No More Learning

1806 (#610) ###########################################

1806
GEORGE BERKELEY
rust, and mold will grow, in all places. Virgin earth becomes
fertile, crops of new plants ever and anon show themselves, all
which demonstrate the air to be a common seminary and recept-
acle of all vivifying principles.
The eye by long use comes to see, even in the darkest cav-
ern; and there is no subject so obscure, but we may discern
some glimpse of truth by long poring on it. Truth is the cry of
all, but the game of a few. Certainly where it is the chief pas-
sion, it doth not give way to vulgar cares and views; nor is it
contented with a little ardor in the early time of life; active,
perhaps, to pursue, but not so fit to weigh and revise. He that
would make a real progress in knowledge, must dedicate his age
as well as youth, the later growth as well as first fruits, at the
altar of truth.
As the nerves are instruments of sensation, it follows that
spasms in the nerves may produce all symptoms, and therefore a
disorder in the nervous system shall imitate all distempers, and
occasion, in appearance, an asthma for instance, a pleurisy, or a
fit of the stone. Now, whatever is good for the nerves in gen-
eral is good against all such symptoms. But tar-water, as it
includes in an eminent degree the virtues of warm gums and
resins, is of great use for comforting and strengthening the
nerves, curing twitches in the nervous fibres, cramps also, and
numbness in the limbs, removing anxieties and promoting sleep,
in all which cases I have known it very successful.
This safe and cheap medicine suits all circumstances and all
constitutions, operating easily, curing without disturbing, raising
the spirits without depressing them, a circumstance that deserves
repeated attention, especially in these climates, where strong
liquors so fatally and so frequently produce those very distresses
they are designed to remedy; and if I am not misinformed, even
among the ladies themselves, who are truly much to be pitied.
Their condition of life makes them a prey to imaginary woes,
which never fail to grow up in minds unexercised and unem-
ployed. To get rid of these, it is said, there are who betake
themselves to distilled spirits. And it is not improbable they
are led gradually to the use of those poisons by a certain com-
plaisant pharmacy, too much used in the modern practice, palsy
drops, poppy cordial, plague water, and such-like, which being
in truth nothing but drams disguised, yet coming from the
apothecaries, are considered only as medicines.


## p. 1807 (#611) ###########################################

GEORGE BERKELEY
1807
The soul of man was supposed by many ancient sages to be
thrust into the human body as into a prison, for punishment of
past offenses.
But the worst prison is the body of an indolent
epicure, whose blood is inflamed by fermented liquors and high
sauces, or rendered putrid, sharp, and corrosive by a stagnation
of the animal juices through sloth and indolence; whose mem-
branes are irritated by pungent salts; whose mind is agitated by
painful oscillations of the nervous system, and whose nerves are
mutually affected by the irregular passions of his mind. This
ferment in the animal economy darkens and confounds the intel-
lect. It produceth vain terrors and vain conceits, and stimulates
the soul with mad desires, which, not being natural, nothing in
nature can satisfy. No wonder, therefore, there are so many
fine persons of both sexes, shining themselves, and shone on by
fortune, who are inwardly miserable and sick of life.
The hardness of stubbed vulgar constitutions renders them
insensible of a thousand things that fret and gall those delicate
people, who, as if their skin was peeled off, feel to the quick
everything that touches them. The remedy for this exquisite
and painful sensibility is commonly sought from fermented, per-
haps from distilled liquors, which render many lives wretched
that would otherwise have been only ridiculous. The tender
nerves and low spirits of such poor creatures would be much
relieved by the use of tar-water, which might prolong and cheer
their lives. I do therefore recommend to them the use of a
cordial, not only safe and innocent, but giving health and spirit
as sure as other cordials destroy them.
I do verily think there is not any other medicine whatsoever
so effectual to restore a crazy constitution and cheer a dreary
mind, or so likely to subvert that gloomy empire of the spleen
which tyrannizeth over the better sort (as they are called) of
these free nations, and maketh them, in spite of their liberty
and property, more wretched slaves than even the subjects of ab-
solute power who breathe clear air in a sunny climate, while
men of low degree often enjoy a tranquillity and content that no
advantage of birth or fortune can equal. Such indeed was the
case while the rich alone could afford to be debauched; but
when even beggars became debauchees, the case was altered.
The public virtue and spirit of the British legislature never
showed itself more conspicuous in any act, than in that for
suppressing the immoderate use of distilled spirits among the


