They are the conclusions drawn
by a man whose intellect was always guided by his judgment; they
exhibit tact which amounts to genius.
by a man whose intellect was always guided by his judgment; they
exhibit tact which amounts to genius.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 - Rab to Rus
I would I could say as strongly
## p. 12310 (#356) ##########################################
12310
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
as I feel deeply. Our stimulating artificial culture destroys depth.
Our competition, our nights turned into days by pleasure, leave
no time for earnestness. We are superficial men. Character in
the world wants root. England has gained much; she has lost
also much. The world wants what has passed away (and which
until we secure, we shall remain the clever, shallow men we are),
a childhood and a youth spent in shade a home.
Now, this growth took place in three particulars.
I. In spiritual strength. "The child waxed strong in spirit. "
Spiritual strength consists of two things,-power of will, and
power of self-restraint. It requires two things, therefore, for its
existence, strong feelings, and strong command over them.
Now it is here we make a great mistake: we mistake strong
feelings for strong character. A man who bears all before him,—
before whose frown domestics tremble, and whose bursts of fury
make the children of the house quake,- because he has his will
obeyed, and his own way in all things, we call him a strong man.
The truth is, that is the weak man: it is his passions that are
strong; he, mastered by them, is weak. You must measure the
strength of a man by the power of the feelings which he subdues,
not by the power of those which subdue him.
And hence composure is very often the highest result of
strength. Did we never see a man receive a flagrant insult, and
only grow a little pale, and then reply quietly? That was a man
spiritually strong. Or did we never see a man in anguish stand
as if carved out of solid rock, mastering himself? or one bear-
ing a hopeless daily trial, remain silent, and never tell the world
what it was that cankered his home peace? That is strength.
He who with strong passions remains chaste,—he who, keenly
sensitive, with manly power of indignation in him, can be pro-
voked and yet refrain himself and forgive,- these are strong
men, spiritual heroes.
-
The child waxed strong: spiritual strength is reached by
successive steps. Fresh strength is got by every mastery of self.
It is the belief of the savage that the spirit of every enemy he
slays enters into him and becomes added to his own, accumu-
lating a warrior's strength for the day of battle; therefore he
slays all he can. It is true in the spiritual warfare. Every sin
you slay, the spirit of that sin passes into you transformed into
strength; every passion, not merely kept in abeyance by asceti-
cism, but subdued by a higher impulse, is so much character
## p. 12311 (#357) ##########################################
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
12311
strengthened. The strength of the passion not expended is yours.
still. Understand, then, you are not a man of spiritual power
because your impulses are irresistible. They sweep over your
soul like a tornado,-lay all flat before them,-whereupon you
feel a secret pride of strength. Last week, men saw a vessel
on this coast borne headlong on the breakers, and dashing itself
with terrific force against the shore. It embedded itself, a mis-
erable wreck, deep in sand and shingle. Was that brig, in her
convulsive throes, strong? or was it powerless and helpless?
No, my brethren: God's spirit in the soul,—an inward power
of doing the same thing we will and ought,- that is strength,
nothing else. All other force in us is only our weakness,— the
violence of driving passion. "I can do all things through Christ,
who strengtheneth me," - that is Christian strength. "I cannot
do the things I would," - that is the weakness of an unredeemed
slave.
I instance one single evidence of strength in the early years
of Jesus: I find it in that calm, long waiting of thirty years be-
fore he began his work. And yet all the evils he was to redress
were there, provoking indignation, crying for interference,-the
hollowness of social life, the misinterpretations of Scripture, the
forms of worship and phraseology which had hidden moral truth,
the injustice, the priestcraft, the cowardice, the hypocrisies: he
had long seen them all.
All those years his soul burned within him with a divine
zeal and heavenly indignation. A mere man-a weak, emotional
man of spasmodic feeling, a hot enthusiast would have spoken
out at once, and at once been crushed. The Everlasting Word
incarnate bided his own time,-"Mine hour is not yet come,"
matured his energies, condensed them by repression; and then
went forth to speak, and do, and suffer. His hour was come.
This is strength: the power of a Divine Silence; the strong will
to keep force till it is wanted; the power to wait God's time.
"He that believeth," said the wise prophet, "shall not make
haste. "
――――
-
## p. 12312 (#358) ##########################################
12312
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
THE UNIVERSAL NATURE OF CHRIST
From Sermons Preached in Trinity Chapel'
NOT
JOTHING, in the judgment of historians, stands out so sharply
distinct as race, national character; nothing is more
ineffaceable. The Hebrew was marked from all mankind.
The Roman was perfectly distinct from the Grecian character;
as markedly different as the rough English truthfulness is from
Celtic brilliancy of talent. Now, these peculiar nationalities are
seldom combined. You rarely find the stern old Jewish sense of
holiness going together with the Athenian sensitiveness of what
is beautiful. Not often do you find together severe truth and
refined tenderness. Brilliancy seems opposed to perseverance.
Exquisiteness of taste commonly goes along with a certain amount
of untruthfulness. By "humanity" as a whole, we mean the
aggregate of all these separate excellences. Only in two places
are they all found together,-—in the universal human race and in
Jesus Christ. He, having as it were a whole humanity in him-
self, combines them all.
Now, this is the universality of the nature of Jesus Christ.
There was in him no national peculiarity or individual idiosyn-
crasy. He was not the son of the Jew, nor the son of the car-
penter, nor the offspring of the modes of living and thinking
of that particular century. He was the son of Man. Once in
the world's history was born a MAN. Once in the roll of ages,
out of innumerable failures, from the stock of human nature one
bud developed itself into a faultless flower. One perfect speci-
men of humanity has God exhibited on earth.
The best and most catholic of Englishmen has his prejudices.
All the world over, our greatest writer would be recognized
as having the English cast of thought. The pattern Jew would
seem Jewish everywhere but in Judea. Take Abraham, St. John,
St. Paul, place them where you will,-in China or in Peru,-
they are Hebrews: they could not command all sympathies;
their life could not be imitable except in part. They are foreign-
ers in every land, and out of place in every century, but their
own. But Christ is the king of men, and "draws all men,"
because all character is in him, separate from nationalities and
limitations. As if the life-blood of every nation were in his
## p. 12313 (#359) ##########################################
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
12313
veins, and that which is best and truest in every man, and that
which is tenderest and gentlest and purest in every woman, in
his character. He is emphatically the son of Man.
Out of this arose two powers of his sacred humanity,— the
universality of his sympathies, and their intense particular per-
sonality.
The universality of his sympathies: for, compare him with
any one of the sacred characters of Scripture. You know how
intensely national they were-priests, prophets, and apostles-
in their sympathies. For example, the apostles "marveled that
he spake with a woman of Samaria"; just before his resurrec-
tion, their largest charity had not reached beyond this,— “Lord,
wilt thou at this time restore the kingdom unto Israel? » Or
to come down to modern times, when his spirit has been mold-
ing men's ways of thought for many ages: now, when we talk
of our philanthropy and catholic liberality, here in Christian Eng-
land, we have scarcely any fellow-feeling, true and genuine, with
other nations, other churches, other parties, than our own: we
care nothing for Italian or Hungarian struggles; we think of
Romanists as the Jew thought of Gentiles; we speak of Ger-
man Protestants in the same proud, wicked, self-sufficient way in
which the Jew spoke of Samaritans.
Unless we bring such matters home, and away from vague
generalities, and consider what we and all men are, or rather are
not, we cannot comprehend with due wonder the mighty sympa-
thies of the heart of Christ. None of the miserable antipathies.
that fence us from all the world bounded the outgoings of that
Love, broad and deep and wide as the heart of God. Wherever
the mysterious pulse of human life was beating, wherever aught
human was in struggle, there to him was a thing not common or
unclean, but cleansed by God and sacred. Compare the daily,
almost indispensable, language of our life with his spirit. —"Com-
mon people"? point us out the passage where he called any
people that God his Father made, common. - "Lower orders"?
tell us when and where he, whose home was the workshop of
the carpenter, authorized you or me to know any man after the
flesh as low or high. - To him who called himself the Son of
Man, the link was manhood. And that he could discern even
when it was marred. Even in outcasts his eye could recognize
the sanctities of a nature human still. Even in the harlot, "one
of Eve's family; " a son of Abraham even in Zaccheus.
-
## p. 12314 (#360) ##########################################
12314
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
Once more, out of that universal, catholic nature rose another
power, the power of intense, particular, personal affections. He
was the brother and savior of the human race; but this because
he was the brother and savior of every separate man in it.
Now, it is very easy to feel great affection for a country as a
whole; to have, for instance, great sympathies for Poland, or Ire-
land, or America, and yet not to care a whit for any single man
in Poland, and to have strong antipathies to every single indi-
vidual American. Easy to be a warm lover of England, and
yet not love one living Englishman. Easy to set a great value
on a flock of sheep, and yet have no particular care for any one
sheep or lamb. If it were killed, another of the same species
might replace it. Easy to have fine, large, liberal views about
the working classes, or the emancipation of the negroes, and yet
never have done a loving act to one. Easy to be a great philan-
thropist, and yet have no strong friendships, no deep personal
attachments.
