No More Learning

The first few times one appeared in this society, it
required a little study and effort to assume the same tone as the
rest. One had to be on the watch for those pleasant repartees
that, among the frequenters of the Rambouillet and Richelieu
houses, gave the new-comer a good reputation; but after a while
these happy sayings came unsought. To persons trained in such
a school, what might at first sight appear subtle and refined is
ordinary and natural. Whether they speak or write, their ideas
take a certain form which is not the usual one; and bright, witty,
and dainty phrases, which would require labor from others, occur
to them spontaneously.
>>
To be sure, I do not mean that Madame de Sévigné wrote
well without knowing it. This is a thing of which a witty woman
always has an inkling; and besides, her friends did not permit
her to be ignorant of it. "Your letters are delightful," they told
her, "and you are like your letters. It was all the easier to
believe this, because she paid to herself in a whisper such com-
pliments as others addressed to her aloud. One day, when she
had recently written to her friend Dr. Bourdelot, she said to her
daughter, "Brava! what a good answer I sent him! That is a
foolish thing to say, but I had a good, wide-awake pen that
day. " It is very delightful to feel that one has wit, and we can
understand how Madame de Sévigné might sometimes have yielded
to this feeling with some satisfaction. In her most private corre-
spondence, that in which she least thought of the public, we
might note certain passages in which she takes pleasure in elab-
orating and decorating her thought, and in adding to it new
details more and more dainty and ingenious. This she does with-
out effort, to satisfy her own taste and to give herself the pleasure
of expressing her thought agreeably. It has been remarked that
good talkers are not sensitive to the praises of others only: they


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GASTON BOISSIER
2155
also wish to please themselves, independently of the public around
them; and like to hear themselves talk. It might be said in the
same sense that Madame de Sévigné sometimes likes to see herself
write. This is one of those pretty artifices which in women do
not exclude sincerity, and which may be united with naturalness.
Copyrighted by A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago.
FRENCH SOCIETY IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
From the Life of Madame de Sévigné›
STU
TUDYING the seventeenth century in the histories is one thing,
and seeking to become acquainted with it by reading con-
temporary letters is another and a far different thing. The
two procedures give rise to conflicting impressions. Historians,
taking a bird's-eye view of their subject, portray its most general
characteristics; they bring out only the prominent features, and
sacrificing all the rest, draw pictures whose precision and sim-
plicity captivate our minds. We finally get into the habit of see-
ing an epoch as they have painted it, and cannot imagine there
was anything in it besides the qualities they specify. But when
we read letters relating, without alteration or selection, events as
they took place, the opinions of men and things we have drawn
from the historians are greatly modified. We then perceive that
good and evil are at all times mingled, and even that the propor-
tions of the mixture vary less than one would think. Cousin says
somewhere, "In a great age all is great. " It is just the contrary
that is true: there is no age so great that there is not much little-
ness about it; and if we undertake to study history we should
expect this, so as not to reckon without our host. No epoch has
been more celebrated, more admired, than the reign of Louis
XIV. ; there is danger lest the correspondence of Madame de
Sévigné may much abate the warmth of our admiration. She is
constantly telling strange stories that compel us to pause and
reflect. When, in a society represented as so noble, so delicate,
so regular, we meet with so many shameful disorders, so many
ill-assorted households, so many persons whose fortunes are sus-
tained only by dishonest expedients, with great lords buying and
not paying, promising and not keeping their word, borrowing and
never returning, kneeling before ministers and ministers' mis-
tresses, cheating at play like M. de Cessac, living like Caderousse


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2156
GASTON BOISSIER
at the expense of a great lady, surrendering like Soubise a wife.
to the king, or like Villarceaux a niece, or insisting with Bussy
that "the chariest of their honor should be delighted when such
a good fortune befalls their family," it seems to me we have a
right to conclude that people then were hardly our superiors;
that perhaps in some points we are better than they were; and
that in any case it is not worth while to set them up as models
to the disparagement of our own times.
-
In one respect, however, they were unlike us. In those days
there were certain subjects on which people were generally
agreed, and these were precisely the subjects that now give rise
to the greatest divisions, religion and politics. Not that all
were pious then, — far from it, — but almost all were believers,
and almost none contested the principle of royal authority.
To-day, religious belief and belief in monarchy are well-nigh
extinct; and there are hardly any left of those commonly received
opinions, escaped by none, impregnating all, breathed in like the
air, and always found at the bottom of the heart on occasions of
grave need, despite all the inward changes that experience has
wrought. Is this a good or an evil? Should we rejoice at it or
regret it?
Each one will answer according to his character and
inclinations. Daring minds that feel strong enough to form their
own convictions are glad to be delivered from prejudices inter-
fering with independence of opinion, glad to have free scope.
But the rest, who form the vast majority, who are without such
high aims, and whose life is moreover taken up with other cares,
troubled, uncertain, ill at ease, when they have to settle these
great problems independently. They regret that they can no
longer find the solutions all worked out, and sadly repeat with
Jocelyn:-
-
―
"Ah, why was I born in days stormy and dread,
When the pilgrim of life hath no rest for his head;
When the way disappears; when the spent human mind,
Groping, doubting, still strives some new pathway to find,
Unable to trust in the hopes of the Old
Or to strike out a New from its perishing mold! »
This sort of anguish of spirit was unknown in the seventeenth
century, as Madame de Sévigné's letters clearly show.
Copyrighted by A. C. McClurg & Co. , Chicago.