## p. 1808 (#612) ###########################################

1808
GEORGE BERKELEY
people, whose strength and numbers constitute the true wealth of
a nation: though evasive arts will, it is feared, prevail so long
as distilled spirits of any kind are allowed, the character of
Englishmen in general being that of Brutus, Quicquid vult valde
vult [whatever he desires he desires intensely). But why should
such a canker be tolerated in the vitals of a State, under any
pretense, or in any shape whatsoever ? Better by far the whole
present set of distillers were pensioners of the public, and their
trade abolished by law; since all the benefit thereof put together
would not balance the hundredth part of its mischief.
This tar-water will also give charitable relief to the ladies,
who often want it more than the parish poor; being many of
them never able to make a good meal, and sitting pale and puny,
and forbidden like ghosts, at their own table, victims of vapors
and indigestion.
Studious persons also, pent up in narrow holes, breathing bad
air, and stooping over their books, are much to be pitied. As
they are debarred the free use of air and exercise, this I will
venture to recommend as the best succedaneum to both; though
it were to be wished that modern scholars would, like the ancients,
meditate and converse more in walks and gardens and open air,
which upon the whole would perhaps be no hindrance to their
learning, and a great advantage to their health. My own sed-
entary course of life had long since thrown me into an ill habit,
attended with many ailments, particularly a nervous colic, which
rendered my life a burden, and the more so because my pains
were exasperated by exercise. But since the use of tar-water, I
find, though not a perfect recovery from my old and rooted ill-
ness, yet such a gradual return of health and ease, that I esteem
my having taken this medicine the greatest of all temporal bless-
ings, and am convinced that under Providence I owe my life
to it.


## p. 1809 (#613) ###########################################

1809
HECTOR BERLIOZ
(1803-1869)
name
THE concert-goer the
Hector Berlioz calls up a
series of vast and magnificent whirlwinds of vocal and
orchestral sonority, the thoughts of scores that sound and
look imposingly complex to the eyes and ears of both the educated
and uneducated in the composer's art. We have a vision of close
pages embodying the most unequivocal and drastic of musical “real-
ism. ” The full audacity and mastery of a certain sort of genius are
represented in his vast works. They bespeak, too, the combative
musician and reformer. Berlioz took the
kingdom of music by violence.
His chef d'æuvres do not all say to us as
much as he meant them to say, not as much
as they all uttered twenty years ago.
There
is much clay as well as gold in them. But
such tremendous products of his energy and
intellect as the “Requiem,' the “Te Deum,'
(The Damnation of Faust,' his best descript-
ive symphonies such as the “Romeo and
Juliet,' are yet eloquent to the public and
to the critical-minded. His best was so very
good that his worst weighed as a matter
of principle or execution, regarded as music HECTOR BERLIOZ
or “programme music " - can be excused.
Berlioz's actual biography is a long tale of storm and stress. Not
only was he slow in gaining appreciation while he lived; full com-
prehension of his power was not granted him till after his energetic
life was over. Recognition in his own country is incomplete to day.
He was born in 1803, near picturesque Grenoble, in the little town of
Côte St. André, the son of an excellent country doctor. Sent to
Paris to study medicine, he became a musician against his father's
wish, and in lieu of the allowance that his father promptly withdrew,
the young man lived by engaging in the chorus of the Gymnase, and
by catching at every straw for subsistence. He became a regular
music-student of the Conservatory, under the admirable Lesueur and
Reicha; quitted the Conservatory in disgust at its pedantry, in 1825;
and lived and advanced in musical study as best he could for a con-
siderable time. His convictions in art were founded largely on the
JII-114