For the idea of a universal Manlike sympathy was not new
when Christ was born. The reality was new. But before this,
in the Roman theatre, deafening applause was called forth by
this sentence:-"I am a man: nothing that can affect man is
indifferent to me. " A fine sentiment that was all. Every pre-
tense of realizing that sentiment, except one, has been a failure.
One, and but one, has succeeded in loving man and that by
loving men. No sublime high-sounding language in his lips
about educating the masses, or elevating the people. The char-
latanry of our modern sentiment had not appeared then; it is
but the parody of his love.
What was his mode of sympathy with men? He did not sit
down to philosophize about the progress of the species, or dream
about a millennium. He gathered round him twelve men. He
formed one friendship, special, concentrated, deep. He did not
give himself out as the leader of the publican's cause or the
champion of the rights of the dangerous classes: but he asso-
ciated with himselt Matthew, a publican called from the detested
receipt of custom; he went into the house of Zaccheus, and
treated him like a fellow-creature, a brother, and a son of Abra-
ham.
His catholicity, or philanthropy, was not an abstraction,
but an aggregate of personal attachments.
## p. 12315 (#361) ##########################################
12315
TOX
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
(1857-)
HE poetry of culture-the poetry which smells of the lamp
and implies commerce with books - can be as genuine
and enjoyable as any other. All that is necessary is the
authentic impulse, and sufficient individuality to assimilate the many
influences to which the sensitive mind and soul of this order of
singer are subjected. It is a mistake to sneer at culture-verse as
derived and uninspired. As with any other kind of work, so in this,
the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
The young Englishwoman whose verse is signed by the name
of A. Mary F. Robinson-and who in 1882 became the wife of the
brilliant French Orientalist, the late James Darmesteter-is of this
school of poets. Her polished and lovely verse indicates reading, and
the absorption of the riches of the literary past of her own and other
tongues especially that of the Romance peoples. But her talent is
independent; her note is distinct enough to justify all her contact
with the great spirits of literature; and the chastened classic quality
of some of her song in no wise detracts from the modernness of her
mind. For a certain refined melancholy and pure lyric musicalness
she is thoroughly a modern, the child of Pre-Raphaelite models,-
feeling some of the time's realistic tendencies, and yet showing too
a close affiliation with the Elizabethan song-makers.
Agnes Mary Frances Robinson (Madame Darmesteter) was born at
Leamington, February 27th, 1857. Her father was an architect in
connection with the ecclesiastical buildings in the neighboring town
of Coventry. She was educated at Brussels, in Italy, and at Uni-
versity College, London, giving special attention to Greek. Her taste
for poetry showed itself very early: at thirteen she was writing on
history. Her first volume of verse, 'A Handful of Honeysuckle,'
appeared in 1878, when she was twenty-one. Following this came
'The Crowned Hippolytus (1880), containing a translation from
Euripides and pieces of her own; The New Arcadia and Other
Poems' (1884); 'An Italian Garden: A Book of Songs' (1886); Songs,
Ballads, and A Garden Play' (1888); and 'Retrospect' (1895).
Besides verse, Madame Darmesteter has published a novel, 'Ar-
den' (1883); a couple of biographies,- one of Emily Bronté in the
Eminent Women Series (1883), the other on 'Margaret of Angoulême,
## p. 12316 (#362) ##########################################
12316
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
Queen of Navarre' (1889); and a book of historical essays, 'The End
of the Middle Ages' (1888).
Her response to the realistic demand of the day is felt in 'The
New Arcadia,' which contains a number of narrative poems dealing
with the English peasant life, and sternly tragic in subject. The
work, though not without strength and skill, and commendable for
its yearning sympathy with the wrongs and sorrows of the working
folk, is not in the poet's most successful vein. A trip to Italy in
1880 revealed her truest source of inspiration. She sings most
sweetly when seized with the gentle spirit of sadness which wafts
from some old exotic garden where lovers, soon to be separated by
chance or change or death, wander with clasped hands and dimly
foreboding hearts. In 'An Italian Garden' are songs and lyrics of
great beauty, whose art is hidden by the simplicity and fervor of the
utterance. Here Madame Darmesteter gives unaffected expression to
her thoughts and imaginings on the grave things and the glad things
of life; and the delicacy of the music, the tender mournfulness of
the verse, together with its felicitous descriptive touches, make a
very lovely impression. The sequence of love lyrics which imitate
in form the Italian Rispetti are fairly Heinesque in their passionate
feeling and charm of phrase. Of all the chords in the diapason of
song, that most native to this poet is a tender dreamy minor that
lingers long on the ear. She is neither robust nor optimistic; but the
mysterious sweet sadness of life is of the very essence of poetry, and
few of the younger English singers have given it voice with more
attraction.
Since Madame Darmesteter's marriage and foreign residence she
has written several works in French. One of them, a sketch of the
chronicler Froissart, appeared in English translation in 1895. She
published in 1896 her husband's New English Studies,' a collection
of magazine papers and reviews,-furnishing an introduction to the
volume. There is no reason to conclude that her poetical activity
has ceased. In any case she has done sufficient work to secure her
a place among the minor lyric singers of England.
TUSCAN CYPRESS
(RISPETTI)
HAT good is there, ah me, what good in Love?
Since even if you love me, we must part:
And since for either, an you cared enough,
There's but division and a broken heart?
WHAT
## p. 12317 (#363) ##########################################
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
12317
And yet, God knows, to hear you say - My dear!
I would lie down and stretch me on the bier.
And yet would I, to hear you say - My own!
With mine own hands drag down the burial stone.
I LOVE you more than any words can say,
And yet you do not feel I love you so;
And slowly I am dying day by day,-
You look at me, and yet you do not know.
You look at me, and yet you do not fear;
You do not see the mourners with the bier.
You answer when I speak, and wish me well,
And still you do not hear the passing-bell.
O LOVE, O Love, come over the sea, come here,
Come back and kiss me once when I am dead!
Come back and lay a rose upon my bier,
Come, light the tapers at my feet and head.
Come back and kiss me once upon the eyes,
So I, being dead, shall dream of Paradise;
Come, kneel beside me once and say a prayer,
So shall my soul be happy anywhere.
WHEN I am dead and I am quite forgot,
What care I if my spirit lives or dies?
To walk with angels in a grassy plot,
And pluck the lilies grown in Paradise?
Ah, no,- the heaven of all my heart has been
To hear your voice and catch the sighs between.
Ah, no,- the better heaven I fain would give,
But in a cranny of your soul to live.
AH ME, you well might wait a little while,
And not forget me, Sweet, until I die!
I had a home, a little distant isle,
With shadowy trees and tender misty sky.
I had a home! It was less dear than thou,
And I forgot, as you forget me now.
I had a home, more dear than I could tell,
And I forgot, but now remember well.
## p. 12318 (#364) ##########################################
12318
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
LOVE me to-day and think not on to-morrow;
Come, take my hands, and lead me out of doors;
There in the fields let us forget our sorrow,
Talking of Venice and Ionian shores;-
Talking of all the seas innumerable
Where we will sail and sing when I am well;
Talking of Indian roses gold and red,
Which we will plait in wreaths- when I am dead.
TELL me a story, dear, that is not true,
Strange as a vision, full of splendid things:
Here will I lie and dream it is not you,
And dream it is a mocking-bird that sings.
For if I find your voice in any part,
Even the sound of it will break my heart;
For if you speak of us and of our love,
I faint and die to feel the thrill thereof.
LET us forget we loved each other much,
Let us forget we ever have to part;
Let us forget that any look or touch
Once let in either to the other's heart.
Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass,
And hear the larks and see the swallows pass;
Only we'll live awhile, as children play,
Without to-morrow, without yesterday.
FAR, far away and in the middle sea,
So still I dream, although the dream is vain,
There lies a valley full of rest for me,
Where I shall live and you shall love again.
O ships that sail, O masts against the sky,
Will you not stop awhile in passing by?
O prayers that hope, O faith that never knew,
Will you not take me on to heaven with you?
AH, LOVE, I cannot die, I cannot go
Down in the dark and leave you all alone:
Ah, hold me fast, safe in the warmth I know,
And never shut me underneath a stone.
## p. 12319 (#365) ##########################################
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
12319
Dead in the grave! And I can never hear
If you are ill or if you miss me, dear.
Dead, oh my God! and you may need me yet,
While I shall sleep, while I- while I-forget!
COME away, Sorrow, Sorrow come away-
Let us go sit in some cool, shadowy place;
There shall you sing and hush me all the day,
While I will dream about my lover's face.
Hush me, O Sorrow, like a babe to sleep,
Then close the lids above mine eyes that weep;
Rock me, O Sorrow, like a babe in pain,
Nor, when I slumber, wake me up again.
