modern story in rhyme so that
it is readable, enjoyable. Meredith has done this in 'Lucile'; done
it as well as any English poet of his day. That the nature of the
exploit is not such as to make the work among the highest things
of poetry, is no detraction. The success of an effort in literature is
to be measured by the correspondence of aim and accomplishment.
AT
-
AUX ITALIENS
T PARIS it was, at the Opera there;-
And she looked like a queen in a book that night,
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch on her breast, so bright.
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note
The souls in Purgatory.
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me»?
The Emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave, as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate
Where his eagles in bronze had been.
The Empress too had a tear in her eye:
You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,


## p. 9350 (#370) ###########################################

THE EARL OF LYTTON
935°
For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To the old glad life in Spain.
Well, there in our front-row box we sat,
Together, my bride-betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.
And both were silent, and both were sad.
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!
I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest and roundest of men,-
The Marquis of Carabas.
-
I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass:
I wish him well, for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.
Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,
As I had not been thinking of aught for years,
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.
I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot)
And her warm white neck in its golden chain.
And her full soft hair just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;
And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast;
(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower! )
And the one bird singing alone to his nest;
And the one star over the tower.
I thought of our little quarrels and strife;
And the letter that brought me back my ring.
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!


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THE EARL OF LYTTON
9351
For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over,
And I thought, "Were she only living still,
How I could forgive her, and love her! "
And I swear as I thought of her thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
Where a mummy is half unrolled.
And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there
In a dim box, over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that jasmine in her breast!
I was here, and she was there;
And the glittering horseshoe curved between;-
From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair,
And her sumptuous, scornful mien,
To my early love, with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,-
In short, from the Future back to the Past,-
There was but a step to be made.
To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door;
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.
My thinking of her, on the music's strain,
Or something which never will be exprest,
Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the jasmine in her breast.
She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now, and she loved me then;
And the very first word that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.
The Marchioness there, of Carabas,-
She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still;


## p. 9352 (#372) ###########################################

9352
THE EARL OF LYTTON
well, we'll let that pass:
She may marry whomever she will.
And but for her
But I will marry my own first love,
With her primrose face: for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.
The world is filled with folly and sin,
And Love must cling where it can, I say:
For Beauty is easy enough to win;
But one isn't loved every day.
And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.
But oh the smell of that jasmine-flower!
And oh that music! and oh the way
That voice ran out from the donjon tower,
"Non ti scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me!
"
LUCILE'S LETTER
From 'Lucile
ET ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers,
YET
Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA
Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart,
And the places of old .
never, never to part!
Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more
To the land of my birth and the deep skies of yore!
From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret
Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set;
From the children that cry for the birth, and behold,
There is no strength to bear them-old Time is so old!
From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth
Sapped and mined by the fever they bear from their birth;
From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd,


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THE EARL OF LYTTON
9353
Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been
bowed:
Back, back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb
Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom
And the beauty of times that are faded forever!
To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River!
Where I too, the child of a day that is done,
First leaped into life, and looked up at the sun,-
Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home
I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come!
Are the three intense stars, that we watched night by night
Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright?
Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old,
When, as children, we gathered the moonbeams for gold?
Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you still
Remember the free games we played on the hill,
'Mid those huge stones upheaved, where we recklessly trod
O'er the old ruined fane of the old ruined god?
How he frowned while around him we carelessly played!
That frown on my life ever after hath stayed,
Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast
From some vague supernatural grief in the past.
For the poor god, in pain more than anger he frowned,—
To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found,
In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss
Which his science divine seemed divinely to miss.
Alas! you may haply remember me yet,—-
The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget.
I come -a sad woman, defrauded of rest;
I bear to you only a laboring breast;
My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurled
O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world.
The dove from my bosom hath flown far away;
It is flown and returns not, though many a day
Have I watched from the windows of life for its coming.
Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming.
I know not what Ararat rises for me
Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea:
I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills,
Lift the primrose of hope, the cessation of ills:
But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast
Wakes and whispers me on-to the East! to the East!
Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find
The lost youth I recall, with its pure peace of mind?