## p. 1810 (#614) ###########################################

1810
HECTOR BERLIOZ
was
a
rock of Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber; and however modern,
and however widely his work departs from such academic models,
Berlioz never forswore a certain allegiance to these great and serene
masters. He returned to the Conservatory, studied hard, gained the
Prix de Rome, gradually took a prominent place among Parisian com-
posers, and was as enthusiastically the subject of a cult as
Wagner. His concerts and the production of his operas encountered
shameful cabals. His strongest works were neglected or ill-served.
To their honor, German musicians understood him, Schumann and Liszt
in especial. Only in Germany to-day are his colossal operas heard.
The Italian Paganini showed a generous interest in his struggles.
Russia and Austria too admired him, while his compatriots hissed.
His career was one of endless work, disappointments, brief successes,
battles, hopes, and despairs. Personally, too, it was full of the hap-
piness and unhappiness of the artistic temperament.
It was between the two periods of his Conservatory life that he
endured his chief sentimental misfortune,— his falling in love with
and finally marrying Henrietta Smithson. Miss Smithson was
young English actress playing Shakespearean rôles in France with
a passing success. She was exquisitely lovely - Delaroche has painted
her spirituelle beauty in his Ophelia. The marriage was the typi-
cally unfortunate artist-match; and she became a paralytic invalid
for years. After her death, tours in Germany and elsewhere, new
works, new troubles, enthusiasms, and disappointments filled up the
remainder of the composer's days. He returned to his beloved
Dauphiné, war-worn and almost as one who has outlived life. In
his provincial retreat he composed the huge operatic duology (The
Trojans at Carthage,' and 'The Taking of Troy,' turning once more
to Virgil, his early literary love. Neither of them is often heard
now, any more than his amazing Benvenuto Cellini. Their author
died in Dauphiné in 1869, weary, disenchanted, but conscious that he
would be greater in the eyes of a coming generation than ever he
had been during his harassed life.
Berlioz's literary remains are valuable as criticisms, and their per-
sonal matter is of brisk and varied charm. His intense feeling for
Shakespeare influenced his whole ästhetic life. He was extremely
well read. His most unchecked tendency to romanticism was bal-
anced by a fine feeling for the classics. He loved the greater Greek
and Latin writers. His Autobiography is a perfect picture of him-
self emotionally, and exhibits his wide æsthetic nature. His Letters
are equally faithful as portraiture. He possessed a distinctively
literary style. He tells us how he fell in love -- twice, thrice; re-
cords the disgraceful cabals and intrigues against his professional
success, and explains how a landscape affected his nerves. He is


## p. 1811 (#615) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1811
excellent reading, apparently without taking much pains to be so.
Vivacity, wit, sincerity, are salient traits. In his volume of musical
essays entitled À Travers Chants) (an untranslatable title which
may be paraphrased Memoirs of Music and Musicians') are supe-
rior appreciations of musicians and interpreters and performances in
opera-house and concert-hall, expressed with grace and taste in the
feuilletonist's best manner. In the Journal des Débats, year by year,
he wrote himself down indisputably among the great French critics;
and he never misused his critical post to make it a lever for his
own advantage. His great treatise on Orchestration is a standard
work not displaced by Gevaert or more recent authorities. He was
not only a musical intelligence of enormous capacity: he offers per-
haps as typical an embodiment of the French artistic temperament
as can be pointed out.
THE ITALIAN RACE AS MUSICIANS AND AUDITORS
From Berlioz's Autobiography
SO
I"
well sung
APPEARS, however, at least I am assured, — that the
Italians do occasionally listen. But at any rate, music to the
Milanese, no less than to the Neapolitans, Romans, Floren-
tines, and Genoese, means nothing but an air, a duet, or a trio,
For anything beyond this they feel simply aversion
or indifference. Perhaps these antipathies are mainly due to the
wretched performance of their choruses and orchestras, which
effectually prevents their knowing anything good outside the
beaten track they have so long followed. Possibly, too, they
may to a certain extent understand the flights of men of genius,
if these latter are careful not to give too rude a shock to their
rooted predilections. The great success of Guillaume Tell’at
Florence supports this opinion, and even Spontini's sublime
Vestale obtained a series of brilliant representations at Naples
some twenty-five years ago. Moreover, in those towns which are
under the Austrian rule, you will see the people rush after a
military band, and listen with avidity to the beautiful German
melodies, so unlike their usual insipid cavatinas. Nevertheless,
in general it is impossible to disguise the fact that the Italians
as a nation really appreciate only the material effects of music,
and distinguish nothing but its exterior forms.
Indeed, I am much inclined to regard them as more inaccess-
ible to the poetical side of art, and to any conceptions at all