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GASTON BOISSIER
2157
HOW HORACE LIVED AT HIS COUNTRY HOUSE
From The Country of Horace and Virgil
I
T IS very annoying that Horace, who has described with so
many details the employment of his days while he remained
in Rome, should not have thought it necessary to tell us as
clearly how he spent his life in the country. The only thing we
know with certainty is that he was very happy there: he for the
first time tasted the pleasure of being a proprietor. "I take my
meals," said he, "before household gods that are mine own"
("ante larem proprium vescor"). To have a hearth and domes-
tic gods, to fix his life in a dwelling of which he was the master,
was the greatest happiness that could befall a Roman. To enjoy
it, Horace had waited until he was more than thirty years of
age. We have seen that his domain, when he took possession of
it, was very much neglected, and that the house was falling into
ruins. He first had to build and plant. Do not let us pity him;
these cares have their charms. One loves one's house when one
has built or repaired it, and the very trouble our land costs us
attaches us to it. He came to it as often as he could, and
always with pleasure. Everything served him as a pretext to
leave Rome. It was too hot there, or too cold; the Saturnalia
were approaching—an unbearable time of the year, when all the
town was out of doors; it was the moment to finish a work
which Maecenas had pressingly required. Well, how could any-
thing good be done at Rome, where the noises of the street, the
bustle of intercourse, the troublesome people one has to visit or
receive, the bad verses one has to listen to, take up the best part
of your time? So he put Plato with Menander into his portman-
teau, took with him the work he had begun, promising to do
wonders, and started for Tibur. But when he was at home, his
good resolutions did not hold out. He had something to do
quite different from shutting himself up in his study. He had
to chat with his farmer, and superintend his laborers. He went
to see them at work, and sometimes lent a hand himself. He
dug the spade into the field, took out the stones, etc. , to the
great amusement of the neighbors, who marveled both at his
ardor and his clumsiness:
"Rident vicini glebas et saxa moventem. "
―
>


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2158
GASTON BOISSIER
In the evening he received at his table a few of the neigh-
boring proprietors. They were honest folk, who did not speak
ill of their neighbors, and who, unlike the fops of Rome, had
not for sole topic of conversation the races or the theatre. They
handled most serious questions, and their rustic wisdom found
ready expression in proverbs and apologues. What pleased
Horace above all at these country dinners was that etiquette
was laughed at, that everything was simple and frugal, that one
did not feel constrained to obey those silly laws which Varro
had drawn up, and which had become the code of good com-
pany. Nobody thought of electing a king of the feast, to fix for
the guests the number of cups that must be drained. Every
one ate according to his hunger and drank according to his
thirst. "They were," said Horace, "divine repasts" ("O noctes
cenæque Deum ”).
Yet he did not always stay at home, however great the
pleasure he felt in being there. This steady-going, regular man
thought it right from time to time to put a little irregularity
into one's life. Does not a Grecian sage-Aristotle, I think-
recommend that one excess per month be indulged in, in the
interest of health? It serves at least to break the round of
habit. Such also was the opinion of Horace. Although the
most moderate of men, he found it pleasant to commit an occas-
ional wildness ("dulce est desipere in loco"). With age these
outbursts had become less frequent, yet he still loved to break
the sage uniformity of his existence by some pleasure jaunt.
Then he returned to Præneste, to Baiæ, or to Tarentum, which
he had loved so much in his youth. Once he was unfaithful to
these old affections, and chose for the goal of his journey spots
that were new to him. The occasion of the change was this:
Antonius Musa, a Greek physician, had just cured Augustus
of a dangerous illness, which it had been thought must prove
fatal, by means of cold water. Hydrotherapeutics at once became
fashionable. People deserted the thermal springs, formerly so
much sought after, to go off to Clusium, to Gabii, into the
mountains, where springs of icy water were found. Horace did
like the rest. In the winter of the year 730, instead of going
as usual towards Baiæ, he turned his little steed towards Salerno
and Velia. This was the affair of a season. Next year Marcel-
lus, the Emperor's son-in-law and heir, falling very ill, Antonius.
Musa was hastily sent for, and applied his usual remedy.
But