RED MAY
UT of the window the trees in the square
Are covered with crimson May:
You, that were all of my love and my care,
Have broken my heart to-day.
O
But though I have lost you, and though I despair
Till even the past looks gray,-
Out of the window the trees in the square
Are covered with crimson May.
-
## p. 12320 (#366) ##########################################
12320
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
(1613-1680)
HE 'Maxims' of La Rochefoucauld are perhaps most clearly
understood in the light of his life. He was a gentleman, a
soldier, a courtier, a cavalier, a lover, in one of the most
picturesque periods of French history,- one which afforded the man
of affairs unique opportunities for the study of human nature, espe-
cially of those weaknesses of human nature which the atmosphere
of courts seems to foster. The Maxims' are the very essence of a
luminous and seductive worldliness.
They are the conclusions drawn
by a man whose intellect was always guided by his judgment; they
exhibit tact which amounts to genius. They might serve as rules
alike for courtiers and Christians.
La Rochefoucauld was born in Paris in 1613, in the reign of Louis
XIII. His family was ancient and noble; his father enjoyed the royal
favor. He himself, as Prince de Marcillac, became early a prominent
figure in the army and at court. Throughout his long life he was
peculiarly susceptible to the influence of women: it was through his
attachment to Madame de Chevreuse that he became the devoted
champion of the Queen, Anne of Austria, the neglected wife of Louis;
infusing into his devotion to her that romanticism which is some-
times discoverable in the Maxims,' under their brilliant world-
wisdom. Caballings against Richelieu engaged him until the great
statesman's death in 1642. He was then prominent in effecting a
reconcilement between the Queen and Condé, that they might league
together against Gaston of Orléans. Cardinal Mazarin, however, was
to thwart his plans as Richelieu had done.
From 1642 to 1652 his life was one of confusion and of intrigue,
with nothing better to steady it and to direct it than the fascinations
of the Duchesse de Longueville, for whose sake he became a Frondeur.
At the battle of the Faubourg St. Antoine in 1652, he was shot in
the head; this misfortune in his military career proved to be of most
happy significance in his career as a man of letters, for it forced him
into that semi-retirement from which issued his famous 'Maxims'
and Memoirs. ' The remainder of his life was spent chiefly in Paris,
in that brilliant and cultured society of which glimpses are obtained
in the letters of Madame de Sévigné, whose intimate friend he was.
La Rochefoucauld - the passionate soldier, the restless gallant, the
## p. 12320 (#367) ##########################################
C
C
HEFOUCAUS
A
## p. 12320 (#368) ##########################################
.
ויי
.
## p. 12320 (#369) ##########################################
อม
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
rera
Ope
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## p. 12321 (#371) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12321
-
suave lover. - became in his old age the polished ornament of the
most exclusive and exacting of Parisian salons. His friendship for
Madame de Sévigné, for Madame de Sablé, for Madame de La Fayette,
mellowed his declining years. He died in 1680.
In his 'Memoirs' he says of himself, "I have talent, marred by
melancholy;" and again, "I extremely approve of exalted passion: it
shows a grandeur of soul. I who know all the delicacy and strength
of the lofty sentiments of love-if I ever love, it will assuredly be
after this fashion; but such as I am, I do not believe that this knowl-
edge which I have would ever pass from my head to my heart. "
The key to Rochefoucauld's character and to his writings may
perhaps be found in these passages. The melancholy of which he
speaks was genuine. It lurks in many of the 'Maxims,' as the nat-
ural sorrow of one disillusioned by his contact with the world, forced
to acknowledge the gulf between the ideal and the actual, and to
bow to the power of expediency. La Rochefoucauld has been accused
of supremest egotism; of teaching a mode of life which is little else
than the essence of selfishness. If so, it is a selfishness disguised in
a constant effort to put the world at its ease, to infuse all society
with the golden atmosphere of courts, in which everybody and every-
thing is assumed to be perfect. The 'Maxims' show, indeed, how
nearly the wisdom of the children of the world approaches the wis-
dom of the children of light. Their author knew the world as few
men have the opportunity to know it; and once for all, he gave to
worldly knowledge perfect literary embodiment. His loves for many
women gave to him likewise an almost perfect insight into woman
nature. "In their first love women love the lover; in the others they
love love. " The 'Maxims' are faultless in style and form: brief
complete sayings, forming doorways neither too strait nor too broad
into the House of Life, whose many chambers La Rochefoucauld had
explored.
His 'Memoirs' are equally famous, taking first rank in their class.
His letters are vistas into the highly colored picturesque life of the
time. He himself seems less a great figure in French literature than
a great figure in old French life. What he wrote has more the char-
acter of an afterthought than of a supreme intention,— the reflections
of one concerning the world after that world had ceased to be of vital
importance to him.
XXI-771
--
## p. 12322 (#372) ##########################################
12322
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
MAXIMS
PAS
ASSION often makes the cleverest man a fool, and often ren-
ders the most foolish clever.
Those great and brilliant feats which dazzle our eyes are
represented by politicians as the effects of great designs, where-
as they are usually only the effects of temper and of passions.
Thus the war between Augustus and Antony, which is ascribed
to their ambition to make themselves masters of the world, was
perhaps only an effect of jealousy.
The passions often beget their contraries. Avarice sometimes
produces prodigality, and prodigality avarice; we are often firm
from weakness, and daring from timidity.
Our self-love bears more impatiently the condemnation of our
tastes than of our opinions.
The moderation of prosperous people comes from the calm
which good fortune gives to their temper.
We have strength enough to bear the ills of others.
The steadfastness of sages is only the art of locking up their
uneasiness in their hearts.
Philosophy triumphs easily over troubles passed and troubles
to come; but present troubles triumph over it.
When great men allow themselves to be cast down by con-
tinued misfortunes, they show that they bore them only through
the strength of their ambition, and not through that of their
soul; and that, great vanity apart, heroes are made like other
men.
It requires greater virtue to bear good fortune than bad.
Neither sin nor death can be looked at steadily.
We often make a parade of passions,- even of the most crim-
inal; but envy is a timid and shameful passion which we never
dare to acknowledge.
Jealousy is in some measure just and reasonable, since it tends
only to retain a good which belongs to us, or which we think
belongs to us; whereas envy is a fury which cannot endure the
good of others.
We have more strength than will; and it is often to excuse
ourselves to ourselves that we imagine that things are impossible.
Pride has a greater share than goodness in our remonstrances
with those who commit faults; and we reprove not so much to
## p. 12323 (#373) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12323
correct, as to persuade them that we ourselves are free from
them.
We promise according to our hopes, and we perform accord-
ing to our fears.
Interest speaks all sorts of languages, and plays all sorts of
parts, even that of disinterestedness.
Those who occupy themselves too much with small things
usually become incapable of great.
Strength and weakness of mind are misnamed: they are in
fact only the good or bad arrangement of the bodily organs.
The love or the indifference which the philosophers had for
life was only a taste of their self-love; which we should no more
argue about than about the taste of the tongue or the choice of
colors.
Happiness is in relish, and not in things: it is by having
what we like that we are happy, and not in having what others
find likable.
We are never so happy or so unhappy as we imagine.
Nothing ought to lessen the satisfaction we have in ourselves
so much as seeing that we disapprove at one time what we ap-
proved at another.
Contempt for riches was with the philosophers a hidden de-
sire to avenge their worth for the injustice of fortune, by con-
tempt for the good things of which she deprived them; it was a
secret to secure themselves from the degradation of poverty; it
was a byway to gain that consolation which they could not have
from wealth.
Sincerity is a frankness of heart. We find it in very few
people, and what we usually see is only a delicate dissimulation
to gain the confidence of others.
Grace is to the body what good sense is to the mind.
It is difficult to define love. What we may say of it is, that
in the soul it is a ruling passion; in the mind it is a sympathy;
and in the body it is a hidden and delicate desire to possess what
we love, after much mystery.
There is no disguise which can hide love long where it is, or
feign it where it is not.
There are few people who are not ashamed of having loved
each other when they no longer love each other.
We may find women who have never had a gallantry, but it
is rare to find any who have only had one.
## p. 12324 (#374) ##########################################
12324
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Love, as well as fire, cannot exist without constant motion;
and it ceases to live as soon as it ceases to hope or to fear.
It is of true love as of the apparition of spirits: all the world
talks of it, but few people have seen it.
The love of justice is in most men only the fear of suffering
injustice.
What makes us so fickle in our friendships is, that it is diffi-
cult to know the qualities of the soul and easy to know those of
the mind.
We can love nothing but by its relation to ourselves; and we
only follow our taste and our pleasure when we prefer our friends
to ourselves. Nevertheless it is by this preference alone that
friendship can be true and perfect.
Every one complains of his memory, and no one complains of
his judgment.
To undeceive a man absorbed in his own merit, is to do him
as bad a turn as was done to that mad Athenian who believed
that all the ships which entered the harbor belonged to himself.