## p. 1812 (#616) ###########################################

1812
HECTOR BERLIOZ
above the common, than any other European nation. To the
Italians music is a sensual pleasure, and nothing more. For this
most beautiful form of expression they have scarcely more
respect than for the culinary art. In fact, they like music which
they can take in at first hearing, without reflection or attention,
just as they would do with a plate of macaroni.
Now, we French, mean and contemptible musicians as we
are, although we are no better than the Italians when we furi-
ously applaud a trill or a chromatic scale by the last new singer,
and miss altogether the beauty of some grand recitative or ani-
mated chorus, yet at least we can listen, and if we do not take
in a composer's ideas it is not our fault. Beyond the Alps, on
the contrary, people behave in a manner so humiliating both to
art and to artists, whenever any representation is going on, that
I confess I would as soon sell pepper and spice at a grocer's in
the Rue St. Denis as write an opera for the Italians — nay, I
would sooner do it.
Added to this, they are slaves to routine and to fanaticism to
a degree one hardly sees nowadays, even at the Academy. The
slightest unforeseen innovation, whether in melody, harmony,
rhythm, or instrumentation, puts them into a perfect fury; so
much so, that the dilcttanti of Rome, on the appearance of Ros-
sini's Barbiere di Seviglia' (which is Italian enough in all con-
science), were ready to kill the young maestro for having the
insolence to do anything unlike Paisiello.
But what renders all hope of improvement quite chimerical,
and tempts one to believe that the musical feeling of the Italians
mere necessary result of their organization,- the opinion
both of Gall and Spurzheim,- is their love for all that is dan-
cing, brilliant, glittering, and gay, to the utter neglect of the
various passions by which the characters are animated, and the
confusion of time and place - in a word, of good sense itself.
Their music is always laughing: and if by chance the composer
in the course of the drama permits himself for one moment not
to be absurd, he at once hastens back to his prescribed style, his
melodious roulades and grupetti, his trills and contemptible fri-
volities, either for voice or orchestra; and these, succeeding so
abruptly to something true to life, have an unreal effect, and give
the opera seria all the appearance of a parody or caricature.
I could quote plenty of examples from famous works; but
speaking generally of these artistic questions, is it not from Italy
is a