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GASTON BOISSIER
2159
the remedy no longer healed, and hydrotherapeutics, which had
saved Augustus, did not prevent Marcellus from dying. They
were at once forsaken, and the sick again began following the
road to Baiæ.
When Horace started on these extraordinary journeys, he took
a change of diet. "At home," said he, “I can put up with any-
thing; my Sabine table wine seems to me delicious; and I regale
myself with vegetables from my garden seasoned with a slice of
bacon. But when I have once left my house, I become more par-
ticular, and beans, beloved though they be of Pythagoras, no
longer suffice me. " So before starting in the direction of Salerno,
where he did not often go, he takes the precaution to question
one of his friends as to the resources of the country; whether
one can get fish, hares, and venison there, that he may come
back home again as fat as a Phæacian. Above all, he is anxious
to know what is drunk in those parts. He wants a generous
wine to make him eloquent, and "which will give him strength,
and rejuvenate him in the eyes of his young Lucanian sweet-
heart. " We see he pushes precaution a considerable length. He
was not rich enough to possess a house of his own at Baiæ,
Præneste, or Salerno, the spots frequented by all the Roman
fashionable world, but he had his wonted lodgings ("deversoria
nota "), where he used to put up. When Seneca was at Baiæ, he
lived above a public bath, and he has furnished us a very amus-
ing account of the sounds of all kinds that troubled his rest.
Horace, who liked his ease and wished to be quiet, could not
make a very long stay in those noisy places. His whim gratified,
he returned as soon as possible to his peaceful house amid the
fields, and I can well imagine that those few fatiguing weeks
made it seem more pleasant and more sweet to him.
One cannot read his works carefully without noticing that
his affection for his country estate goes on constantly increasing.
At first, when he had passed a few weeks there, the memory
of Rome used to re-awaken in his thoughts. Those large towns,
which we hate when we are forced to live in them, have only to
be left in order to be regretted! When Horace's slave, taking
an unfair advantage of the liberty of the Saturnalia, tells his
master so many unpleasant things, he reproaches him with never
being pleased where he is:-
"Romæ rus optas, absentem villicus urbem
Tollis ad astra levis ? »


## p. 2160 (#358) ###########################################

2160
GASTON BOISSIER
He was himself very much vexed at his inconstancy, and
accused himself of "only loving Rome when he was at Tibur,
and only thinking of Tibur from the moment he found himself
in Rome. " However, he cured himself at last of this levity,
which annoyed him so much. To this he bears witness in his
own favor in the letter addressed to his farmer, where he strives
to convince him that one may be happy without having a public-
house next door. "As for me," he tells him, "thou knowest
that I am self-consistent, and that each time hated business
recalls me to Rome I leave this spot with sadness. " He doubt.
less arranged matters so as to live more and more at his country
house. He looked forward to a time when it would be possible
for him scarcely ever to leave it, and counted upon it to enable
him to bear more lightly the weight of his closing years.
They are heavy, whatever one may do, and age never comes
without bringing many griefs. Firstly, the long-lived must needs
leave many friends upon the way. Horace lost some to whom
he was very tenderly attached. He had the misfortune to sur-
vive Virgil and Tibullus ten years. What regrets he must have
felt on the death of the great poet, of whom he said he "knew
no soul more bright, and had no better friend"! The great suc
cess of Virgil's posthumous work could only have half consoled
him for his loss, for he regretted in him the man as well as the
poet. He had also great cause to grieve for Mæcenas, whom he
so dearly loved. This favorite of the Emperor, this king of
fashion, whose fortune all men envied, finished by being very
unhappy. It is all very well to take every kind of precaution in
order to insure one's happiness-to fly from business, to seek
pleasure, to amass wealth, to gather clever men about one, to
surround one's self with all the charms of existence; however
one may try to shut the door on them, troubles and sorrows
find a way in. The saddest of it all is that Mæcenas was first
unhappy through his own fault. Somewhat late in life this
prudent, wise man had been foolish enough to marry a coquette,
and to fall deeply in love with her. He had rivals, and among
them the Emperor himself, of whom he dared not be jealous.
He who had laughed so much at others afforded the Romans a
comedy at his own expense. His time was passed in leaving
Terentia and taking her back again. "He has been married
more than a hundred times," said Seneca, "although he has had
but one wife. " To these domestic troubles illness was added.


## p. 2161 (#359) ###########################################

GASTON BOISSIER
2161
His health had never been good, and age and sorrows made it
worse. Pliny tells us that he passed three whole years without
being able to sleep. Enduring pain badly, he grieved his friends
beyond measure by his groans. Horace, with whom he contin-
ually conversed about his approaching end, answered him in
beautiful verses: —
"Thou, Mæcenas, die first! Thou, stay of my fortune, adornment
of my life! The gods will not allow it, and I will not consent. Ah!
if Fate, hastening its blows, should tear from me part of myself in
thee, what would betide the other? What should I henceforth do,
hateful unto myself, and but half of myself surviving? »
In the midst of these sorrows, Horace himself felt that he
was growing old. The hour when one finds one's self face to
face with age is a serious one. Cicero, when approaching it,
tried to give himself courage in advance, and being accustomed
to console himself for everything by writing, he composed his
'De Senectute,' a charming book in which he tries to deck the
closing years of life with certain beauties. He had not to make
use of the consolations which he prepared for himself, so we do
not know whether he would have found them sufficient when
the moment came. That spirit, so young, so full of life, would
I fear have resigned itself with difficulty to the inevitable deca-
dences of age.
Nor did Horace love old age, and in his 'Ars
Poetica he has drawn a somewhat gloomy picture of it. He
had all the more reason to detest it because it came to him
rather early. In one of those passages where he so willingly
gives us the description of his person, he tells us that his hair
whitened quickly. As a climax of misfortune he had grown very
fat, and being short, his corpulence was very unbecoming to
him. Augustus, in a letter, compares him to one of those meas
ures of liquids which are broader than they are high. If, in
spite of these too evident signs which warned him of his age, he
had tried to deceive himself, there was no lack of persons to
disabuse him. There was the porter of Neæra, who no longer
allowed his slave to enter; an affront which Horace was obliged
to put up with without complaining. "My hair whitening," said
he, warns me not to quarrel. I should not have been so patient
in the time of my boiling youth, when Plancus was consul. "
Then it was Neæra herself who declined to come when he sum-
moned her, and again resigning himself with a good enough
grace, the poor poet found that after all she was right, and that
it was natural love should prefer youth to ripened age.
«<
IV-136


