No More Learning

Perfect thy brightness in heaven's sphere,
Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss


## p. 1888 (#78) ############################################

1888
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Of anthems ever echoing there!
That, that is life-not this-not this:
There in the holy, holy row
And not on earth, so deep below-
Thy music unrepressed may speak;
Stay, shrouded, in that holy place:-
Enough that we have seen thy face,
And kissed the smiles upon thy cheek.
-
-
We stretch our eager hands to thee,
And for thine influence pray in vain;
The burden of mortality
Hath bent us 'neath its heavy chain;
And there are fetters forged by art,
And science cold hath chilled the heart,
And wrapped thy god-like crown in night;
On waxen wings they soar on high,
And when most distant deem thee nigh—
They quench thy torch, and dream of light.
Child of the Unborn! joy! for thou
Shinest in every heavenly flame,
Breathest in all the winds that blow,
――――――――
PO
While self-conviction speaks thy name:
Oh, let one glance of thine illume
The longing soul that bids thee come,
And make me feel of heaven, like thee!
Shake from thy torch one blazing drop,
And to my soul all heaven shall ope,
And I dissolve in melody!
Translated in Westminster Review.
FROM THE ODE TO NAPOLEON'
OESY, nay! Too long art silent!
Seize now the lute! Why dost thou tarry?
Let sword the Universe inherit,
Noblest as prize of war be glory.
Let thousand mouths sing hero-actions:
E'en so, the glory is not uttered.
Earth-gods-an endless life, ambrosial,
Find they alone in song enchanting.
Watch thou with care thy heedless fingers
Striking upon the lyre so godlike;


## p. 1889 (#79) ############################################

WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1889
Hold thou in check thy lightning-flashes,
That where they chance to fall are blighting.
He who on eagle's wing soars skyward
Must at the sun's bright barrier tremble.
Frederic, though great in royal throning,
Well may amaze the earth, and heaven,
When clothed by thunder and the levin
Swerves he before the hero's fanfare.
Pause then, Imagination! Portals
Hiding the Future, ope your doorways!
Earth, the blood-drenched, yields palms and olives.
Sword that hath cleft on bone and muscle,
Spear that hath drunk the hero's lifeblood,
Furrow the soil, as spade and ploughshare.
Blasts that alarm from blaring trumpets
Laws of fair Peace anon shall herald:
Heaven's shame, at last, its end attaining.
Earth, see, O see your sceptres bowing.
Gone is the eagle once majestic;
On us a cycle new is dawning;
Look, from the skies it hath descended.
O potent princes, ye the throne-born!
See what Almighty will hath destined.
Quit ye your seats, in low adoring,
Set all the earth, with you, a-kneeling;
Or as the free-born men should perish —
Sink in grave with crown and kingdom.
Glorious in lucent rays, already
Brighter than gold a sceptre shineth;
No warring realm shall dim its lustre,
No earth-storm veil its blaze to dimness.
Can it be true that, centuries ended,
God's endless realm, the Hebrew, quickens
Lifting its horns—though not for always?
Shines in the East the sun, like noonday?
Shall Hagar's wandering sons be heartened
After the Moslem's haughty baiting?
Speed toward us, speed, O days so joyous!
Even if blood your cost be reckoned;
Speed as in Heaven's gracious favor,
Bringing again Heaven's earthly kingdom.
IV-119


## p. 1890 (#80) ############################################

1890
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Yea, though through waters deep we struggle,
Joining in fight with seas of troubles,
Suffer we, bear we-hope-be silent!
On us shall dawn a coming daybreak-
With it, the world of men be happy!
Translated in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus Stevenson, for the
(World's Best Literature ›
SLIGHTED LOVE
AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE
rose the star of evening, and the gray dusk was
SPLENDID a-fading.
O'er it with a hand of mildness, now the Night her veil was
drawing:
Abensaïd, valiant soldier, from Medina's ancient gateway,
To the meadows, rich with blossoms, walked in darkest mood of
musing-
Where the Guadalete's wild waves foaming wander through the
flat lands,
Where, within the harbor's safety, loves to wait the weary seaman.
Neither hero's mood nor birth-pride eased his spirit of its suffering
For his youth's betrothed, Zobeïde; she it was who caused him
anguish.
Faithless had she him forsaken, she sometime his best-beloved,
Left him, though already parted by strange fate, from realm and
heirship.
Oh, that destiny he girds not
strength it gave him, hero-
courage,
Added to his lofty spirit, touches of nobler feeling -
'Tis that she, ill-starred one, leaves him! takes the hand SO
wrinkled
Of that old man, Seville's conqueror!
Into the night, along the river, Abensaïd now forth rushes:
Loudly to the rocky limits, Echo bears his lamentations.
"Faithless maid, more faithless art thou than the sullen water!
Harder thou than even the hardened bosom of yon rigid rock-
wall!
Ah, bethinkest thou, Zobeïde, still upon our solemn love-oath?
How thy heart, this hour so faithless, once belonged to me, me
only?
Canst thou yield thy heart, thy beauty, to that old man, dead to
love-thoughts?