## p. 1813 (#617) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1813
that we get those stereotyped conventional forms adopted by so
many French composers, resisted by Cherubini and Spontini alone
among the Italians, though rejected entirely by the Germans ?
What well-organized person with any sense of musical expression
could listen to a quartet in which four characters, animated by
totally conflicting passions, should successively employ the same
melodious phrase to express such different words as these: “0, toi
que j'adore ! » "Quelle terreur me glace! ” “Mon cæur bat de
plaisir! ” "La fureur me transporte! ) To suppose that music
is a language so vague that the natural inflections of fury will
serve equally well for fear, joy, and love, only proves the absence
of that sense which to others makes the varieties of expression in
music as incontestable a reality as the existence of the sun.
I regard the course taken by Italian composers as the inevitable
result of the instincts of the public, which react more or less on
the composers themselves.
THE FAMOUS «SNUFF-BOX TREACHERY»
From the Autobiography
ow for another intrigue, still more cleverly contrived, the
black depths of which I hardly dare fathom. I incriminate
no one; I simply give the naked facts, without the smallest
commentary, but with scrupulous exactness. General Bernard
having himself informed me that my Requiem was to be per-
formed on certain conditions,
I was about to begin my
rehearsals when I was sent for by the Director of the Beaux-Arts.
“You know,” said he, “that Habeneck has been commissioned
to conduct all the great official musical festivals ? ” (“Come,
good! ” thought I: “here is another tile for my devoted head. ”)
“It is true that you are now in the habit of conducting the per-
formance of your works yourself; but Habeneck is an old man
(another tile), “and I happen to know that he will be deeply
hurt if he does not preside at your Requiem. What terms are
you on with him ? »
«What terms? We have quarreled. I hardly know why. For
three years he has not spoken to me. I am not aware of his
motives, and indeed have not cared to ask. He began by rudely
refusing to conduct one of my concerts. His behavior towards
me has been as inexplicable as it is uncivil. However, as I see


## p. 1814 (#618) ###########################################

1814
HECTOR BERLIOZ
plainly that he wishes on the present occasion to figure at Mar-
shal Damrémont's ceremony, and as it would evidently be agree-
able to you, I consent to give up the baton to him, on condition
that I have at least one full rehearsal. ”
"Agreed,” replied the Director; "I will let him know about
it. ”
The rehearsals were accordingly conducted with great care.
Habeneck spoke to me as if our relations with each other had
never been interrupted, and all seemed likely to go well.
The day of the performance arrived, in the Church of the
Invalides, before all the princes, peers, and deputies, the French
press, the correspondents of foreign papers, and an immense
crowd. It was absolutely essential for me to have a great suc-
cess; a moderate one would have been fatal, and a failure would
have annihilated me altogether.
Now listen attentively.
The various groups of instruments in the orchestra were
tolerably widely separated, especially the four brass bands intro-
duced in the Tuba mirum, each of which occupied a corner of
the entire orchestra. There is no pause between the "Dies Iræ'
and the ‘Tuba mirum,' but the pace of the latter movement is
reduced to half what it was before. At this point the whole of
the brass enters, first all together, and then in passages, answer-
ing and interrupting, each a third higher than the last. It is
obvious that it is of the greatest importance that the four beats
of the new tempo should be distinctly marked, or else the ter-
rible explosion, which I had so carefully prepared with combina-
tions and proportions never attempted before or since, and which,
rightly performed, gives such a picture of the Last Judgment as
I believe is destined to live, would be a mere enormous and
hideous confusion.
With my habitual mistrust, I had stationed myself behind
Habeneck, and turning my back on him, overlooked the group
of kettle-drums, which he could not see, when the moment
approached for them to take part in the general mêlée. There
are perhaps one thousand bars in my Requiem. Precisely in
that of which I have just been speaking, when the movement is
retarded, and the wind instruments burst in with their terrible
flourish of trumpets; in fact, just in the one bar where the con-
ductor's motion is absolutely indispensable, Habeneck puts down
his baton, quietly takes out his snuff box, and proceeds to take a