## p. 2162 (#360) ###########################################

2162
GASTON BOISSIER
·
« Abi,
Quo blandæ juvenum te revocant preces. "
Fortunately he was not of a melancholy disposition, like his
friends Tibullus and Virgil. He even had opinions on the sub-
ject of melancholy which differ widely from ours. Whereas,
since Lamartine, we have assumed the habit of regarding sad
ness as one of the essential elements of poetry, he thought on
the contrary that poetry has the privilege of preventing us from
being sad. "A man protected by the Muses," said he, "flings
cares and sorrows to the winds to bear away. " His philosophy
had taught him not to revolt against inevitable ills. However
painful they be, one makes them lighter by bearing them.
he accepted old age because it cannot be eluded, and because no
means have yet been found of living long without growing old.
Death itself did not frighten him. He was not of those who
reconcile themselves to it as well as they can by never thinking
about it. On the contrary, he counsels us to have it always in
mind. "Think that the day which lights you is the last you
have to live. The morrow will have more charm for you if you
have not hoped to see it: "—
« Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum;
Grata superveniet quæ non sperabitur hora. ”
This is not, as might be supposed, one of those bravadoes of
the timid, who shout before Death in order to deaden the sound
of his footsteps. Horace was never more calm, more energetic,
more master of his mind and of his soul, than in the works of
his ripe age.
The last lines of his that remain to us are the
firmest and most serene he ever wrote.
Then, more than ever, must he have loved the little Sabine
valley. When we visit these beautiful tranquil spots, we tell
ourselves that they appear made to shelter the declining years of
a sage. It seems as if with old servants, a few faithful friends,
and a stock of well-chosen books, the time must pass there with-
out sadness. But I must stop. Since Horace has not taken us
into his confidence respecting his last years, and nobody after him
has told us of them, we are reduced to form conjectures, and we
should put as few of them as possible into the life of a man
who loved truth so well.
Copyrighted by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.


## p. 2163 (#361) ###########################################

2163
GEORGE H. BOKER
(1823-1890)
M
R. BOKER was a man of leisure by inheritance, and a scholar
and author by training and choice. His work is usually
deliberate, careful, and polished: the work of a man of
solid culture, of much experience and knowledge of the world; of
a man of dignity and social position, not a Bohemian. It is thought-
fully planned and carefully executed, but not written through inspi-
ration or prompted by passion. Yet it does not lack vigor, nor are
his puppets merely automata. His plays have life and force; and
they are moreover good acting dramas.
'Francesca da Rimini' especially, with Law-
rence Barrett in the rôle of Lanciotto, was
decidedly successful on the stage. In keep-
ing with the character of his work, the
scenes of his plays are all laid in foreign
countries and in other times: Portugal, Eng-
land, Spain, and Italy are the fields in which
his characters play their parts.
His per-
sonages have an individuality of their own
and are consistently drawn; the action is
lively, the humor is natural and a needful
foil to the tragedy.

GEORGE H. BOKER
Mr. Boker was fond of the sonnet, as
poets are apt to be who have once yielded to its attraction, and he
used it with much effect. But chiefly his poems of the Civil War
will make his name remembered. His lyre responded sympathetically
to the heroic deeds which characterized that conflict- not always with
the smoothness and polish of his more studied work, but worthily,
and in the spirit of the time.
He was born in Philadelphia, October 6th, 1823, and died there
January 2d, 1890. He was graduated from Princeton in 1842, and
after studying law and traveling for a number of years in Europe,
settled down in his native city, where most of his life was spent.
He was Minister to Turkey from 1871 to 1875, and Minister to Russia
from 1875 to 1879. His first volume, The Lesson of Life and other
Poems,' was published in 1847, and was followed by various plays,-
'Calaynos,' 'Anne Boleyn,' 'The Betrothal,' 'Leonor de Guzman,'
'Francesca da Rimini,' etc. , which, with some shorter pieces, were


## p. 2164 (#362) ###########################################

2164
GEORGE H. BOKER
collected in 'Plays and Poems,' published in 1856. His 'Poems of
the War' appeared in 1864, and still later a number of other vol-
umes: Street Lyrics,' 'Our Heroic Themes' (1865), Königsmark '
(1869), The Book of the Dead' (1882), a very close imitation of 'In
Memoriam' in both matter and form, and 'Sonnets' (1886).
THE BLACK REGIMENT
From Plays and Poems
Port Hudson, May 27th, 1863.
D
ARK as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land;
So still and orderly,
Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event,
Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling and firmly set,
Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long ere the sharp command
Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.
"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,
"Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nation see
If we are fit to be
Frée in this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound,
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our old chains again! "
Oh, what a shout there went
From the black regiment!
-


## p. 2165 (#363) ###########################################

GEORGE H. BOKER
2165
"Charge! " Trump and drum awoke,
Onward the bondmen broke;
Bayonet and sabre-stroke
Vainly opposed their rush.
Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.
"Freedom! " their battle-cry,
"Freedom! or leave to die! "
Ah! and they meant the word,—
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout:
They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod
Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death.
Praying-alas! in vain!
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That bust to liberty!
This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.
Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well:
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
Oh, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!