## p. 1891 (#81) ############################################

WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1891
Wilt thou try to love the tyrant lacking love despite his treasure?
Dost thou deem the sands of desert higher than are virtue-
honor?
Allah grant, then, that he hate thee! That thou lovest yet
another!
That thou soon thyself surrender to the scorned one's bitter feel-
ing.
Rest may night itself deny thee, and may day to thee be terror!
Be thy face before thy husband as a thing of nameless loathing!
May his eye avoid thee ever, flee the splendor of thy beauty!
May he ne'er, in gladsome gathering, stretch his hand to thee for
partner!
Never gird himself with girdle which for him thy hand em-
broidered!
Let his heart, thy love forsaking, in another love be fettered;
The love-tokens of another may his scutcheon flame in battle,
While behind thy grated windows year by year, away thou
mournest!
To thy rival may he offer prisoners that his hand has taken!
May the trophies of his victory on his knees to her be proffered!
May he hate thee! and thy heart's faith to him be but thing
accursed!
These things, aye and more still! be thy cure for all my sting
and sorrow! "
Silent now goes Abensaïd, unto Xeres, in the midnight;
Dazzling shone the palace, lighted, festal for the loathsome mar-
riage,
Richly-robèd Moors were standing 'neath the shimmer of the
tapers,
On the jubilant procession of the marriage-part proceeded.
In the path stands Abensaïd, frowning, as the bridegroom nears
him;
Strikes the lance into his bosom, with the rage of sharpest ven-
geance.
'Gainst the heaven rings a loud cry, those at hand their swords
are baring-
But he rushes through the weapons, and in safety gains his own
hearth.
Translation through the German, in the metre of the original, by E. Irenaeus
Stevenson.


## p. 1892 (#82) ############################################

1892
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER*
From Country Life'
THE
HERE he sits: his figure and his rigid bearing
Let us know most clearly what is his ideal:-
Confidence in self, in his lofty standing;
Thereto add conceit in his own great value.
Certain, he can read-yes, and write and cipher;
In the almanac no star-group's a stranger.
-
In the church he, faithful, leads the pious chorus;
Drums the catechism into young ones' noddles.
Disputation to him's half the joy of living;
Even though he's beaten, he will not give over.
Watch him, when he talks, in how learned fashion!
Drags on every word, spares no play of muscle.
Ah, what pains he takes to forget no syllable —
Consonants and vowels rightly weighed and measured.
Often is he, too, of this and that a poet!
Every case declines with precisest conscience;
Knows the history of Church and State, together.
Every Churchly light,-of pedant-deeds the record.
All the village world speechless stands before him.
Asking "How can one brain be so ruled by Wisdom? »
Sharply, too, he looks down on one's transgressions.
'Gainst his judgment stern, tears and prayers avail not.
He appears -
one glance (from a god that glance comes! )
At a flash decides what the youngster's fate is.
At his will a crowd runs, at his beck it parteth.
Doth he smile? all frolic; doth he frown-all cower.
By a tone he threatens, gives rewards, metes justice.
Absent though he be, every pupil dreads him,
For he sees, hears, knows, everything that's doing.
On the urchin's forehead he can see it written.
He divines who laughs, idles, yawns, or chatters,
Who plays tricks on others, or in prayer-time's lazy.
With its shoots, the birch-rod lying there beside him
Knows how all misdeeds in a trice are settled.
-
Surely by these traits you've our dorf-Dionysius!
-
* Compare Goldsmith's famous portrait in The Deserted Village. '
Translation through the German, in the meter of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson, for the World's Best Literature. '