## p. 1815 (#619) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1815
pinch of snuff.
I always had my eye in his direction, and
instantly turned rapidly on one heel, and springing forward
before him, I stretched out my arm and marked the four great
beats of the new movement. The orchestras followed me, each
in order. I conducted the piece to the end, and the effect which
I had longed for was produced. When, at the last words of the
chorus, Habeneck saw that the Tuba mirum' was saved, he
said, "What a cold perspiration I have been in! Without you
we should have been lost. " "Yes, I know, I answered, looking
fixedly at him. I did not add another word.
Had he
done it on purpose ?
Could it be possible that this man
had dared to join my enemy, the Director, and Cherubini's
friends, in plotting and attempting such rascality? I don't wish
to believe it . . but I cannot doubt it. God forgive me if
I am doing the man injustice!
.
ON GLUCK
From the Autobiography
O"
F ALL the ancient composers, Gluck has, I believe, the least
to fear from the incessant revolutions of art. He sacri-
ficed nothing either to the caprices of singers, the exigen-
cies of fashion, or the inveterate routine with which he had to
contend on his arrival in France, after his protracted struggles
with the Italian theatres. Doubtless his conflicts at Milan,
Naples, and Parma, instead of weakening him, had increased his
strength by revealing its full extent to himself; for in spite of
the fanaticism then prevalent in our artistic customs, he broke
these miserable trammels and trod them underfoot with the
greatest ease. True, the clamor of the critics once succeeded in
forcing him into a reply; but it was the only indiscretion with
which he had to reproach himself, and thenceforth, as before,
he went straight to his aim in silence. We all know what that
aim was; we also know that it was never given to any man to
succeed more fully. With less conviction or less firmness, it is
probable that, notwithstanding his natural genius, his degenerate
works would not have long survived those of his mediocre rivals
now completely forgotten. But truth of expression, purity of
style, and grandeur of form belong to all time. Gluck's fine
passages will always be fine. Victor Hugo is right: the heart
never grows old.


## p. 1816 (#620) ###########################################

1816
HECTOR BERLIOZ
ON BACH
From the Autobiography
You
fou will not, my dear Demarest, expect an analysis from me
of Bach's great work: such a task would quite exceed my
prescribed limits. Indeed, the movement performed at the
Conservatoire three years ago may be considered the type of the
author's style throughout the work. The Germans profess an
unlimited admiration for Bach's recitatives; but their peculiar
characteristic necessarily escaped me, as I did not understand
the language and was unable to appreciate their expression.
Whoever is familiar with our musical customs in Paris must wit-
ness, in order to believe, the attention, respect, and even rever-
ence with which a German public listens to such a composition.
Every one follows the words on the book with his eyes; not a
movement among the audience, not a murmur of praise or blame,
not a sound of applause; they are listening to a solemn dis-
course, they are hearing the gospel sung, they are attending
divine service rather than a concert. And really such music
ought to be thus listened to. They adore Bach, and believe in
him, without supposing for a moment that his divinity could ever
be called into question. A heretic would horrify them, he is
forbidden even to speak of him. God is God and Bach is Bach.
Some days after the performance of Bach's chef d'æuvre, the
Singing Academy announced Graun's "Tod Jesu. ' This is another
sacred work, a holy book; the worshipers of which are, however,
mainly to be found in Berlin, whereas the religion of Bach is
professed throughout the north of Germany.
MUSIC AS AN ARISTOCRATIC ART
From the Autobiography
D"
RAMATIC art in the time of Shakespeare was more appreciated
by the masses than it is in our day by those nations which
lay most claim to possess a feeling for it. Music is essen-
tially aristocratic; it is a daughter of noble race, such as princes
only can dower nowadays; it must be able to live poor and un-
mated rather than form a mésalliance.