## p. 2166 (#364) ###########################################

2166
GEORGE H. BOKER
B
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,
Scorn the black regiment!
Copyright: permission of George Boker, Esq.
THE SWORD-BEARER
From Poems of the War›
March 8th, 1862
RAVE Morris saw the day was lost;
For nothing now remained,
On the wrecked and sinking Cumberland,
But to save the flag unstained.
So he swore an oath in the sight of Heaven,—
If he kept it the world can tell:-
"Before I strike to a rebel flag,
I'll sink to the gates of hell!
"Here, take my sword; 'tis in my way;
I shall trip o'er the useless steel;
For I'll meet the lot that falls to all
With my shoulder at the wheel. "
So the little negro took the sword;
And oh, with what reverent care,
Following his master step by step,
He bore it here and there!
A thought had crept through his sluggish brain,
And shone in his dusky face,
That somehow - he could not tell just how -
'Twas the sword of his trampled race.
And as Morris, great with his lion heart,
Rushed onward from gun to gun,
The little negro slid after him,
Like a shadow in the sun.
But something of pomp and of curious pride
The sable creature wore,
Which at any time but a time like that
Would have made the ship's crew roar.


## p. 2167 (#365) ###########################################

GEORGE H. BOKER
2167
Over the wounded, dying, and dead,
Like an usher of the rod,
The black page, full of his mighty trust,
With dainty caution trod.
No heed he gave to the flying ball,
No heed to the bursting shell;
His duty was something more than life,
And he strove to do it well.
Down, with our starry flag apeak,
In the whirling sea we sank,
And captain and crew and the sword-bearer
Were washed from the bloody plank.
They picked us up from the hungry waves;-
Alas! not all! -"And where,
Where is the faithful negro lad? "—
"Back oars! avast! look there! "
We looked; and, as Heaven may save my soul,
I pledge you a sailor's word,
There, fathoms deep in the sea, he lay,
Still grasping the master's sword!
We drew him out; and many an hour
We wrought with his rigid form,
Ere the almost smothered spark of life
By slow degrees grew warm.
The first dull glance that his eyeballs rolled
Was down towards his shrunken hand;
And he smiled, and closed his eyes again
As they fell on the rescued brand.
And no one touched the sacred sword,
Till at length, when Morris came,
The little negro stretched it out,
With his eager eyes aflame.
And if Morris wrung the poor boy's hand,
And his words seemed hard to speak,
And tears ran down his manly cheeks,
What tongue shall call him weak?
This and the sonnets on next page are copyrighted, and used by permission
of George Boker, Esq.


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2168
GEORGE H. BOKER
SONNETS
ITHER the sum of this sweet mutiny
E
Amongst thy features argues me some harm:
Or else they practice wicked treachery
Against themselves, thy heart, and hapless me.
For as I start aside with blank alarm,
Dreading the glitter which begins to arm
Thy clouded brows, lo! from thy lips I see
A smile come stealing, like a loaded bee,
Heavy with sweets and perfumes, all ablaze
With soft reflections from the flowery wall
Whereon it pauses. Yet I will not raise
One question more, let smile or frown befali.
Taxing thy love where I should only praise,
And asking changes that might change thee all.
OH FOR Some spirit, some magnetic spark,
That used nor word, nor rhyme, nor balanced pause
Of doubtful phrase, which so supinely draws
My barren verse, and blurs love's shining mark
With misty fancies! -Oh! to burst the dark
Of smothered feeling with some new-found laws,
Hidden in nature, that might bridge the flaws
Between two beings, end this endless cark,
And make hearts know what lips have never said!
Oh! for some spell, by which one soul might move
With echoes from another, and dispread
Contagious music through its chords, above
The touch of mimic art: that thou might'st tread
Beneath thy feet this wordy show of love!
HERE let the motions of the world be still! -
Here let Time's fleet and tireless pinions stay
Their endless flight! -or to the present day
Bind my Love's life and mine. I have my fill
Of earthly bliss: to move is to meet ill.
[play
Though lavish fortune in my path might lay
Fame, power, and wealth,-the toys that make the
Of earth's grown children,-I would rather till
The stubborn furrows of an arid land,
Toil with the brute, bear famine and disease,
Drink bitter bondage to the very lees,
Than break our union by love's tender band,
Or drop its glittering shackles from my hand,
To grasp at empty glories such as these.