## p. 1893 (#83) ############################################

1893
BION
(275 B. C. )
F BION, the second of the Sicilian idyllists, of whom Theo-
critus was the first and Moschus the third and last, but little
knowledge and few remains exist. He was born near
Smyrna, says Suidas; and from the elegy on his death, attributed to
his pupil Moschus, we infer that he lived in Sicily and died there of
poison. "Say that Bion the herdsman is dead," says the threnody,
appealing to the Sicilian muses, "and that song has died with Bion,
and the Dorian minstrelsy hath perished.
Poison came, Bion,
to thy mouth. What mortal so cruel as to mix poison for thee! " As
Theocritus is also mentioned in the idyl, Bion is supposed to have
been his contemporary, and to have flourished about 275 B. C.
Compared with Theocritus, his poetry is inferior in simplicity and
naïveté, and declines from the type which Theocritus had estab-
lished for the out-door, open-field idyl. With Bion, bucolics first took
on the air of the study. Although at first this art and affectation
were rarely discernible, they finally led to the mold of brass in which
for centuries Italian and English pastorals were cast, and later to the
complete devitalizing which marks English pastoral poetry in the
eighteenth century, with the one exception of Allan Ramsay's 'Gentle
Shepherd. ' Theocritus had sung with genuine feeling of trees and
wandering winds, of flowers and the swift mountain stream. His
poetry has atmosphere; it is vital with sunlight, color, and the beauty
which is cool and calm and true. Although Bion's poems possess
elegance and sweetness, and abound in pleasing imagery, they lack
the naturalness of the idyls of Theocritus. Reflection has crept into
them; they are in fact love-songs, with here and there a tinge of
philosophy,
The most famous as well as the most powerful and original of
Bion's poems remaining to us is the threnody upon Adonis.
It was
doubtless composed in honor of the rites with which Greek women
celebrated certain Eastern festivals; for the worship of Adonis still
lingered among them, mixed with certain Syrian customs.
•
«Thammuz came next behind,
Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate
In amorous ditties all a summer's day,
While smooth Adonis from his native rock
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded. »


## p. 1894 (#84) ############################################

1894
BION
Thammuz is identified with Adonis. "We came to a fair large
river," writes an old English traveler, "doubtless the ancient river
Adonis, which at certain seasons of the year, especially about the
feast of Adonis, is of a bloody color, which the heathens looked upon
as proceeding from a kind of sympathy in the river for the death of
Adonis, who was killed by a wild boar in the mountains out of which
the stream issues. Something like this we saw actually come to
pass; for the water was stained to a surprising redness, and, as we
observed in traveling, had discolored the sea a great way into a red-
dish hue, occasioned doubtless by a sort of minium, or red earth,
washed into the river by the violence of the rain. "
The poem is colored by the Eastern nature of its subject, and its
rapidity, vehemence, warmth, and unrestraint are greater than the
strict canon of Greek art allows. It is noteworthy, aside from its
varied beauties, because of its fine abandonment to grief and its
appeal for recognition of the merits of the dead youth it celebrates.
Bion's threnody has undoubtedly become a criterion and given the
form to some of the more famous "songs of tears. " The laudatory
elegy of Moschus for his master- we say of Moschus, although
Ahrens, in his recension, includes the lament under 'Incertorum
Idyllia' at the end of 'Moschi Reliquiæ '-follows it faithfully. Mil-
ton in his great ode of 'Lycidas' does not depart from the Greek
lines; and Shelley, lamenting Keats in his 'Adonaïs,' reverts still
more closely to the first master, adding perhaps an element of arti-
ficiality one does not find in other threnodies. The broken and
extended form of Tennyson's celebration of Arthur Hallam takes it
out of a comparison with the Greek; but the monody of 'Thyrsis,'
Matthew Arnold's commemoration of Clough, approaches nearer the
Greek. Yet no other lament has the energy and rapidity of Bion's;
the refrain, the insistent repetition of the words "I wail for Adonis,»
"Alas for Cypris! " full of pathos and unspoken irrepressible woe,
is used only by his pupil Moschus, though hinted at by Milton.
The peculiar rhythm, the passion and delicate finish of the song,
have attracted a number of translators, among whose versions Mrs.
Browning's 'The Lament for Adonis' is considered the best. The
subjoined version in the Spenserian stanza, by Anna C. Brackett,
follows its model closely in its directness and fervor of expression,
and has moreover in itself genuine poetic merit. The translation of
a fragment of 'Hesperos' is that of J. A. Symonds. Bion's fluent and
elegant versification invites study, and his few idyls and fragments
have at various times been turned into English by Fawkes (to be
found in Chalmers's Works of English Poets'), Polwhele, Banks, Chap-
man, and others.
-