## p. 9354 (#374) ###########################################

THE EARL OF LYTTON
9354
Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain?
Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again?
Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent?
Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent?
To a voice who shall render an image? or who
From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew?
I have burned out within me the fuel of life,
Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet after strife.
I would sleep for a while. I am weary.
My friend,
I had meant in these lines to regather, and send
To our old home, my life's scattered links.
Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again;
Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er,
Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore
Whence too far I have wandered.
But 'tis vain!
How many long years
Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears,
While I wrote to you, splashed out a girl's premature
Moans of pain at what women in silence endure!
To your eyes, friend of mine, and to yours alone,
That now long-faded page of my life hath been shown
Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know,
Many years since,- how many?
A few months ago
I seemed reading it backward, that page! Why explain
Whence or how? The old dream of my life rose again.
The old superstition! the idol of old!
It is over.
The leaf trodden down in the mold
Is not to the forest more lost than to me
That emotion. I bury it here by the sea,
Which will bear me anon far away from the shore
Of a land which my footsteps will visit no more;
And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave.
Hark! the sight of the wind, and the sound of the wave,
Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home!
I come, O you whispering voices, I come!
My friend, ask me nothing.
Receive me alone
As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone
In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring:
It may be an angel that, weary of wing,


## p. 9355 (#375) ###########################################

THE EARL OF LYTTON
9355
Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom,
Or only a wayfarer strayed in the gloom.
This only I know: that in Europe at least
Lives the craft or the power that must master our East.
Wherefore strive where the gods must themselves yield at
last?
Both they and their altars pass by with the Past.
The gods of the household, Time thrusts from the shelf;
And I seem as unreal and weird to myself
As these idols of old.
Other times, other men,
Other men, other passions!
So be it! yet again
I turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn,
And the light of those lands where the great sun is born!
Spread your arms, O my friend! on your breast let me feel
The repose which hath fled from my own.
YOUR LUCILE.
FROM PROLOGUE TO THE WANDERER ›
OH
H, MOMENT of sweet peril, perilous sweet!
When woman joins herself to man; and man
Assumes the full-lived woman, to complete
The end of life, since human life began!
When in the perfect bliss of union
Body and soul triumphal rapture claim,
When there's a spirit in blood, in spirit a flame,
And earth's lone hemispheres glow, fused in one!
Rare moment of rare peril! -The bard's song,
The mystic's musing fancy. Did there ever
Two perfect souls in perfect forms belong
Perfectly to each other? Never, never!
Perilous were such moments, for a touch
Might mar their clear perfection. Exquisite
Even for the peril of their frail delight.
Such things man feigns; such seeks: but finds not such.
No; for 'tis in ourselves our love doth grow:
And when our love is fully risen within us,
Round the first object doth it overflow,
Which, be it fair or foul, is sure to win us


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9356
THE EARL OF LYTTON
L
"
T
Out of ourselves. We clothe with our own nature
The man or woman its first want doth find.
The leafless prop with our own buds we bind,
And hide in blossoms; fill the empty feature
With our own meanings; even prize defects
Which keep the mark of our own choice upon
The chosen; bless each fault whose spot protects
Our choice from possible confusion
With the world's other creatures; we believe them
What most we wish, the more we find they are not;
Our choice once made, with our own choice we war not;
We worship them for what ourselves we give them.
Doubt is this otherwise. - When fate removes
――――――
The unworthy one from our reluctant arms,
We die with that lost love to other loves,
And turn to its defects from other charms.
And nobler forms, where moved those forms, may move
With lingering looks: our cold farewells we wave them.
We loved our lost loves for the love we gave them,
And not for anything they gave our love.
Old things return not as they were in Time.
Trust nothing to the recompense of Chance,
Which deals with novel forms. This falling rhyme
Fails from the flowery steeps of old romance
Down that abyss which Memory droops above;
And gazing out of hopelessness down there,
I see the shadow creep through Youth's gold hair
And white Death watching over red-lipped Love.