## p. 2169 (#367) ###########################################

2169
SAINT BONAVENTURA
(1221-1274)
BY THOMAS DAVIDSON
AINT BONAVENTURA, whose original name was Giovanni di Fi-
denza, was born at Bagnaréa in Tuscany in 1221. At the
age of four he was attacked by a severe illness, during
which his mother appealed to St. Francis for his prayers, promis-
ing that if the child recovered, he should be devoted to God and
become one of Francis's followers. When the child did recover,
the saint, seeing him, exclaimed "O bona ventura! " a name which
clung to the boy ever afterwards, and under which he entered
religion and the order of St. Francis in 1243.
Soon after, he went to the then world-renowned university of
Paris, where he had for his teacher an Englishman, Alexander of
Hales, the first of the schoolmen who studied the whole of Aristotle's
works, and attempted to construct a Christian theology on the basis
of them. Even at this time the young Italian's life was so saintly
that his master (so it is reported) said of him that he seemed to
have been born without the taint of original sin. He graduated in
the same year as Thomas Aquinas, and immediately afterward began
his career as a public teacher under the auspices of the Franciscan
order, while Thomas did the same under those of the Dominican.
These two men, the greatest of the schoolmen, and the sweetest
and sanest of the mystics, were bosom friends; and one can hardly
imagine a loftier friendship.
In 1256, at the early age of thirty-five, he became general of his
order, a post which he held till his death. He did much to ennoble
and purify the order, and to bring it back to orthodoxy, from which
then, as nearly always, it was strongly inclined to swerve.
In 1265
Clement V. nominated him to the see of York; but Bonaventura,
unwilling probably to face so rude a climate and people, persuaded
the Pope to withdraw the nomination. A few years later, under
Gregory X. , he was raised to the cardinalate and appointed bishop of
Albano. In 1274 he attended the Council of Lyons, and must have
been deeply affected when he learned that Thomas Aquinas had died
on his way thither. The success of the efforts of the council to
come to terms with the Greeks was mainly due to him.
This was Bonaventura's last work on earth. He died before the
council was over, and was honored with a funeral whose solemnity and


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2170
SAINT BONAVENTURA
magnificence have seldom been equaled. It was attended by the
Pope, the Eastern Emperor, the King of Aragon, the patriarchs of Anti-
och and Constantinople, and a large number of bishops and priests.
His relics were preserved with much reverence by the Lyonnese until
the sixteenth century, when the Huguenots threw them into the
Saône. In 1482 he was canonized by Sixtus IV. , and in 1588 declared
a doctor of the Church by Sixtus V. Dante places him in the Heaven
of the Sun.
Bonaventura is the sweetest and tenderest of all the mediæval
saints. His mode of teaching was so inspiring that even in his life-
time he was known as the "Seraphic Doctor. " He was a voluminous
writer, his works in the Lyons edition of 1688 filling seven folio vol-
umes. They consist largely of sermons, and commentaries on the
Scriptures and the 'Sentences' of Peter the Lombard. Besides
these, there is a number of 'Opuscula,' mostly of a mystic or disci-
plinary tendency. Most famous among these are the 'Breviloquium,'
perhaps the best compend of medieval Christian theology in exist-
ence; and the 'Itinerarium Mentis in Deum,' a complete manual of
mysticism, such as was aspired to by the noblest of the mystics; a
work worthy to be placed beside the 'Imitation of Christ,' though
of a different sort.
Bonaventura was above all things a mystic; that is, he belonged
to that class of men, numerous in many ages, who, setting small
store by the world of appearance open to science, and even by
science itself, seek by asceticism, meditation, and contemplation to
attain a vision of the world of reality, and finally of the supreme
reality, God himself. Such mysticism is almost certainly derived
from the far East; but so far as Europe is concerned it owes its
origin mainly to Plato, and his notion of a world of ideas distinct
from the real world, lying outside of all mind, and attainable only by
strict mental discipline. This notion, simplified by Aristotle into the
notion of a transcendent God, eternally thinking himself, was devel-
oped into a hierarchic system of being by the Neo-Platonists, Ploti-
nus, Porphyry, etc. , and from them passed into the Christian Church,
partly through Augustine and the Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagita (q. v. ),
and partly through the Muslim and Jewish thinkers of later times.
Though at first regarded with suspicion by the Western Church, it
was too closely interwoven with Latin Christianity, and too germane
to the spirit of monasticism, not to become popular. Its influence
was greatly strengthened by the mighty personality of that prince of
mystics, St. Bernard (1091-1153), from whom it passed on to the
monastery school of St. Victor in Paris, where it was worthily repre-
sented by the two great names of Hugo (1096-1141) and Richard
(1100? -1173). From the writings of these, and from such works as


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SAINT BONAVENTURA
2171
the 'Liber de Causis,' recently introduced into Europe through the
Muslim, Bonaventura derived that mystical system which he elab-
orated in his 'Itinerarium' and other works.
A magnificent edition of his works is now being edited by the
fathers of the College of St. Bonaventura, at Quaracchi, near Flor-
ence (1882 -). There is a small, very handy edition of the 'Brevilo-
quium' and 'Itinerarium' together, by Hefele (Tübingen, 1861).
Ilmuar David
ON THE BEHOLDING OF GOD IN HIS FOOTSTEPS IN THIS
SENSIBLE WORLD
BUT
UT since, as regards the mirror of sensible things, we may
contemplate God not only through them as through foot-
prints, but also in them in so far as he is in them by
essence, power, and presence, and this consideration is loftier
than the preceding; therefore this kind of consideration occu-
pies the second place, as the second grade of contemplation,
whereby we must be guided to the contemplation of God in all
created things which enter our minds through the bodily senses.
We must observe, therefore, that this sensible world, which
is called the macrocosm that is, the long world-enters into
our soul, which is called the microcosm
that is, the little
world through the gates of the five senses, as regards the ap-
prehension, delectation, and distinction of these sensible things;
which is manifest in this way:- In the sensible world some
things are generant, others are generated, and others direct both
these. Generant are the simple bodies; that is, the celestial
bodies and the four elements. For out of the elements, through
the power of light, reconciling the contrariety of elements in
things mixed, are generated and produced whatever things are
generated and produced by the operation of natural power. Gen-
erated are the bodies composed of the elements, as minerals,
vegetables, sensible things, and human bodies. Directing both
these and those are the spiritual substances: whether altogether
conjunct, like the souls of the brutes; or separably conjunct, like
rational souls; or altogether separate, like the celestial spirits;
-
―――