## p. 1895 (#85) ############################################

BION
1895
THRENODY
WEEP for Adonaïs he is dead!
I Dead Adonais lies, and mourning all,
The Loves wail round his fair, low-lying head.
O Cypris, sleep no more! Let from thee fall
Thy purple vestments-hear'st thou not the call?
Let fall thy purple vestments! Lay them by!
Ah, smite thy bosom, and in sable pall
Send shivering through the air thy bitter cry
For Adonais dead, while all the Loves reply.
I weep for Adonais-weep the Loves.
Low on the mountains beauteous lies he there,
And languid through his lips the faint breath moves,
And black the blood creeps o'er his smooth thigh, where
The boar's white tooth the whiter flesh must tear.
Glazed grow his eyes beneath the eyelids wide;
Fades from his lips the rose, and dies - Despair!
The clinging kiss of Cypris at his side-
Alas, he knew not that she kissed him as he died!
I wail
―
- responsive wail the Loves with me.
Ah, cruel, cruel is that wound of thine,
But Cypris' heart-wound aches more bitterly.
The Oreads weep; thy faithful hounds low whine;
But Cytherea's unbound tresses fine
Float on the wind; where thorns her white feet wound,
Along the oaken glades drops blood divine.
She calls her lover; he, all crimsoned round
His fair white breast with blood, hears not the piteous sound.
Alas! for Cytherea wail the Loves,
With the beloved dies her beauty too.
O fair was she, the goddess borne of doves,
While Adonaïs lived; but now, so true
Her love, no time her beauty can renew.
Deep-voiced the mountains mourn; the oaks reply;
And springs and rivers murmur sorrow through
The passes where she goes, the cities high;
And blossoms flush with grief as she goes desolate by.
Alas for Cytherea! he hath died-
The beauteous Adonaïs, he is dead!
-


## p. 1896 (#86) ############################################

1896
BION
And Echo sadly back "is dead » replied.
Alas for Cypris! Stooping low her head,
And opening wide her arms, she piteous said,
"O stay a little, Adonaïs mine!
Of all the kisses ours since we were wed,
But one last kiss, oh, give me now, and twine
Thine arms close, till I drink the latest breath of thine!
"So will I keep the kiss thou givest me
E'en as it were thyself, thou only best!
Since thou, O Adonaïs, far dost flee-
Oh, stay a little-leave a little rest! -
And thou wilt leave me, and wilt be the guest
Of proud Persephone, more strong than I?
All beautiful obeys her dread behest --
And I a goddess am, and cannot die!
O thrice-beloved, listen! -mak'st thou no reply?
"Then dies to idle air my longing wild,
As dies a dream along the paths of night;
And Cytherea widowed is, exiled
From love itself; and now-
-an idle sight-
The Loves sit in my halls, and all delight
My charmed girdle moves, is all undone!
Why wouldst thou, rash one, seek the maddening fight?
Why, beauteous, wouldst thou not the combat shun? ”—
Thus Cytherea-and the Loves weep, all as one.
-
Alas for Cytherea! -he is dead.
Her hopeless sorrow breaks in tears, that rain
Down over all the fair, beloved head,-
-
Like summer showers, o'er wind-down-beaten grain;
They flow as fast as flows the crimson stain
From out the wound, deep in the stiffening thigh;
And lo! in roses red the blood blooms fair,
And where the tears divine have fallen close by,
Spring up anemones, and stir all tremblingly.
I weep for Adonäis-he is dead!
No more, O Cypris, weep thy wooer here!
Behold a bed of leaves! Lay down his head
As if he slept-as still, as fair, as dear,—
In softest garments let his limbs appear,
As when on golden couch his sweetest sleep
He slept the livelong night, thy heart anear;


## p. 1897 (#87) ############################################

BION
1897
Oh, beautiful in death though sad he keep,
No more to wake when Morning o'er the hills doth creep.
And over him the freshest flowers fling—
Ah me! all flowers are withered quite away
And drop their petals wan! yet, perfumes bring
And sprinkle round, and sweetest balsams lay;-
Nay, perish perfumes since thine shall not stay!
In purple mantle lies he, and around,
The weeping Loves his weapons disarray,
His sandals loose, with water bathe his wound,
And fan him with soft wings that move without a sound.
H
The Loves for Cytherea raise the wail.
Hymen from quenchèd torch no light can shake.
His shredded wreath lies withered all and pale;
His joyous song, alas, harsh discords break!
And saddest wail of all, the Graces wake:
"The beauteous Adonais! He is dead! »
And sigh the Muses, "Stay but for our sake! "
Yet would he come, Persephone is dead;-
Cease, Cypris!
Sad the days repeat their faithful tread!
Paraphrase of Anna C. Brackett, in Journal of Speculative Philosophy.
HESPER
-
-
ESPER, thou golden light of happy love,
Hesper, thou holy pride of purple eve,
Moon among stars, but star beside the moon,
Hail, friend! and since the young moon sets to-night
Too soon below the mountains, lend thy lamp
And guide me to the shepherd whom I love.
No theft I purpose; no wayfaring man
Belated would I watch and make my prey:
Love is my goal; and Love how fair it is,
When friend meets friend sole in the silent night,
Thou knowest, Hesper!