## p. 9357 (#377) ###########################################

9357
MAARTEN MAARTENS
(J. M. W. VAN DER POORTEN SCHWARTZ)
(1858-)
BY WILLIAM SHARP
HERE are few authors of the day more widely popular with
the English-reading public all over the world than the now
celebrated Anglo-Dutch romancist, Maarten Maartens. It is
interesting to note that the testimony of many of the leading librari-
ans, both in America and Great Britain, is to the effect that few
if any novels are in such steady demand
throughout the year as those of the able
writer just named.
This is the more interesting from the
fact that Mr. Maartens is, as his name ap-
plies, a foreigner; and the more remarkable
because that he, a Hollander, does not (as
commonly supposed) translate his original
Dutch MS. into English, but writes at first
hand in his adopted language. Naturally,
after he had first won reputation, there was
a general idea that his books were success-
ful romances in Holland itself, and that they
had been translated into English as a ven-
ture, and as it proved, a successful venture.
As a matter of fact, it is only quite recently that Maarten Maartens's
novels have appeared in the Dutch language in Holland. For long
his own countrymen, curious as to his writings, had to procure his
books from the Tauchnitz Library, or else to purchase English copies.
One might well wonder why a novelist should have so little heed for
reputation in his own country. Perhaps it is because of too keen a
recognition of the fact that a prophet is not without honor save in his
own land; perhaps it is because the small Dutch public in little Hol-
land is infinitesimal in comparison with that in America and Great
Britain, to say nothing of Australia and Canada; perhaps - and indeed,
here we have the real cause, I understand - it is because Maarten
Maartens has depicted certain aspects of Dutch life only too vividly

MAARTEN MAARTENS


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9358
MAARTEN MAARTENS
and exactly,— written them, in fact, with all the verve and detachment
from parochial partialities which might be expected of a foreigner
rather than of a native. It is said that Mr. Maartens would not have
agreed to a Dutch reissue of his books at all, were it not for the
fact that in the absence of a copyright law to protect his interests,
translations might well appear, and of course be wholly unsatisfactory
to him from every point of view. It is commonly understood that
the accomplished wife of the popular novelist, who is as notable a
linguist as he is himself, and indeed born with the gift of tongues, is
responsible for the translation into Dutch of those several romances
which have won so much recognition among the English-speaking
peoples. The author, of course, has revised them; but to all intents
and purposes we have the strange, and perhaps unexampled, instance
of a romancist choosing to write wholly for the foreign public.
Not that any one meeting Mr. Maartens for the first time would
consider him a foreigner. Both in appearance and in manner, as well
as in speech, he suggests an Englishman of a very recognizable type;
and when he and his wife, as frequently happens, are in London,
there is nothing outwardly to distinguish them from scores of their
friends and acquaintances. Recently I saw a so-called authentic
account of this writer. It stated that Mr. Maartens was the son
of a Dutch peasant of that name, and that his books had long en-
joyed a remarkable popularity in Holland. The latter misapprehen-
sion has already been set right. As to the first misstatement, that too
is easily corrected; for "Maarten Maartens" is merely a pen-name,
and belongs, so far as Mr. Maartens himself knows, to no industrious
peasant or to anybody else in particular-though of course a fairly
common name in Holland. How wise the adoption of a good pseu-
donym was, is at once evident when we know the real name of the
novelist. It is only his intimate friends, however, who know the
novelist as Mynheer Van der Poorten Schwartz. To correspondents
in general, as well as to the outer world, he is invariably Maarten
Maartens.
J. M. W. Van der Poorten Schwartz, to give him his native name
once more, was born in Amsterdam on the 15th of August, 1858. He
has, with his wife, traveled much; and this is perhaps one reason why
they both speak Dutch, German, French, Italian, and English with
facility and intimate knowledge. Although so English in his tastes,
and so largely English by his interests, Mr. Maartens in his private
life is primarily a Dutch gentleman. True, he has incurred a good
deal of dislike, and even given serious offense, to many of his com-
patriots by what they consider his undue or disproportionate repre-
sentation of Dutch life; but his neighbors at least do not hesitate to
be glad that he is one of their number, and that he takes part in the