## p. 1817 (#621) ###########################################

HECTOR BERLIOZ
1817
THE BEGINNING OF A "GRAND PASSION »
From the Autobiography
I
HAVE now come to the grand drama of my life; but I shall
not relate all its painful details. It is enough to say that
an English company came over to perform Shakespeare's
plays, then entirely unknown in France, at the Odéon.
I was
present at the first performance of Hamlet,' and there, in the
part of Ophelia, I saw Miss Smithson, whom I married five years
afterward. I can only compare the effect produced by her won-
derful talent, or rather her dramatic genius, on my imagination
and heart, with the convulsion produced on my mind by the
work of the great poet whom she interpreted. It is impossible
to say more.
This sudden and unexpected revelation of Shakespeare over-
whelmed me. The lightning-flash of his genius revealed the
whole heaven of art to me, illuminating its remotest depths in a
single flash. I recognized the meaning of real grandeur, real
beauty, and real dramatic truth; and I also realized the utter
absurdity of the ideas circulated by Voltaire in France about
Shakespeare, and the pitiful pettiness of our old poetic school,
the offspring of pedagogues and frères ignorantins.
But the shock was too great, and it was a long while before
I recovered from it. I became possessed by an intense, over-
powering sense of sadness, that in my then sickly, nervous state
produced a mental condition adequately to describe which would
take a great physiologist. I could not sleep, I lost my spirits,
my favorite studies became distasteful to me, and I spent my
time wandering aimlessly about Paris and its environs. During
that long period of suffering, I can only recall four occasions on
which I slept, and then it was the heavy, death-like sleep pro-
duced by complete physical exhaustion. These were one night
when I had thrown myself down on some sheaves in a field near
Ville-Juif; one day in a meadow in the neighborhood of Sceaux;
once on the snow on the banks of the frozen Seine, near Neuilly;
and lastly, on a table in the Café du Cardinal at the corner of
the Boulevard des Italiens and the Rue Richelieu, where I slept
for five hours, to the terror of the garçons, who thought I was
dead and were afraid to come near me.


## p. 1818 (#622) ###########################################

1818
HECTOR BERLIOZ
It was on my return from one of these wanderings, in which
I must have seemed like one seeking his soul, that my eyes fell
on Moore's Irish Melodies,' lying open on my table at the song
beginning “When he who adores thee. " I seized my pen, and
then and there wrote the music to that heart-rending farewell,
which is published at the end of my collection of songs, 'Irlande,'
under the title of 'Elégie. ' This is the only occasion on which I
have been able to vent any strong feeling in music while still
under its influence.
And I think that I have rarely reached
such intense truth of musical expression, combined with so much
realistic power of harmony.
ON THEATRICAL MANAGERS IN RELATION TO ART
From the Autobiography)
I
HAVE often wondered why theatrical managers everywhere
have such a marked predilection for what genuine artists,
cultivated minds, and even, a certain section of the public
itself persist in regarding as very poor manufacture, short-lived
productions, the handiwork of which is as valueless as the raw
material itself. Not as though platitudes always succeeded better
than good works; indeed, the contrary is often the case. Neither
is it that careful compositions entail more expense than shoddy. ”
It is often just the other way. Perhaps it arises simply from the
fact that the good works demand the care, study, attention, and,
in certain cases, even the mind, talent, and inspiration of every
one in the theatre, from the manager down to the prompter.
The others, on the contrary, being made especially for lazy,
mediocre, superficial, ignorant, and silly people, naturally find a
great many supporters. Well! a manager likes, above every-
thing, whatever brings him in amiable speeches and satisfied
looks from his underlings, he likes things that require no learn-
ing and disturb no accepted ideas or habits, which gently go
with the stream of prejudice, and wound no self-love, because
they reveal no incapacity; in a word, things which do not take
too long to get up.