## p. 1898 (#88) ############################################

1898
FLY
AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
(1850-)
-
HOSE to whom the discovery of a relishing new literary flavor
means the permanent annexation of a new tract of enjoy-
ment have not forgotten what happened in 1885. A slender
16mo volume entitled 'Obiter Dicta,' containing seven short literary
and biographic essays, came out in that year, anonymous and un-
heralded, to make such way as it might among a book-whelmed
generation. It had no novelty of subject to help it to a hearing;
the themes were largely the most written-out, in all seeming, that
could have been selected, - a few great or-
thodox names on which opinion was closed
and analysis exhausted. Browning, Carlyle,
Charles Lamb, and John Henry Newman
are indeed very beacons to warn off the
sated bookman. A paper on Benvenuto
Cellini, one on Actors, and one on Falstaff
(by another hand) closed the list.
Yet a
few weeks made it the literary event of
the day. Among epicures of good reading
the word swiftly passed along that here
was a new sensation of unusually satisfying
charm and freshness. It was a tour de force
like the 'Innocents Abroad,' a journey full
of new sights over the most staled and beaten of tracks. The
triumph was all the author's own.
AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
Two years later came another volume as a Second Series,' of the
same general character but superior to the first. Among the sub-
jects of its eleven papers were Milton, Pope, Johnson, Burke, Lamb
again, and Emerson; with some general essays, including that on
'The Office of Literature,' given below.
In 1892 appeared 'Res Judicatæ,' really a third volume of the
same series, and perhaps even richer in matter and more acute and
original in thought. Its first two articles, prepared as lectures on
Samuel Richardson and Edward Gibbon, are indeed his high-water
mark in both substance and style. Cowper, George Borrow, Newman
again, Lamb a third time (and fresh as ever), Hazlitt, Matthew Arnold,
and Sainte-Beuve are brought in, and some excellent literary miscel-
lanea.



## p. 1899 (#89) ############################################

AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
1899
A companion volume called 'Men, Women, and Books' is dis-
appointing because composed wholly of short newspaper articles:
Mr. Birrell's special quality needs space to make itself felt. He
needs a little time to get up steam, a little room to unpack his
wares; he is no pastel writer, who can say his say in a paragraph
and runs dry in two. Hence these snippy editorials do him no
justice: he is obliged to stop every time just as he is getting ready
to say something worth while. They are his, and therefore readable
and judicious; but they give no idea of his best powers.
He has also written a life of Charlotte Brontë. But he holds his
place in the front rank of recent essayists by the three 'Obiter
Dicta' and 'Res Judicatæ volumes of manly, luminous, penetrating
essays, full of racy humor and sudden wit; of a generous appre-
ciativeness that seeks always for the vital principle which gave the
writer his hold on men; still more, of a warm humanity and a sure
instinct for all the higher and finer things of the spirit which never
fail to strike chords in the heart as well as the brain. No writer's
work leaves a better taste in the mouth; he makes us think better
of the world, of righteousness, of ourselves. Yet no writer is less
of a Puritan or a Philistine; none writes with less of pragmatic pur-
pose or a less obtrusive load of positive fact. He scorns such over-
laden pedantry, and never loses a chance to lash it. He tells us
that he has "never been inside the reading-room of the British
Museum," and "expounds no theory save the unworthy one that
literature ought to please. " He says the one question about a book
which is to be part of literature is, "Does it read? " that "no one is
under any obligation to read any one else's book," and therefore it
is a writer's business to make himself welcome to readers; that he
does not care whether an author was happy or not, he wants the
author to make him happy. He puts his theory in practice: he
makes himself welcome as a companion at once stimulating and
restful, of humane spirit and elevated ideals, of digested knowledge
and original thought, of an insight which is rarely other than kindly
and a deep humor which never lapses into cynicism.
Mr. Birrell helps to justify Walter Bagehot's dictum that the only
man who can write books well is one who knows practical life well;
but still there are congruities in all things, and one feels a certain
shock of incongruity in finding that this man of books and purveyor
of light genial book-talk, who can hardly write a line without giving
it a quality of real literary savor, is a prominent lawyer and member
of Parliament, and has written a law book which ranks among recog-
nized legal authorities. This is a series of lectures delivered in
1896, and collected into a volume on 'The Duties and Liabilities of
Trustees. ' But some of the surprise vanishes on reading the book:


## p. 1900 (#90) ############################################

1900
AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
even as 'Alice in Wonderland' shows on every page the work of a
logician trained to use words precisely and criticize their misuse,
so in exactly the opposite way this book is full of the shrewd judg-
ment, the knowledge of life, and even the delightful humor which
form so much of Birrell's best equipment for a man of letters.
Mr. Birrell's work is not merely good reading, but is a mental
clarifier and tonic. We are much better critics of other writers
through his criticisms on his selected subjects. After every reading
of 'Obiter Dicta' we feel ashamed of crass and petty prejudice, in the
face of his lessons in disregarding surface mannerisms for the sake
of vital qualities. Only in one case does he lose his impartiality: he
so objects to treating Emerson with fairness that he even goes out of
his way to berate his idol Matthew Arnold for setting Emerson aloft.
But what he says of George Borrow is vastly more true of himself:
he is one of the writers we cannot afford to be angry with.
DR. JOHNSON
"C
RITICISM," writes Johnson in the 60th Idler, "is a study by
which men grow important and formidable at a very small
expense. The power of invention has been conferred by
nature upon few, and the labor of learning those sciences which
may by mere labor be obtained, is too great to be willingly
endured: but every man can exert such judgment as he has upon
the works of others; and he whom nature has made weak, and
idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his vanity by the name
of a critick. "
To proceed with our task by the method of comparison is to
pursue a course open to grave objection; yet it is forced upon us
when we find, as we lately did, a writer in the Times newspaper,
in the course of a not very discriminating review of Mr. Froude's
recent volumes, casually remarking, as if it admitted of no more.
doubt than the day's price of consols, that Carlyle was a greater
man than Johnson. It is a good thing to be positive. To be
positive in your opinions and selfish in your habits is the best
recipe, if not for happiness, at all events for that far more attain-
able commodity, comfort, with which we are acquainted.
"A
noisy man," sang poor Cowper, who could not bear anything
louder than the hissing of a tea-urn, "a noisy man is always in
the right," and a positive man can seldom be proved wrong.
Still, in literature it is very desirable to preserve a moderate


## p. 1901 (#91) ############################################

AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
1901
measure of independence, and we therefore make bold to ask
whether it is as plain as the "old hill of Howth" that Carlyle
was a greater man than Johnson? Is not the precise contrary
the truth? No abuse of Carlyle need be looked for, here or from
me. When a man of genius and of letters happens to have any
striking virtues, such as purity, temperance, honesty, the novel
task of dwelling on them. has such attraction for us that we are
content to leave the elucidation of his faults to his personal
friends, and to stern, unbending moralists like Mr. Edmund Yates.
and the World newspaper. To love Carlyle is, thanks to Mr.
Froude's superhuman ideal of friendship, a task of much heroism,
almost meriting a pension; still it is quite possible for the candid
and truth-loving soul. But a greater than Johnson he most cer-
tainly was not.
There is a story in Boswell of an ancient beggar-woman who,
whilst asking an alms of the Doctor, described herself to him, in
a lucky moment for her pocket, as "an old struggler. " Johnson,
his biographer tells us, was visibly affected. The phrase stuck
to his memory, and was frequently applied to himself. "I too,"
so he would say, «<
am an old struggler. " So too, in all con-
science, was Carlyle. The struggles of Johnson have long been
historical; those of Carlyle have just become so. We are inter-
ested in both. To be indifferent would be inhuman.
Both men
had great endowments, tempestuous natures, hard lots.
They
were not amongst Dame Fortune's favorites. They had to fight
their way.
What they took they took by storm. But- and here
is a difference indeed-Johnson came off victorious, Carlyle did
not.
Boswell's book is an arch of triumph, through which, as we
read, we see his hero passing into eternal fame, to take up his
place with those-
"Dead but sceptred sovereigns who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.
>>
Froude's book is a tomb over which the lovers of Carlyle's genius
will never cease to shed tender but regretful tears.
We doubt whether there is in English literature a more trium-
phant book than Boswell's. What materials for tragedy are want-
ing? Johnson was a man of strong passions, unbending spirit,
violent temper, as poor as a church-mouse, and as proud as the
proudest of Church dignitaries endowed with the strength of a