Old men like to give good advice, to console themselves for
being no longer able to give bad examples.
The sign of extraordinary merit is to see that those who envy
it most are constrained to praise it.
We are mistaken when we think that the mind and the judg-
ment are two different things. The judgment is only the great-
ness of the light of the mind: this light penetrates the depths of
things; it notes there all that should be noted, and perceives those
things which seem imperceptible. Thus we must admit that it is
the extent of the light of the mind which causes all the effects
which we attribute to judgment.
Refinement of mind consists in thinking on proper and deli-
cate things.
The mind is ever the dupe of the heart.
All who know their mind do not know their heart.
The mind could not long play the part of the heart.
Youth changes its tastes from heat of blood, and age pre-
serves its own from habit.
We give nothing so liberally as advice.
The more we love a lady-love, the nearer we are to hating
her.
There are some good marriages, but no delightful ones.
We often do good to be able to do harm with impunity.
## p. 12325 (#375) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12325
If we resist our passions, it is more from their weakness than
from our strength.
The true way to be deceived is to think oneself sharper than
others.
The least fault of women who give themselves up to love-
making, is making love.
One of the causes why we find so few people who appear rea-
sonable and agreeable in conversation is, that there is scarcely
any one who does not think more of what he wishes to say than
of replying exactly to what is said to him. The cleverest and
the most compliant think it enough to show an attentive air,
while we see in their eyes and in their mind a wandering from
what is said to them, and a hurry to return to what they wish
to say; instead of considering that it is a bad way to please
or to persuade others, to try so hard to please oneself, and that
to listen well and answer well is one of the greatest accomplish-
ments we can have in conversation.
We generally praise only to be praised.
Nature creates merit, and fortune sets it to work.
It is more easy to appear worthy of a calling not our own
than of the one we follow.
There are two kinds of constancy in love: the one comes
from constantly finding new things to love in the person we love,
and the other comes from our, making it a point of honor to be
constant.
There are heroes in evil as well as in good.
We do not despise all who have vices, but we despise all who
have not any virtue.
We may say that vices await us in the journey of life, as
hosts with whom we must successively lodge; and I doubt
whether experience would enable us to avoid them were we
allowed to travel the same road again.
When vices leave us, we flatter ourselves by thinking that it
is we who leave them.
Virtue would not go so far if vanity did not keep her com-
pany.
Whoever thinks he can do without the world deceives him-
self much; but whoever thinks the world cannot do without him
deceives himself much more.
The virtue of women is often the love of their reputation and
their repose.
## p. 12326 (#376) ##########################################
12326
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
The true gentleman is he who does not plume himself on any-
thing.
Perfect valor is to do without a witness all that we could do
before the whole world.
Hypocrisy is a homage which vice renders to virtue.
All those who discharge debts of gratitude cannot on that
account flatter themselves that they are grateful.
Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a kind of in-
gratitude.
Fortunate people seldom correct themselves: they always think
they are right when fortune favors their bad conduct.
Pride will not owe, and self-love will not pay.
The good we have received from a man requires us to be
tender of the evil he does us.
Nothing is so contagious as example; and we never do any
great good or any great harm that does not produce its like. We
copy good actions from emulation, and bad ones from the malig-
nity of our nature, which shame kept a prisoner and example sets
at liberty.
It is a great folly to wish to be wise all alone.
In one,
In afflictions there are various sorts of hypocrisy.
while pretending to mourn the loss of a person dear to us, we
mourn for ourselves: we regret. the good opinion he had of us,
we mourn the diminution of our possessions, of our pleasure, of
our consideration. Thus the dead are honored with tears which
flow only for the living. I say that it is a kind of hypocrisy,
for in these sorts of afflictions we deceive ourselves. There is
another hypocrisy which is not so innocent, because it imposes
on every one: it is the affliction of certain persons who aspire
to the glory of a noble and immortal grief. When time, which
wastes all things, has quenched the grief they really felt, they
persist in their tears, their wailings, and their sighs; they assume
a mournful aspect, and labor to persuade, by all their acts, that
their grief will only end with their life. This sad and weari-
some vanity is generally found in ambitious women: as their sex
bars them from the roads which lead to glory, they seek celeb-
rity by the show of unspeakable sorrow. There is yet another
kind of tears whose springs are only small, which flow and dry
up easily the weepers weep to have a name for being tender;
they weep to be pitied; they weep to be wept for: in short, they
weep to avoid the shame of not weeping.
## p. 12327 (#377) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12327
It is more often from pride than from deficiency of light that
we so obstinately oppose the most received opinions: we find the
first places taken on the good side, and we will have nothing to
do with the last.
No one deserves to be praised for goodness, unless he has
strength to be bad: all other goodness is most often only sloth
or weakness of will.
It is not so dangerous to do harm to most men as it is to do
them too much good.
Coquetry is the basis of the temper of women; but all do not
practice it, for the coquetry of some is restrained by fear or by
reason.
We often inconvenience others when we think we never could
inconvenience them.
Magnanimity despises everything to gain everything.
True eloquence consists in saying all that is needed, and in
saying only what is needed.
It is as common to see tastes change as it is uncommon to
see inclinations change.
Gravity is a physical cloak invented to hide mental defects.
The pleasure of love is in loving; and we are happier in the
passion we feel than in that we inspire.
What is called liberality is most often only the vanity of giv-
ing, which we prefer to the thing we give.
There are people whom the world approves of, whose only
merits are the vices which serve in the intercourse of life.
The charm of novelty is, in relation to love, what the bloom
is on fruit: it gives a lustre to it which is easily effaced, and
which never returns.
Absence diminishes moderate passions and increases great
ones, as wind puts out candles and inflames fire.
Women often think they love even when they do not. The
occupation of an intrigue, the excitement of mind which gallantry
causes, the natural inclination to the pleasure of being loved, and
the pain of refusing,- persuade them that they are influenced by
love, when they are influenced only by coquetry.
There are bad people who would be less dangerous if there
was no good in them.
The gratitude of most men is only a secret desire to obtain
greater favors.
## p. 12328 (#378) ##########################################
12328
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Nearly every one takes pleasure in acknowledging small obli-
gations; many are grateful for common ones; but there is
scarcely any one who is not ungrateful for great ones.
We often forgive those who bore us, but we cannot forgive
those whom we bore.
The reason why lovers and their lady-loves do not weary of
being together, is that they always talk of themselves.
Why should we have memory enough to retain even the
smallest particulars of what has happened to us, and yet not
have enough to remember how often we have told the to the
same individual ?
In jealousy there is more of self-love than of love.
We sometimes think we hate flattery, but we only hate the
way in which we are flattered.
We forgive as long as we love.
Women can less overcome their coquetry than their love.
The passions of youth are scarcely more opposed to salvation
than is the tepidity of age.
There can be no order either in the mind or in the heart of
woman, if her temperament be not in harmony with it.
We find few sensible people except those who are of our way
of thinking.
The greatest miracle of love is to cure coquetry.
Most women mourn the death of their lovers, not so much
because they loved them as to appear more worthy of being loved.
Most young people think they are natural when they are only
unpolished and rude.
When our worth declines, our taste also declines.
We ought only to be astonished that we are still able to be
astonished.
What makes the vanity of others unbearable to us is, that it
wounds our own.
We may be sharper than one other, but not sharper than all
others. .
There is merit without loftiness, but there is no loftiness with-
out some merit.
Loftiness is to merit, what dress is to handsome women.
Whatever shame we may have deserved, it is almost always in
our power to re-establish our reputation.
Confidence contributes more to conversation than does mind.
## p. 12329 (#379) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12329
Women who love, forgive great indiscretions more readily than
small infidelities.
Nothing prevents us from being natural so much as the desire
to appear so.
To praise noble actions heartily is in some sort to take part
in them.
The reason why most women are but little influenced by
friendship is, that it is insipid when they have tasted of love.
Decorum is the least of all laws and the most observed.
In great matters, we ought to strive less to create opportu-
nities than to profit by those which offer.
There are few occasions on which we should make a bad bar-
gain by giving up the good that is said of us, on condition that
nothing bad may be said.
In their first love women love the lover, in the others they
love love.
There are few women whose worth lasts longer than their
beauty.
However wicked men may be, they dare not appear the ene-
mies of virtue: when they wish to persecute it they pretend to
believe it is false, or they impute crimes to it.
Quarrels would not last long if the wrong were only on one
side.
Love, pleasant as it is, pleases even more by the ways in
which it shows itself than by itself.
It seems that it is the Devil who has purposely placed sloth
on the frontier of many virtues.
The ruin of a neighbor pleases friends and enemies.
Little is wanted to make the wise happy; nothing can satisfy
a fool: therefore nearly all men are miserable.
It is sometimes agreeable to a husband to have a jealous wife:
he always hears her talk of what he likes.
An honest woman is a hidden treasure: he who has found her
does well not to boast of her.