## p. 9359 (#379) ###########################################

MAARTEN MAARTENS
9359
Maarten
busy communal life which is the general ideal in Holland.
Maartens, who is now in the prime of life, lives for the reater part
of the year—that is, when he is not traveling abroad-in a beautiful
house near the ancient city of Utrecht.
The first of his books to attract wide public attention — and I
understand, the first that he wrote-is the moving story entitled
'The Sin of Joost Avelingh. ' Almost at once this clever and fasci-
nating study of human motives working out towards an inevitable
end attracted the notice both of the critics and of the reading world.
'The Sin of Joost Avelingh' was successful from the first; and every
one was asking who the new novelist with a foreign-sounding name
was, and what else he was going to give us. This book was followed
by 'An Old Maid's Love,' which had for sub-title 'A Dutch Tale told
in English. In actual craft of writing, this reserved and almost
austere romance displays a marked advance upon its predecessor in
certain points of style; it had not, however, the same success. This
was reserved for God's Fool,' which both serially and in volume
form was read and admired everywhere. The novelist's growing rep-
utation was still further enhanced by what many people consider his
best book, 'The Greater Glory. ' This "story of high life" was actu-
ally written in 1891, and revised in 1892, though it did not appear
in an English magazine-Temple Bar -until the winter of 1893-4.
Early in 1894 it appeared in the then conventional three-volume form,
and in the autumn was issued in a popular one-volume series. Seri-
ally, it appeared in America in the Outlook; and besides the author-
ized edition there have been several pirated issues. So early as 1894
also it was added, in two volumes, to the famous Continental Series
of Baron Tauchnitz.
Mr. Maartens has written several other romances than these; and
indeed we have come to look for at least one book yearly from him.
But in those named the reader will find all his characteristics ade-
quately represented. He is a writer with a grave sense of his respons-
ibility to the public. Conscientious both as to the matter expressed
and as to the manner of that expression, scrupulous in his effort
to maintain a high standard of purity and distinction in the use of
English, and eager to permeate all his work with the afflatus of a
dominant moral idea, he may broadly be ranked with two such rep-
resentative writers as George Eliot in England and Edouard Rod in
France. With the deep and subtle author of 'La Vie de Michel Tes-
sier' he has in fact much in common. Some time ago an American
gentleman asked one of the chief librarians in London which would
be the best books by living writers, that would at once interest the
attention and improve the minds of young readers in country districts
in the States. Among the two or three names that were specified
in particular was that of Maarten Maartens; and this indeed is a


## p. 9360 (#380) ###########################################

9360
MAARTEN MAARTENS
verdict that can honestly be indorsed. His work is strong, virile,
reserved, dignified, and true to life; while at the same time it is
profoundly interesting, pictorial, dramatic, and with unmistakable qual-
ities of style and distinction. It is more than probable that his best
work will survive that of writers of much greater temporary vogue;
and if so, that happy result will be to the credit of the always sane,
and in the long run generally wise, judgment of the reading public
at large.
Of his first six books- 'The Sin of Joost Avelingh' (1890), ‘An
Old Maid's Love' (1891), 'A Question of Taste' (1891), God's Fool'
(1892), The Greater Glory' (1894), My Lady Nobody' (1895)- Mr.
Maarten Maartens considers the chef d'oeuvre to be God's Fool';
and "the fool of God," Elias Lossel, is his favorite character. Un-
doubtedly, however, his first book and 'The Greater Glory' are those
for which the public care most. There is one often quoted sentence
in the latter book which I may give here:-"This is a true story. It
is what they call a story of high life. It is also a story of the life
which is higher still. There be climbings which descend to depths.
of infamy; there be also-God is merciful—most infamous fallings
into heaven. "
The following extracts are as fairly representative as is possible,
both as to style and subject-matter. The reader must bear in mind
that they are excerpts, and allow for an apparent haziness in atmo-
sphere, of necessity an evasive quality when what should be given.
intact has to be presented fragmentarily. Perhaps however they may
send yet more readers to the always instructive, stimulating, and
deeply interesting romances of Maarten Maartens.
Wanane Sharpe
JOOST SURRENDERS
From The Sin of Joost Avelingh'
OOST AVELINGH went up to his wife's room.
J°
The doctor's last words had been spoken low; but Joost,
stopping for a moment in the hall to pass a hand over his
eyes and collect his bewildered thoughts, just caught them. He
stumbled up-stairs, opened the bedroom door, and walked in.
God had answered him. There lay his wife, white and mo-
tionless, with staring, meaningless eyes, under the white coverlet;