## p. 1902 (#92) ############################################

1902
AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
coal-heaver, the courage of a lion, and the tongue of Dean Swift,
he could knock down booksellers and silence bargees; he was
melancholy almost to madness, "radically wretched," indolent,
blinded, diseased. Poverty was long his portion; not that genteel
poverty that is sometimes behindhand with its rent, but that
hungry poverty that does not know where to look for its dinner.
Against all these things had this "old struggler" to contend; over
all these things did this "old struggler" prevail. Over even the
fear of death, the giving up of "this intellectual being," which
had haunted his gloomy fancy for a lifetime, he seems finally to
have prevailed, and to have met his end as a brave man should.
>>
Carlyle, writing to his wife, says, and truthfully enough, "The
more the devil worries me the more I wring him by the nose;
but then if the devil's was the only nose that was wrung in the
transaction, why need Carlyle cry out so loud? After buffeting
one's way through the storm-tossed pages of Froude's 'Carlyle,' —
in which the universe is stretched upon the rack because food
disagrees with man and cocks crow,- with what thankfulness and
reverence do we read once again the letter in which Johnson tells
Mrs. Thrale how he has been called to endure, not dyspepsia or
sleeplessness, but paralysis itself:-
"On Monday I sat for my picture, and walked a considerable
way with little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening I
felt myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life.
Thus I went to bed, and in a short time waked and sat up, as
has long been my custom; when I felt a confusion in my head
which lasted, I suppose, about half a minute; I was alarmed, and
prayed God that however much He might afflict my body He
would spare my understanding.
Soon after I perceived
that I had suffered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech was
taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection in this
dreadful state that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered
that perhaps death itself, when it should come, would excite less
horror than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the vocal
organs I took two drams.
I then went to bed, and
strange as it may seem I think slept. When I saw light it was
time I should contrive what I should do. Though God stopped
my speech, He left me my hand. I enjoyed a mercy which was
not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now perhaps over-
looks me as I am writing, and rejoices that I have what he
wanted. My first note was necessarily to my servant, who came
•


## p. 1903 (#93) ############################################

AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
1903
in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why he should
read what I put into his hands.
How this will be received
by you I know not. I hope you will sympathize with me; but
perhaps
"My mistress, gracious, mild, and good,
Cries Is he dumb? 'Tis time he should. '
"I suppose you may wish to know how my disease is treated
by the physicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two
from my ear to my throat, one on a side. The blister on the
back has done little, and those on the throat have not risen. I
bullied and bounced (it sticks to our last sand), and compelled
the apothecary to make his salve according to the Edinburgh dis-
pensatory, that it might adhere better. I have now two on my
own prescription. They likewise give me salt of hartshorn, which
I take with no great confidence; but I am satisfied that what can
be done is done for me. I am almost ashamed of this querulous
letter, but now it is written let it go. "
This is indeed tonic and bark for the mind.
If, irritated by a comparison that ought never to have been
thrust upon us, we ask why it is that the reader of Boswell finds
it as hard to help loving Johnson as the reader of Froude finds.
it hard to avoid disliking Carlyle, the answer must be that whilst
the elder man of letters was full to overflowing with the milk of
human kindness, the younger one was full to overflowing with
something not nearly so nice; and that whilst Johnson was pre-
eminently a reasonable man, reasonable in all his demands and
expectations, Carlyle was the most unreasonable mortal that ever
exhausted the patience of nurse, mother, or wife.
Of Dr. Johnson's affectionate nature nobody has written with
nobler appreciation than Carlyle himself. "Perhaps it is this
Divine feeling of affection, throughout manifested, that principally
attracts us to Johnson. A true brother of men is he, and filial
lover of the earth. "
The day will come when it will be recognized that Carlyle, as
a critic, is to be judged by what he himself corrected for the
press, and not by splenetic entries in diaries, or whimsical extrava-
gances in private conversation.
Of Johnson's reasonableness nothing need be said, except that
it is patent everywhere. His wife's judgment was a sound one
"He is the most sensible man I ever met. "


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AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
1904
As for his brutality, of which at one time we used to hear a
great deal, we cannot say of it what Hookham Frere said of
Landor's immorality, that it was
"Mere imaginary classicality
Wholly devoid of criminal reality. "
It was nothing of the sort. Dialectically the great Doctor was a
great brute. The fact is, he had so accustomed himself to wordy
warfare that he lost all sense of moral responsibility, and cared
as little for men's feelings as a Napoleon did for their lives.
When the battle was over, the Doctor frequently did what no
soldier ever did that I have heard tell of,- apologized to his
victims and drank wine or lemonade with them. It must also be
remembered that for the most part his victims sought him out.
They came to be tossed and gored. And after all, are they so
much to be pitied? They have our sympathy, and the Doctor
has our applause. I am not prepared to say, with the simpering
fellow with weak legs whom David Copperfield met at Mr.
Waterbrook's dinner-table, that I would sooner be knocked down
by a man with blood than picked up by a man without any; but,
argumentatively speaking, I think it would be better for a man's
reputation to be knocked down by Dr. Johnson than picked up
by Mr. Froude.
Johnson's claim to be the best of our talkers cannot, on our
present materials, be contested. For the most part we have only
talk about other talkers. Johnson's is matter of record. Carlyle
no doubt was a great talker-no man talked against talk or
broke silence to praise it more eloquently than he, but unfortu-
nately none of it is in evidence. All that is given us is a sort
of Commination Service writ large. We soon weary of it. Man
does not live by curses alone.
An unhappier prediction of a boy's future was surely never
made than that of Johnson's by his cousin, Mr. Cornelius Ford,
who said to the infant Samuel, "You will make your way the
more easily in the world as you are content to dispute no man's
claim to conversation excellence, and they will, therefore, more
willingly allow your pretensions as a writer. " Unfortunate Mr.
Ford! The man never breathed whose claim to conversation
excellence Dr. Johnson did not dispute on every possible occas-
ion; whilst, just because he was admittedly so good a talker, his
pretensions as a writer have been occasionally slighted.