It is never more difficult to talk well than when we are
ashamed to be silent.
We prefer seeing those to whom we do good, to seeing those
who do good to us.
## p. 12310 (#356) ##########################################
12310
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
as I feel deeply. Our stimulating artificial culture destroys depth.
Our competition, our nights turned into days by pleasure, leave
no time for earnestness. We are superficial men. Character in
the world wants root. England has gained much; she has lost
also much. The world wants what has passed away (and which
until we secure, we shall remain the clever, shallow men we are),
a childhood and a youth spent in shade a home.
Now, this growth took place in three particulars.
I. In spiritual strength. "The child waxed strong in spirit. "
Spiritual strength consists of two things,-power of will, and
power of self-restraint. It requires two things, therefore, for its
existence, strong feelings, and strong command over them.
Now it is here we make a great mistake: we mistake strong
feelings for strong character. A man who bears all before him,—
before whose frown domestics tremble, and whose bursts of fury
make the children of the house quake,- because he has his will
obeyed, and his own way in all things, we call him a strong man.
The truth is, that is the weak man: it is his passions that are
strong; he, mastered by them, is weak. You must measure the
strength of a man by the power of the feelings which he subdues,
not by the power of those which subdue him.
And hence composure is very often the highest result of
strength. Did we never see a man receive a flagrant insult, and
only grow a little pale, and then reply quietly? That was a man
spiritually strong. Or did we never see a man in anguish stand
as if carved out of solid rock, mastering himself? or one bear-
ing a hopeless daily trial, remain silent, and never tell the world
what it was that cankered his home peace? That is strength.
He who with strong passions remains chaste,—he who, keenly
sensitive, with manly power of indignation in him, can be pro-
voked and yet refrain himself and forgive,- these are strong
men, spiritual heroes.
-
The child waxed strong: spiritual strength is reached by
successive steps. Fresh strength is got by every mastery of self.
It is the belief of the savage that the spirit of every enemy he
slays enters into him and becomes added to his own, accumu-
lating a warrior's strength for the day of battle; therefore he
slays all he can. It is true in the spiritual warfare. Every sin
you slay, the spirit of that sin passes into you transformed into
strength; every passion, not merely kept in abeyance by asceti-
cism, but subdued by a higher impulse, is so much character
## p. 12311 (#357) ##########################################
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
12311
strengthened. The strength of the passion not expended is yours.
still. Understand, then, you are not a man of spiritual power
because your impulses are irresistible. They sweep over your
soul like a tornado,-lay all flat before them,-whereupon you
feel a secret pride of strength. Last week, men saw a vessel
on this coast borne headlong on the breakers, and dashing itself
with terrific force against the shore. It embedded itself, a mis-
erable wreck, deep in sand and shingle. Was that brig, in her
convulsive throes, strong? or was it powerless and helpless?
No, my brethren: God's spirit in the soul,—an inward power
of doing the same thing we will and ought,- that is strength,
nothing else. All other force in us is only our weakness,— the
violence of driving passion. "I can do all things through Christ,
who strengtheneth me," - that is Christian strength. "I cannot
do the things I would," - that is the weakness of an unredeemed
slave.
I instance one single evidence of strength in the early years
of Jesus: I find it in that calm, long waiting of thirty years be-
fore he began his work. And yet all the evils he was to redress
were there, provoking indignation, crying for interference,-the
hollowness of social life, the misinterpretations of Scripture, the
forms of worship and phraseology which had hidden moral truth,
the injustice, the priestcraft, the cowardice, the hypocrisies: he
had long seen them all.
All those years his soul burned within him with a divine
zeal and heavenly indignation. A mere man-a weak, emotional
man of spasmodic feeling, a hot enthusiast would have spoken
out at once, and at once been crushed. The Everlasting Word
incarnate bided his own time,-"Mine hour is not yet come,"
matured his energies, condensed them by repression; and then
went forth to speak, and do, and suffer. His hour was come.
This is strength: the power of a Divine Silence; the strong will
to keep force till it is wanted; the power to wait God's time.
"He that believeth," said the wise prophet, "shall not make
haste. "
――――
-
## p. 12312 (#358) ##########################################
12312
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
THE UNIVERSAL NATURE OF CHRIST
From Sermons Preached in Trinity Chapel'
NOT
JOTHING, in the judgment of historians, stands out so sharply
distinct as race, national character; nothing is more
ineffaceable. The Hebrew was marked from all mankind.
The Roman was perfectly distinct from the Grecian character;
as markedly different as the rough English truthfulness is from
Celtic brilliancy of talent. Now, these peculiar nationalities are
seldom combined. You rarely find the stern old Jewish sense of
holiness going together with the Athenian sensitiveness of what
is beautiful. Not often do you find together severe truth and
refined tenderness. Brilliancy seems opposed to perseverance.
Exquisiteness of taste commonly goes along with a certain amount
of untruthfulness. By "humanity" as a whole, we mean the
aggregate of all these separate excellences. Only in two places
are they all found together,-—in the universal human race and in
Jesus Christ. He, having as it were a whole humanity in him-
self, combines them all.
Now, this is the universality of the nature of Jesus Christ.
There was in him no national peculiarity or individual idiosyn-
crasy. He was not the son of the Jew, nor the son of the car-
penter, nor the offspring of the modes of living and thinking
of that particular century. He was the son of Man. Once in
the world's history was born a MAN. Once in the roll of ages,
out of innumerable failures, from the stock of human nature one
bud developed itself into a faultless flower. One perfect speci-
men of humanity has God exhibited on earth.
The best and most catholic of Englishmen has his prejudices.
All the world over, our greatest writer would be recognized
as having the English cast of thought. The pattern Jew would
seem Jewish everywhere but in Judea. Take Abraham, St. John,
St. Paul, place them where you will,-in China or in Peru,-
they are Hebrews: they could not command all sympathies;
their life could not be imitable except in part. They are foreign-
ers in every land, and out of place in every century, but their
own. But Christ is the king of men, and "draws all men,"
because all character is in him, separate from nationalities and
limitations. As if the life-blood of every nation were in his
## p. 12313 (#359) ##########################################
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
12313
veins, and that which is best and truest in every man, and that
which is tenderest and gentlest and purest in every woman, in
his character. He is emphatically the son of Man.
Out of this arose two powers of his sacred humanity,— the
universality of his sympathies, and their intense particular per-
sonality.
The universality of his sympathies: for, compare him with
any one of the sacred characters of Scripture. You know how
intensely national they were-priests, prophets, and apostles-
in their sympathies. For example, the apostles "marveled that
he spake with a woman of Samaria"; just before his resurrec-
tion, their largest charity had not reached beyond this,— “Lord,
wilt thou at this time restore the kingdom unto Israel? » Or
to come down to modern times, when his spirit has been mold-
ing men's ways of thought for many ages: now, when we talk
of our philanthropy and catholic liberality, here in Christian Eng-
land, we have scarcely any fellow-feeling, true and genuine, with
other nations, other churches, other parties, than our own: we
care nothing for Italian or Hungarian struggles; we think of
Romanists as the Jew thought of Gentiles; we speak of Ger-
man Protestants in the same proud, wicked, self-sufficient way in
which the Jew spoke of Samaritans.
Unless we bring such matters home, and away from vague
generalities, and consider what we and all men are, or rather are
not, we cannot comprehend with due wonder the mighty sympa-
thies of the heart of Christ. None of the miserable antipathies.
that fence us from all the world bounded the outgoings of that
Love, broad and deep and wide as the heart of God. Wherever
the mysterious pulse of human life was beating, wherever aught
human was in struggle, there to him was a thing not common or
unclean, but cleansed by God and sacred. Compare the daily,
almost indispensable, language of our life with his spirit. —"Com-
mon people"? point us out the passage where he called any
people that God his Father made, common. - "Lower orders"?
tell us when and where he, whose home was the workshop of
the carpenter, authorized you or me to know any man after the
flesh as low or high. - To him who called himself the Son of
Man, the link was manhood. And that he could discern even
when it was marred. Even in outcasts his eye could recognize
the sanctities of a nature human still. Even in the harlot, "one
of Eve's family; " a son of Abraham even in Zaccheus.
-
## p. 12314 (#360) ##########################################
12314
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON
Once more, out of that universal, catholic nature rose another
power, the power of intense, particular, personal affections. He
was the brother and savior of the human race; but this because
he was the brother and savior of every separate man in it.
Now, it is very easy to feel great affection for a country as a
whole; to have, for instance, great sympathies for Poland, or Ire-
land, or America, and yet not to care a whit for any single man
in Poland, and to have strong antipathies to every single indi-
vidual American. Easy to be a warm lover of England, and
yet not love one living Englishman. Easy to set a great value
on a flock of sheep, and yet have no particular care for any one
sheep or lamb. If it were killed, another of the same species
might replace it. Easy to have fine, large, liberal views about
the working classes, or the emancipation of the negroes, and yet
never have done a loving act to one. Easy to be a great philan-
thropist, and yet have no strong friendships, no deep personal
attachments.