## p. 9361 (#381) ###########################################

MAARTEN MAARTENS
9361
unconscious, insensible.
A shaded lamp burned on a side table;
Dientje the maid rose softly from her chair near it, and came
forward. He motioned her away- towards the adjoining dressing-
room-and then sat down alone by the bed.
God had answered him. In the pride of his heart he had
sought himself an answer, and had triumphed at the thought that
it should be a pleasing one. But the very fact of his yearning
for a sign in the heavens was the surest proof that the oracle
in his own heart had spoken already. It had been speaking
through all these months, as each successive experience led him
nearer to the truth, all the shouting and din of the election had
not been able to silence its voice completely; and now, over the
tumult of this wild hour of false exultation, it shrieked aloud!
The intoxication of the moment died away from him, leaving
him the more dejected. And the hatred and contempt of him-
self which the last weeks had fostered, once more overflowed his
heart.
God had answered him. He sat staring at the senseless face
before him, and he read the answer there. He did not believe
in such connection as the doctor seemed to snatch at between
Agatha's illness and the trial. Living with her day by day, he
had seen her well and happy, triumphant even, in the recognition
of his innocence. The change had come suddenly; in the last
fortnight, perhaps. He had watched it; her mother had spoken.
of it; her brother—but he had watched it, and seen it for him-
self. It was God's reply to all his lying self-exculpation, to his
life of deceit. The curse of her race would fall surely and
swiftly upon this innocent wife of his; for so mysteriously, yet
wisely, doth God visit our sins upon our loved ones. Or, in his
mercy, he would take her to himself and leave her husband com-
fortless, him whom no comfort could advantage, and whom mis-
ery alone yet might save. But whatever the future might fashion,
it would bring them separation: Joost's heart cried out that it
must be so, and the last words the doctor had spoken were become
an irrevocable decree to him. He understood that it must be
thus. He was unworthy to live longer by the side of this woman.
whom he cheated; and whether by death to relieve her, or by
insanity to punish him, she would pass out of his existence.
She would never speak to him again. Never! In that thought
he first realized how unutterably he loved her, with a love which
had grown from a boy's rash fancy for a pretty face, through
XVI-586
―――


## p. 9362 (#382) ###########################################

9362
MAARTEN MAARTENS
trials and mutual enjoyments and deepening sympathies, into
the very essence and existence of the soul. And yet his first
yearning was not to retain her, if God bade her pass from him:
it was only that-oh, by all his unworthiness of her, by his guilt
and her gentle innocence, by his passionate love and her answer-
ing affection-by their oneness-of Thy giving, great Father-
he might obtain mercy to confess his iniquity in her sight. For
death was not death to him in that moment, nor detachment
separation. And ere she-his soul's diviner part-pass on to
fuller purity of knowledge, he would gather from her lips that
she had learned his secret on this earth, had understood it, and
forgiven him. Not, not to be left here standing with eyes
that cannot pierce the darkness, and yet with a hope that told
the loved one loved him still, and now read the soul he had so
shrewdly veiled before her, and now-mayhap—mourned for-
ever for a unity, high and holy, broken and trodden under foot.