## p. 1905 (#95) ############################################

AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
1905
Johnson's personal character has generally been allowed to
stand high. It, however, has not been submitted to recent tests.
To be the first to "smell a fault" is the pride of the modern
biographer. Bosweil's artless pages afford useful hints not lightly
to be disregarded. During some portion of Johnson's married life
he had lodgings, first at Greenwich, afterwards at Hampstead.
But he did not always go home o' nights; sometimes preferring
to roam the streets with that vulgar ruffian Savage, who was cer-
tainly no fit company for him. He once actually quarreled with
Tetty, who, despite her ridiculous name, was a very sensible
woman with a very sharp tongue, and for a season, like stars,
they dwelt apart. Of the real merits of this dispute we must
resign ourselves to ignorance. The materials for its discussion do
not exist; even Croker could not find them. Neither was our
great moralist as sound as one would have liked to see him in
the matter of the payment of small debts. When he came to die,
he remembered several of these outstanding accounts; but what
assurance have we that he remembered them all? One sum of
10 he sent across to the honest fellow from whom he had
borrowed it, with an apology for his delay; which, since it had
extended over a period of twenty years, was not superfluous. I
wonder whether he ever repaid Mr. Dilly the guinea he once
borrowed of him to give to a very small boy who had just
been apprenticed to a printer. If he did not, it was a great
shame. That he was indebted to Sir Joshua in a small loan is
apparent from the fact that it was one of his three dying requests
to that great man that he should release him from it, as, of
course, the most amiable of painters did. The other two requests,
it will be remembered, were to read his Bible, and not to use his
brush on Sundays. The good Sir Joshua gave the desired prom-
ises with a full heart, for these two great men loved one another;
but subsequently discovered the Sabbatical restriction not a little
irksome, and after a while resumed his former practice, arguing
with himself that the Doctor really had no business to extract
any such promise. The point is a nice one, and perhaps ere this
the two friends have met and discussed it in the Elysian fields.
If so, I hope the Doctor, grown "angelical," kept his temper with
the mild shade of Reynolds better than on the historical occasion
when he discussed with him the question of "strong drinks. "
Against Garrick, Johnson undoubtedly cherished a smoldering
grudge, which, however, he never allowed any one but himself to
IV-120


## p. 1906 (#96) ############################################

1906
AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
«<
fan into flame. His pique was natural. Garrick had been his
pupil at Edial, near Lichfield; they had come up to town together
with an easy united fortune of fourpence. current coin o' the
realm. " Garrick soon had the world at his feet and garnered
golden grain. Johnson became famous too, but remained poor
and dingy. Garrick surrounded himself with what only money
can buy, good pictures and rare books. Johnson cared nothing
for pictures—how should he? he could not see them; but he did
care a great deal about books, and the pernickety little player
was chary about lending his splendidly bound rarities to his
quondam preceptor. Our sympathies in this matter are entirely
with Garrick; Johnson was one of the best men that ever lived,
but not to lend books to. Like Lady Slattern, he had a "most
observant thumb. " But Garrick had no real cause for complaint.
Johnson may have soiled his folios and sneered at his trade, but
in life Johnson loved Garrick, and in death embalmed his memory
in a sentence which can only die with the English language:- "I
am disappointed by that stroke of death which has eclipsed the
gayety of nations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless
pleasure. "
Will it be believed that puny critics have been found to quarrel
with this colossal compliment on the poor pretext of its false-
hood? Garrick's death, urge these dullards, could not possibly
have eclipsed the gayety of nations, since he had retired from the
stage months previous to his demise. When will mankind learn.
that literature is one thing, and sworn testimony another? . . .
Johnson the author is not always fairly treated. Phrases are
convenient things to hand about, and it is as little the custom to
inquire into their truth as it is to read the letterpress on bank-
notes. We are content to count bank-notes and to repeat phrases.
One of these phrases is, that whilst everybody reads Boswell,
nobody reads Johnson. The facts are otherwise. Everybody does
not read Boswell, and a great many people do read Johnson. If
it be asked, What do the general public know of Johnson's nine
volumes octavo ? I reply, Beshrew the general public! What in
the name of the Bodleian has the general public got to do with
literature?