For the idea of a universal Manlike sympathy was not new
when Christ was born. The reality was new. But before this,
in the Roman theatre, deafening applause was called forth by
this sentence:-"I am a man: nothing that can affect man is
indifferent to me. " A fine sentiment that was all. Every pre-
tense of realizing that sentiment, except one, has been a failure.
One, and but one, has succeeded in loving man and that by
loving men. No sublime high-sounding language in his lips
about educating the masses, or elevating the people. The char-
latanry of our modern sentiment had not appeared then; it is
but the parody of his love.
What was his mode of sympathy with men? He did not sit
down to philosophize about the progress of the species, or dream
about a millennium. He gathered round him twelve men. He
formed one friendship, special, concentrated, deep. He did not
give himself out as the leader of the publican's cause or the
champion of the rights of the dangerous classes: but he asso-
ciated with himselt Matthew, a publican called from the detested
receipt of custom; he went into the house of Zaccheus, and
treated him like a fellow-creature, a brother, and a son of Abra-
ham.
His catholicity, or philanthropy, was not an abstraction,
but an aggregate of personal attachments.
## p. 12315 (#361) ##########################################
12315
TOX
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
(1857-)
HE poetry of culture-the poetry which smells of the lamp
and implies commerce with books - can be as genuine
and enjoyable as any other. All that is necessary is the
authentic impulse, and sufficient individuality to assimilate the many
influences to which the sensitive mind and soul of this order of
singer are subjected. It is a mistake to sneer at culture-verse as
derived and uninspired. As with any other kind of work, so in this,
the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
The young Englishwoman whose verse is signed by the name
of A. Mary F. Robinson-and who in 1882 became the wife of the
brilliant French Orientalist, the late James Darmesteter-is of this
school of poets. Her polished and lovely verse indicates reading, and
the absorption of the riches of the literary past of her own and other
tongues especially that of the Romance peoples. But her talent is
independent; her note is distinct enough to justify all her contact
with the great spirits of literature; and the chastened classic quality
of some of her song in no wise detracts from the modernness of her
mind. For a certain refined melancholy and pure lyric musicalness
she is thoroughly a modern, the child of Pre-Raphaelite models,-
feeling some of the time's realistic tendencies, and yet showing too
a close affiliation with the Elizabethan song-makers.
Agnes Mary Frances Robinson (Madame Darmesteter) was born at
Leamington, February 27th, 1857. Her father was an architect in
connection with the ecclesiastical buildings in the neighboring town
of Coventry. She was educated at Brussels, in Italy, and at Uni-
versity College, London, giving special attention to Greek. Her taste
for poetry showed itself very early: at thirteen she was writing on
history. Her first volume of verse, 'A Handful of Honeysuckle,'
appeared in 1878, when she was twenty-one. Following this came
'The Crowned Hippolytus (1880), containing a translation from
Euripides and pieces of her own; The New Arcadia and Other
Poems' (1884); 'An Italian Garden: A Book of Songs' (1886); Songs,
Ballads, and A Garden Play' (1888); and 'Retrospect' (1895).
Besides verse, Madame Darmesteter has published a novel, 'Ar-
den' (1883); a couple of biographies,- one of Emily Bronté in the
Eminent Women Series (1883), the other on 'Margaret of Angoulême,
## p. 12316 (#362) ##########################################
12316
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
Queen of Navarre' (1889); and a book of historical essays, 'The End
of the Middle Ages' (1888).
Her response to the realistic demand of the day is felt in 'The
New Arcadia,' which contains a number of narrative poems dealing
with the English peasant life, and sternly tragic in subject. The
work, though not without strength and skill, and commendable for
its yearning sympathy with the wrongs and sorrows of the working
folk, is not in the poet's most successful vein. A trip to Italy in
1880 revealed her truest source of inspiration. She sings most
sweetly when seized with the gentle spirit of sadness which wafts
from some old exotic garden where lovers, soon to be separated by
chance or change or death, wander with clasped hands and dimly
foreboding hearts. In 'An Italian Garden' are songs and lyrics of
great beauty, whose art is hidden by the simplicity and fervor of the
utterance. Here Madame Darmesteter gives unaffected expression to
her thoughts and imaginings on the grave things and the glad things
of life; and the delicacy of the music, the tender mournfulness of
the verse, together with its felicitous descriptive touches, make a
very lovely impression. The sequence of love lyrics which imitate
in form the Italian Rispetti are fairly Heinesque in their passionate
feeling and charm of phrase. Of all the chords in the diapason of
song, that most native to this poet is a tender dreamy minor that
lingers long on the ear. She is neither robust nor optimistic; but the
mysterious sweet sadness of life is of the very essence of poetry, and
few of the younger English singers have given it voice with more
attraction.
Since Madame Darmesteter's marriage and foreign residence she
has written several works in French. One of them, a sketch of the
chronicler Froissart, appeared in English translation in 1895. She
published in 1896 her husband's New English Studies,' a collection
of magazine papers and reviews,-furnishing an introduction to the
volume. There is no reason to conclude that her poetical activity
has ceased. In any case she has done sufficient work to secure her
a place among the minor lyric singers of England.
TUSCAN CYPRESS
(RISPETTI)
HAT good is there, ah me, what good in Love?
Since even if you love me, we must part:
And since for either, an you cared enough,
There's but division and a broken heart?
WHAT
## p. 12317 (#363) ##########################################
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
12317
And yet, God knows, to hear you say - My dear!
I would lie down and stretch me on the bier.
And yet would I, to hear you say - My own!
With mine own hands drag down the burial stone.
I LOVE you more than any words can say,
And yet you do not feel I love you so;
And slowly I am dying day by day,-
You look at me, and yet you do not know.
You look at me, and yet you do not fear;
You do not see the mourners with the bier.
You answer when I speak, and wish me well,
And still you do not hear the passing-bell.
O LOVE, O Love, come over the sea, come here,
Come back and kiss me once when I am dead!
Come back and lay a rose upon my bier,
Come, light the tapers at my feet and head.
Come back and kiss me once upon the eyes,
So I, being dead, shall dream of Paradise;
Come, kneel beside me once and say a prayer,
So shall my soul be happy anywhere.
WHEN I am dead and I am quite forgot,
What care I if my spirit lives or dies?
To walk with angels in a grassy plot,
And pluck the lilies grown in Paradise?
Ah, no,- the heaven of all my heart has been
To hear your voice and catch the sighs between.
Ah, no,- the better heaven I fain would give,
But in a cranny of your soul to live.
AH ME, you well might wait a little while,
And not forget me, Sweet, until I die!
I had a home, a little distant isle,
With shadowy trees and tender misty sky.
I had a home! It was less dear than thou,
And I forgot, as you forget me now.
I had a home, more dear than I could tell,
And I forgot, but now remember well.
## p. 12318 (#364) ##########################################
12318
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
LOVE me to-day and think not on to-morrow;
Come, take my hands, and lead me out of doors;
There in the fields let us forget our sorrow,
Talking of Venice and Ionian shores;-
Talking of all the seas innumerable
Where we will sail and sing when I am well;
Talking of Indian roses gold and red,
Which we will plait in wreaths- when I am dead.
TELL me a story, dear, that is not true,
Strange as a vision, full of splendid things:
Here will I lie and dream it is not you,
And dream it is a mocking-bird that sings.
For if I find your voice in any part,
Even the sound of it will break my heart;
For if you speak of us and of our love,
I faint and die to feel the thrill thereof.
LET us forget we loved each other much,
Let us forget we ever have to part;
Let us forget that any look or touch
Once let in either to the other's heart.
Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass,
And hear the larks and see the swallows pass;
Only we'll live awhile, as children play,
Without to-morrow, without yesterday.
FAR, far away and in the middle sea,
So still I dream, although the dream is vain,
There lies a valley full of rest for me,
Where I shall live and you shall love again.
O ships that sail, O masts against the sky,
Will you not stop awhile in passing by?
O prayers that hope, O faith that never knew,
Will you not take me on to heaven with you?
AH, LOVE, I cannot die, I cannot go
Down in the dark and leave you all alone:
Ah, hold me fast, safe in the warmth I know,
And never shut me underneath a stone.
## p. 12319 (#365) ##########################################
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON
12319
Dead in the grave! And I can never hear
If you are ill or if you miss me, dear.
Dead, oh my God! and you may need me yet,
While I shall sleep, while I- while I-forget!
COME away, Sorrow, Sorrow come away-
Let us go sit in some cool, shadowy place;
There shall you sing and hush me all the day,
While I will dream about my lover's face.
Hush me, O Sorrow, like a babe to sleep,
Then close the lids above mine eyes that weep;
Rock me, O Sorrow, like a babe in pain,
Nor, when I slumber, wake me up again.
RED MAY
UT of the window the trees in the square
Are covered with crimson May:
You, that were all of my love and my care,
Have broken my heart to-day.