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SAINT BONAVENTURA
2172
which the philosophers call Intelligences, we Angels. On these,
according to the philosophers, it devolves to move the heavenly
bodies; and for this reason the administration of the universe is
ascribed to them, as receiving from the First Cause - that is,
God—that inflow of virtue which they pour forth again in rela-
tion to the work of government, which has reference to the
natural consistence of things. But according to the theologians
the direction of the universe is ascribed to these same beings, as
regards the works of redemption, with respect to which they are
called "ministering spirits, sent forth to do service for the sake
of them that shall inherit salvation. "
Man, therefore, who is called the lesser world, has five senses,
like five gates, through which the knowledge of all the things
that are in the sensible world enters into his soul. For through
sight there enter the sublime and luminous bodies and all other
colored things; through touch, solid and terrestrial bodies; through
the three intermediate senses, the intermediate bodies; through
taste, the aqueous; through hearing, the aërial; through smell, the
vaporable, which have something of the humid, something of the
aërial, and something of the fiery or hot, as is clear from the
fumes that are liberated from spices. There enter, therefore,
through these doors not only the simple bodies, but also the
mixed bodies compounded of these. Seeing then that with sense
we perceive not only these particular sensibles-light, sound,
odor, savor, and the four primary qualities which touch appre-
hends but also the common sensibles-number, magnitude,
figure, rest, and motion; and seeing that everything which moves
is moved by something else, and certain things move and rest of
themselves, as do the animals; in apprehending through these
five senses the motions of bodies, we are guided to the knowl-
edge of spiritual motions, as by an effect to the knowledge of
-
causes.
In the three classes of things, therefore, the whole of this
sensible world enters the human soul through apprehension.
These external sensible things are those which first enter into
the soul through the gates of the five senses. They enter, I say,
not through their substances, but through their similitudes, gen-
erated first in the medium, and from the medium in the external
organ, and from the external organ in the internal organ, and
from this in the apprehensive power; and thus generation in the
medium, and from the medium in the organ, and the direction of


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SAINT BONAVENTURA
2173
the apprehensive power upon it, produce the apprehension of all
those things which the soul apprehends externally.
This apprehension, if it is directed to a proper object, is fol-
lowed by delight. The sense delights in the object perceived
through its abstract similitude, either by reason of its beauty, as
in vision, or by reason of its sweetness, as in smell and hearing,
or by reason of its healthfulness, as in taste and touch, properly
speaking. But all delight is by reason of proportion. But since
species is the ground of form, power, and action, according as it
has reference to the principle from which it emanates, the medium
into which it passes, or the term upon which it acts, therefore
proportion is observed in three things. It is observed in simili-
tude, inasmuch as it forms the ground of species or form, and so
is called speciosity, because beauty is nothing but numerical
equality, or a certain disposition of parts accompanied with sweet-
ness of color. It is observed in so far as it forms the ground of
power or virtue, and thus is called sweetness, when the active
virtue does not disproportionally exceed the recipient virtue, be-
cause the sense is depressed by extremes, and delighted by means.
It is observed in so far as it forms the ground of efficacy and
impression, which is proportional when the agent, in impressing,
satisfies the need of the patient, and this is to preserve and
nourish it, as appears chiefly in taste and touch. And thus we
see how, by pleasure, external delightful things enter through
similitude into the soul, according to the threefold method of
delectation.
After this apprehension and delight there comes discernment,
by which we not only discern whether this thing be white or
black (because this alone belongs to the outer sense), and whether
this thing be wholesome or hurtful (because this belongs to the
inner sense), but also discern why this delights and give a reason
therefor. And in this act we inquire into the reason of the
delight which is derived by the sense from the object. This hap-
pens when we inquire into the reason of the beautiful, the sweet,
and the wholesome, and discover that it is a proportion of equality.
But a ratio of equality is the same in great things and in small.
It is not extended by dimensions; it does not enter into succes-
sion, or pass with passing things; it is not altered by motions.
It abstracts therefore from place, time, and motion; and for this
reason it is immutable, uncircumscribable, interminable, and
altogether spiritual. Discernment, then, is an action which, by