O
But though I have lost you, and though I despair
Till even the past looks gray,-
Out of the window the trees in the square
Are covered with crimson May.
-
## p. 12320 (#366) ##########################################
12320
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
(1613-1680)
HE 'Maxims' of La Rochefoucauld are perhaps most clearly
understood in the light of his life. He was a gentleman, a
soldier, a courtier, a cavalier, a lover, in one of the most
picturesque periods of French history,- one which afforded the man
of affairs unique opportunities for the study of human nature, espe-
cially of those weaknesses of human nature which the atmosphere
of courts seems to foster. The Maxims' are the very essence of a
luminous and seductive worldliness.
They are the conclusions drawn
by a man whose intellect was always guided by his judgment; they
exhibit tact which amounts to genius. They might serve as rules
alike for courtiers and Christians.
La Rochefoucauld was born in Paris in 1613, in the reign of Louis
XIII. His family was ancient and noble; his father enjoyed the royal
favor. He himself, as Prince de Marcillac, became early a prominent
figure in the army and at court. Throughout his long life he was
peculiarly susceptible to the influence of women: it was through his
attachment to Madame de Chevreuse that he became the devoted
champion of the Queen, Anne of Austria, the neglected wife of Louis;
infusing into his devotion to her that romanticism which is some-
times discoverable in the Maxims,' under their brilliant world-
wisdom. Caballings against Richelieu engaged him until the great
statesman's death in 1642. He was then prominent in effecting a
reconcilement between the Queen and Condé, that they might league
together against Gaston of Orléans. Cardinal Mazarin, however, was
to thwart his plans as Richelieu had done.
From 1642 to 1652 his life was one of confusion and of intrigue,
with nothing better to steady it and to direct it than the fascinations
of the Duchesse de Longueville, for whose sake he became a Frondeur.
At the battle of the Faubourg St. Antoine in 1652, he was shot in
the head; this misfortune in his military career proved to be of most
happy significance in his career as a man of letters, for it forced him
into that semi-retirement from which issued his famous 'Maxims'
and Memoirs. ' The remainder of his life was spent chiefly in Paris,
in that brilliant and cultured society of which glimpses are obtained
in the letters of Madame de Sévigné, whose intimate friend he was.
La Rochefoucauld - the passionate soldier, the restless gallant, the
## p. 12320 (#367) ##########################################
C
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HEFOUCAUS
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## p. 12320 (#369) ##########################################
อม
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
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Ope
## p. 12320 (#370) ##########################################
## p. 12321 (#371) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12321
-
suave lover. - became in his old age the polished ornament of the
most exclusive and exacting of Parisian salons. His friendship for
Madame de Sévigné, for Madame de Sablé, for Madame de La Fayette,
mellowed his declining years. He died in 1680.
In his 'Memoirs' he says of himself, "I have talent, marred by
melancholy;" and again, "I extremely approve of exalted passion: it
shows a grandeur of soul. I who know all the delicacy and strength
of the lofty sentiments of love-if I ever love, it will assuredly be
after this fashion; but such as I am, I do not believe that this knowl-
edge which I have would ever pass from my head to my heart. "
The key to Rochefoucauld's character and to his writings may
perhaps be found in these passages. The melancholy of which he
speaks was genuine. It lurks in many of the 'Maxims,' as the nat-
ural sorrow of one disillusioned by his contact with the world, forced
to acknowledge the gulf between the ideal and the actual, and to
bow to the power of expediency. La Rochefoucauld has been accused
of supremest egotism; of teaching a mode of life which is little else
than the essence of selfishness. If so, it is a selfishness disguised in
a constant effort to put the world at its ease, to infuse all society
with the golden atmosphere of courts, in which everybody and every-
thing is assumed to be perfect. The 'Maxims' show, indeed, how
nearly the wisdom of the children of the world approaches the wis-
dom of the children of light. Their author knew the world as few
men have the opportunity to know it; and once for all, he gave to
worldly knowledge perfect literary embodiment. His loves for many
women gave to him likewise an almost perfect insight into woman
nature. "In their first love women love the lover; in the others they
love love. " The 'Maxims' are faultless in style and form: brief
complete sayings, forming doorways neither too strait nor too broad
into the House of Life, whose many chambers La Rochefoucauld had
explored.
His 'Memoirs' are equally famous, taking first rank in their class.
His letters are vistas into the highly colored picturesque life of the
time. He himself seems less a great figure in French literature than
a great figure in old French life. What he wrote has more the char-
acter of an afterthought than of a supreme intention,— the reflections
of one concerning the world after that world had ceased to be of vital
importance to him.
XXI-771
--
## p. 12322 (#372) ##########################################
12322
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
MAXIMS
PAS
ASSION often makes the cleverest man a fool, and often ren-
ders the most foolish clever.
Those great and brilliant feats which dazzle our eyes are
represented by politicians as the effects of great designs, where-
as they are usually only the effects of temper and of passions.
Thus the war between Augustus and Antony, which is ascribed
to their ambition to make themselves masters of the world, was
perhaps only an effect of jealousy.
The passions often beget their contraries. Avarice sometimes
produces prodigality, and prodigality avarice; we are often firm
from weakness, and daring from timidity.
Our self-love bears more impatiently the condemnation of our
tastes than of our opinions.
The moderation of prosperous people comes from the calm
which good fortune gives to their temper.
We have strength enough to bear the ills of others.
The steadfastness of sages is only the art of locking up their
uneasiness in their hearts.
Philosophy triumphs easily over troubles passed and troubles
to come; but present troubles triumph over it.
When great men allow themselves to be cast down by con-
tinued misfortunes, they show that they bore them only through
the strength of their ambition, and not through that of their
soul; and that, great vanity apart, heroes are made like other
men.
It requires greater virtue to bear good fortune than bad.
Neither sin nor death can be looked at steadily.
We often make a parade of passions,- even of the most crim-
inal; but envy is a timid and shameful passion which we never
dare to acknowledge.
Jealousy is in some measure just and reasonable, since it tends
only to retain a good which belongs to us, or which we think
belongs to us; whereas envy is a fury which cannot endure the
good of others.
We have more strength than will; and it is often to excuse
ourselves to ourselves that we imagine that things are impossible.
Pride has a greater share than goodness in our remonstrances
with those who commit faults; and we reprove not so much to
## p. 12323 (#373) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12323
correct, as to persuade them that we ourselves are free from
them.
We promise according to our hopes, and we perform accord-
ing to our fears.
Interest speaks all sorts of languages, and plays all sorts of
parts, even that of disinterestedness.
Those who occupy themselves too much with small things
usually become incapable of great.
Strength and weakness of mind are misnamed: they are in
fact only the good or bad arrangement of the bodily organs.
The love or the indifference which the philosophers had for
life was only a taste of their self-love; which we should no more
argue about than about the taste of the tongue or the choice of
colors.
Happiness is in relish, and not in things: it is by having
what we like that we are happy, and not in having what others
find likable.
We are never so happy or so unhappy as we imagine.
Nothing ought to lessen the satisfaction we have in ourselves
so much as seeing that we disapprove at one time what we ap-
proved at another.
Contempt for riches was with the philosophers a hidden de-
sire to avenge their worth for the injustice of fortune, by con-
tempt for the good things of which she deprived them; it was a
secret to secure themselves from the degradation of poverty; it
was a byway to gain that consolation which they could not have
from wealth.
Sincerity is a frankness of heart. We find it in very few
people, and what we usually see is only a delicate dissimulation
to gain the confidence of others.
Grace is to the body what good sense is to the mind.
It is difficult to define love. What we may say of it is, that
in the soul it is a ruling passion; in the mind it is a sympathy;
and in the body it is a hidden and delicate desire to possess what
we love, after much mystery.
There is no disguise which can hide love long where it is, or
feign it where it is not.
There are few people who are not ashamed of having loved
each other when they no longer love each other.
We may find women who have never had a gallantry, but it
is rare to find any who have only had one.
## p. 12324 (#374) ##########################################
12324
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Love, as well as fire, cannot exist without constant motion;
and it ceases to live as soon as it ceases to hope or to fear.
It is of true love as of the apparition of spirits: all the world
talks of it, but few people have seen it.
The love of justice is in most men only the fear of suffering
injustice.
What makes us so fickle in our friendships is, that it is diffi-
cult to know the qualities of the soul and easy to know those of
the mind.
We can love nothing but by its relation to ourselves; and we
only follow our taste and our pleasure when we prefer our friends
to ourselves. Nevertheless it is by this preference alone that
friendship can be true and perfect.
Every one complains of his memory, and no one complains of
his judgment.
To undeceive a man absorbed in his own merit, is to do him
as bad a turn as was done to that mad Athenian who believed
that all the ships which entered the harbor belonged to himself.
Old men like to give good advice, to console themselves for
being no longer able to give bad examples.
The sign of extraordinary merit is to see that those who envy
it most are constrained to praise it.
We are mistaken when we think that the mind and the judg-
ment are two different things. The judgment is only the great-
ness of the light of the mind: this light penetrates the depths of
things; it notes there all that should be noted, and perceives those
things which seem imperceptible. Thus we must admit that it is
the extent of the light of the mind which causes all the effects
which we attribute to judgment.
Refinement of mind consists in thinking on proper and deli-
cate things.
The mind is ever the dupe of the heart.
All who know their mind do not know their heart.
The mind could not long play the part of the heart.
Youth changes its tastes from heat of blood, and age pre-
serves its own from habit.
We give nothing so liberally as advice.
The more we love a lady-love, the nearer we are to hating
her.
There are some good marriages, but no delightful ones.
We often do good to be able to do harm with impunity.
## p. 12325 (#375) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12325
If we resist our passions, it is more from their weakness than
from our strength.
The true way to be deceived is to think oneself sharper than
others.
The least fault of women who give themselves up to love-
making, is making love.
One of the causes why we find so few people who appear rea-
sonable and agreeable in conversation is, that there is scarcely
any one who does not think more of what he wishes to say than
of replying exactly to what is said to him. The cleverest and
the most compliant think it enough to show an attentive air,
while we see in their eyes and in their mind a wandering from
what is said to them, and a hurry to return to what they wish
to say; instead of considering that it is a bad way to please
or to persuade others, to try so hard to please oneself, and that
to listen well and answer well is one of the greatest accomplish-
ments we can have in conversation.
We generally praise only to be praised.
Nature creates merit, and fortune sets it to work.
It is more easy to appear worthy of a calling not our own
than of the one we follow.
There are two kinds of constancy in love: the one comes
from constantly finding new things to love in the person we love,
and the other comes from our, making it a point of honor to be
constant.
There are heroes in evil as well as in good.
We do not despise all who have vices, but we despise all who
have not any virtue.
We may say that vices await us in the journey of life, as
hosts with whom we must successively lodge; and I doubt
whether experience would enable us to avoid them were we
allowed to travel the same road again.
When vices leave us, we flatter ourselves by thinking that it
is we who leave them.
Virtue would not go so far if vanity did not keep her com-
pany.
Whoever thinks he can do without the world deceives him-
self much; but whoever thinks the world cannot do without him
deceives himself much more.
The virtue of women is often the love of their reputation and
their repose.
## p. 12326 (#376) ##########################################
12326
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
The true gentleman is he who does not plume himself on any-
thing.
Perfect valor is to do without a witness all that we could do
before the whole world.
Hypocrisy is a homage which vice renders to virtue.
All those who discharge debts of gratitude cannot on that
account flatter themselves that they are grateful.
Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a kind of in-
gratitude.
Fortunate people seldom correct themselves: they always think
they are right when fortune favors their bad conduct.
Pride will not owe, and self-love will not pay.
The good we have received from a man requires us to be
tender of the evil he does us.
Nothing is so contagious as example; and we never do any
great good or any great harm that does not produce its like. We
copy good actions from emulation, and bad ones from the malig-
nity of our nature, which shame kept a prisoner and example sets
at liberty.
It is a great folly to wish to be wise all alone.
In one,
In afflictions there are various sorts of hypocrisy.
while pretending to mourn the loss of a person dear to us, we
mourn for ourselves: we regret. the good opinion he had of us,
we mourn the diminution of our possessions, of our pleasure, of
our consideration. Thus the dead are honored with tears which
flow only for the living. I say that it is a kind of hypocrisy,
for in these sorts of afflictions we deceive ourselves. There is
another hypocrisy which is not so innocent, because it imposes
on every one: it is the affliction of certain persons who aspire
to the glory of a noble and immortal grief. When time, which
wastes all things, has quenched the grief they really felt, they
persist in their tears, their wailings, and their sighs; they assume
a mournful aspect, and labor to persuade, by all their acts, that
their grief will only end with their life. This sad and weari-
some vanity is generally found in ambitious women: as their sex
bars them from the roads which lead to glory, they seek celeb-
rity by the show of unspeakable sorrow. There is yet another
kind of tears whose springs are only small, which flow and dry
up easily the weepers weep to have a name for being tender;
they weep to be pitied; they weep to be wept for: in short, they
weep to avoid the shame of not weeping.
## p. 12327 (#377) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12327
It is more often from pride than from deficiency of light that
we so obstinately oppose the most received opinions: we find the
first places taken on the good side, and we will have nothing to
do with the last.
No one deserves to be praised for goodness, unless he has
strength to be bad: all other goodness is most often only sloth
or weakness of will.
It is not so dangerous to do harm to most men as it is to do
them too much good.
Coquetry is the basis of the temper of women; but all do not
practice it, for the coquetry of some is restrained by fear or by
reason.
We often inconvenience others when we think we never could
inconvenience them.
Magnanimity despises everything to gain everything.
True eloquence consists in saying all that is needed, and in
saying only what is needed.
It is as common to see tastes change as it is uncommon to
see inclinations change.
Gravity is a physical cloak invented to hide mental defects.
The pleasure of love is in loving; and we are happier in the
passion we feel than in that we inspire.
What is called liberality is most often only the vanity of giv-
ing, which we prefer to the thing we give.
There are people whom the world approves of, whose only
merits are the vices which serve in the intercourse of life.
The charm of novelty is, in relation to love, what the bloom
is on fruit: it gives a lustre to it which is easily effaced, and
which never returns.
Absence diminishes moderate passions and increases great
ones, as wind puts out candles and inflames fire.
Women often think they love even when they do not. The
occupation of an intrigue, the excitement of mind which gallantry
causes, the natural inclination to the pleasure of being loved, and
the pain of refusing,- persuade them that they are influenced by
love, when they are influenced only by coquetry.
There are bad people who would be less dangerous if there
was no good in them.
The gratitude of most men is only a secret desire to obtain
greater favors.
## p. 12328 (#378) ##########################################
12328
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Nearly every one takes pleasure in acknowledging small obli-
gations; many are grateful for common ones; but there is
scarcely any one who is not ungrateful for great ones.
We often forgive those who bore us, but we cannot forgive
those whom we bore.
The reason why lovers and their lady-loves do not weary of
being together, is that they always talk of themselves.
Why should we have memory enough to retain even the
smallest particulars of what has happened to us, and yet not
have enough to remember how often we have told the to the
same individual ?
In jealousy there is more of self-love than of love.
We sometimes think we hate flattery, but we only hate the
way in which we are flattered.
We forgive as long as we love.
Women can less overcome their coquetry than their love.
The passions of youth are scarcely more opposed to salvation
than is the tepidity of age.
There can be no order either in the mind or in the heart of
woman, if her temperament be not in harmony with it.
We find few sensible people except those who are of our way
of thinking.
The greatest miracle of love is to cure coquetry.
Most women mourn the death of their lovers, not so much
because they loved them as to appear more worthy of being loved.
Most young people think they are natural when they are only
unpolished and rude.
When our worth declines, our taste also declines.
We ought only to be astonished that we are still able to be
astonished.
What makes the vanity of others unbearable to us is, that it
wounds our own.
We may be sharper than one other, but not sharper than all
others. .
There is merit without loftiness, but there is no loftiness with-
out some merit.
Loftiness is to merit, what dress is to handsome women.
Whatever shame we may have deserved, it is almost always in
our power to re-establish our reputation.
Confidence contributes more to conversation than does mind.
## p. 12329 (#379) ##########################################
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
12329
Women who love, forgive great indiscretions more readily than
small infidelities.
Nothing prevents us from being natural so much as the desire
to appear so.
To praise noble actions heartily is in some sort to take part
in them.
The reason why most women are but little influenced by
friendship is, that it is insipid when they have tasted of love.
Decorum is the least of all laws and the most observed.
In great matters, we ought to strive less to create opportu-
nities than to profit by those which offer.
There are few occasions on which we should make a bad bar-
gain by giving up the good that is said of us, on condition that
nothing bad may be said.
In their first love women love the lover, in the others they
love love.
There are few women whose worth lasts longer than their
beauty.
However wicked men may be, they dare not appear the ene-
mies of virtue: when they wish to persecute it they pretend to
believe it is false, or they impute crimes to it.
Quarrels would not last long if the wrong were only on one
side.
Love, pleasant as it is, pleases even more by the ways in
which it shows itself than by itself.
It seems that it is the Devil who has purposely placed sloth
on the frontier of many virtues.
The ruin of a neighbor pleases friends and enemies.
Little is wanted to make the wise happy; nothing can satisfy
a fool: therefore nearly all men are miserable.
It is sometimes agreeable to a husband to have a jealous wife:
he always hears her talk of what he likes.
An honest woman is a hidden treasure: he who has found her
does well not to boast of her.
It is never more difficult to talk well than when we are
ashamed to be silent.
We prefer seeing those to whom we do good, to seeing those
who do good to us.