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2174
SAINT BONAVENTURA
purifying and abstracting, makes the sensible species, sensibly re-
ceived through the senses, enter into the intellective power. And
thus the whole of this world enters into the human soul by the
gates of the five senses, according to the three aforesaid activities.
All these things are footprints, in which we may behold our
God. For, since an apprehended species is a similitude generated
in a medium and then impressed upon the organ, and through
that impression leads to the knowledge of its principle,- that is,
of its object,-it manifestly implies that that eternal light gener-
ates from itself a similitude or splendor co-equal, consubstantial,
and co-eternal; and that He who is the image and similitude of
the invisible God, and the splendor of the glory, and the figure
of the substance which is everywhere, generates by his first gen-
eration of himself his own similitude in the form of an object in
the entire medium, unites himself by the grace of union to the
individual of rational nature, as a species to a bodily organ, so
that by this union he may lead us back to the Father as the
fontal principle and object. If therefore all cognizable things
generate species of themselves, they clearly proclaim that in
them, as in mirrors, may be seen the eternal generation of the
Word, the Image, and the Son, eternally emanating from God the
Father.
Since therefore all things are beautiful, and in a certain way
delightful, and since beauty and delight are inseparable from
proportion, and proportion is primarily in numbers, all things
must of necessity be full of number. For this reason, number
is the chief exemplar in the mind of the artificer, and in things
the chief footprint leading to wisdom. Since this is most mani-
fest to all and most close to God, it leads us most closely and by
seven differences to God, and makes him known in all things,
corporeal and sensible. And while we apprehend numerical
things, we delight in numerical proportions, and judge irrefraga-
bly by the laws of these.
For every creature is by nature an effigy and similitude of
that eternal Wisdom: but especially so is that creature which in
the book of Scriptures was assumed by the spirit of prophecy
for the prefiguration of spiritual things; more especially those
creatures in whose effigy God was willing to appear for the an-
gelic ministry; and most especially that creature which he was
willing to set forth as a sign, and which plays the part not only
of a sign, as that word is commonly used, but also of a sacrament.


## p. 2175 (#373) ###########################################

2175
GEORGE BORROW
(1803-1881)
BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE
EORGE BORROW lived eight-and-seventy years and published
ten books. In his veins was mingled the blood of Cornwall
and of Normandy; but though proud of this strain, he
valued still more that personal independence which, together with
his love of strange tongues and his passion for outdoor life, molded
his career. His nature was mystical and eccentric, and he sometimes
approached-though he never crossed the confines of insanity; yet
his instincts were robust and plain, he was an apostle of English ale
and a master of the art of self-defense, he
was an uncompromising champion of the
Church of England and the savage foe of
Papistry, he despised "kid-glove gentility"
in life and literature, and delighted to
make his spear ring against the hollow
shield of social convention. A nature so
complicated and individual, so outspoken
and aggressive, could not slip smoothly
along the grooves of civilized existence; he
was soundly loved and hated, but seldom
or never understood. And the obstinate
pride which gave projection to most of his
virtues was also at the bottom of his
faults: he better liked to perplex than to
open himself to his associates; he willfully repelled where he might
have captivated. Some human element was wanting in him: he was
strong, masculine, subtle, persistent; of a lofty and austere spirit;
too proud even to be personally ambitious; gifted with humor and
insight; fearless and faithful; - but no tenderness, no gentleness, no
inviting human warmth ever appears in him; and though he could
reverence women, and admire them, and appreciate them also from
the standpoint of the senses, they had no determining sway over his
life or thought. If there be any man in English history whom such
a summary of traits as this recalls, it is Dean Swift. Nevertheless
Borrow's differences from him are far greater than the resemblances
between them. Giant force was in both of them; both were enig-
mas; but the deeper we penetrate into Borrow, the more
we like
GEORGE BORROW
—



## p. 2176 (#374) ###########################################

2176
GEORGE BORROW
him; not so with the blue-eyed Dean. Borrow's depths are dark and
tortuous, but never miasmic; and as we grope our way through them,
we may stumble upon treasures, but never upon rottenness.
A man who can be assigned to no recognized type-who flocks
by himself, as the saying is-cannot easily be portrayed: we lose
the main design in our struggle with the details. Indeed, no two
portraits of such a man can be alike: they will vary according to
the temperament and limitations of the painter. It is safe to assert,
however, that insatiable curiosity was at the base both of his char-
acter and of his achievements. Instincts he doubtless had in plenty,
but no intuitions; everything must be construed to him categorically.
But his capacity keeps pace with his curiosity; he promptly assim-
ilates all he learns, and he can forget nothing. Probably this inves-
tigating passion had its cause in his own unlikeness to the rest of
us: he was as a visitor from another planet, pledged to send home
reports of all he saw here. His success in finding strange things is
prodigious: his strange eye detects oddities and beauties to which
we to the manner born were strange. Adventures attend him every-
where, as the powers of earth and air on Prospero. Here comes the
King of the Vipers, the dry stubble crackling beneath his outrageous
belly; yonder the foredoomed sailor promptly fulfills his own predic-
tion, falling from the yard-arm into the Bay of Biscay; anon the
ghastly visage of Mrs. Herne, of the Hairy Ones, glares for a moment
out of the midnight hedge; again, a mysterious infatuation drives.
the wealthy idler from his bed out into the inclement darkness, and
up to the topmost bough of the tree, which he must "touch" ere he
can rest; and now, in the gloom of the memorable dingle, the horror
of fear falls upon the amateur tinker, the Evil One grapples terribly
with his soul, blots of foam fly from his lips, and he is dashed
against the trees and stones. An adventure, truly, fit to stand with
any of mediæval legend, and compared with which the tremendous
combat with Blazing Bosville, the Flaming Tinman, is almost a
relief. But in what perilous Faery Land forlorn do all these and a
thousand more strange and moving incidents take place? — Why, in
the quiet lanes and byways of nineteenth-century England, or per-
chance in priest-ridden Spain, where the ordinary traveler can for
the life of him discover nothing more startling than beef and beer,
garlic and crucifixes. Adventures are in the adventurer.
Man and nature were Borrow's study, but England was his love.
In him exalted patriotism touches its apogee.