## p. 1819 (#623) ###########################################

1819
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
(1091-1153)
B
ORN in 1091, at Fontaines, a castle of his father Tescelin, near
Dijon, France, and devotedly instructed by his pious and
gentle mother Aleth, Bernard of Clairvaux was from early
childhood imbued with an active religious enthusiasm. When the
time came to choose his way of life, instead of going into battle
with his knighted brothers, he made them, as well as his uncle the
count of Touillon, join a band of thirty companions, with whom he
knelt in the rude chapel at Citeaux to beg the tonsure from Abbot
Stephen Harding. To rise at two o'clock
in the morning and chant the prayer-offices
of the church until nine, to do hard manual
labor until two, when the sole meal of the
day — composed of vegetable food only -
was taken, to labor again until nightfall
and sing the vespers until an early bed-
time hour: such was the Cistercian's daily
observance of his vows of poverty, chastity,
and obedience,- vows which Bernard and
his followers were to lay down only upon
the cross of ashes spread upon the hard
cell floor to receive their outstretched,
SAINT BERNARD
dying bodies.
Citeaux became famous from the coming of these new recruits.
There was, in those tough old days, a soldierly admiration for faith-
fulness to discipline; and when Bernard was professed in 1114, Abbot
Stephen was obliged to enlarge the field of work. Bernard was sent
in 1115 to build a house and clear and cultivate a farm in a thickly
wooded and thief-infested glen to the north of Dijon, known as the
Valley of Wormwood. Here at the age of twenty-four, in a rude
house built by their own hands with timber cut from the land, the
young abbot and his companions lived like the sturdy pioneers of
our Northwest, the earth their floor and narrow wooden bunks in a
low dark loft their beds. Of course the stubborn forest gave way
slowly, and grudgingly opened sunny hillsides to the vine and wheat-
sheaf. The name of the settlement was changed to Clairvaux, but
for many years the poor monks' only food was barley bread, with
broth made from boiled beech leaves. Here Tescelin came in his old



## p. 1820 (#624) ###########################################

1820
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
age to live under the rule of his sons; and Humbeline, the wealthy
and rank-proud daughter, one day left her gay retinue at the door of
their little abbey and went to join the nuns at Jouilly.
While Bernard was studying and planting at Clairvaux, the word
of his piety and worth went everywhere through the land, and he
came to be consulted not only by his Superior at Citeaux, but by
villein and noble, even to the august persons of Louis the Fat of
France and Henry the Norman of England. His gentleness and
integrity became the chief reliance of the royal house of France,
and his sermons and letters began to be quoted at council board and
synod even as far as Rome. The austerity and poverty of the Cis-
tercians had caused some friends of the monks of Cluny to fall under
Bernard's zealous indignation. He wrote to William of St. Thierry
a famous letter, mildly termed an Apology; in which, by the most
insinuating and biting satire, the laxity and indulgence which had
weakened or effaced the power of monastic example (from which
arraignment the proud house of Cluny was deemed not to escape
scot-free) were lashed with uncompromising courage.
France and Burgundy, with the more or less helpful aid of the
Norman dukes in England, had been very loyal to the interests of
the Papacy. When the schism of Anacletus II. arose in 1130, Inno-
cent II. , driven from Rome by the armed followers of Peter de
Leon, found his way at once to the side of Louis VI. There he
found Bernard, and upon him he leaned from that time until the
latter had hewed a road for him back to Rome through kings, prel-
ates, statesmen, and intriguers, with the same unflinching steadfast-
ness with which he had cut a way to the sunlight for his vines and
vegetables in the Valley of Wormwood. Bernard it was who per-
suaded Henry of England to side with Innocent, and it was he who
stayed the revival of the question of investitures and won the Em-
peror to the Pope at Liège. At the Council of Rheims in October
1131, Bernard was the central figure; and when the path was open
for a return to Italy, the restored Pope took the abbot with him,
leaving in return a rescript releasing Citeaux from tithes. Bernard
stayed in Italy until 1135, and left Innocent secure in Rome.
After a short period of peace at Clairvaux, he had to hurry off
again to Italy on account of the defection of the influential mon-
astery of Monte Casino to Anacletus.
Not long after his last return from Italy, Bernard met Pierre
Abélard. This brilliant and unfortunate man had incurred the
charge of heresy, and at some time in the year 1139 Bernard was
induced to meet and confer with him. Nothing seems to have re-
sulted from the conference, for Abélard went in 1140 to the Bishop
of Sens and demanded an opportunity of being confronted with


## p. 1821 (#625) ###########################################

SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
1821
Bernard at an approaching synod. The abbot of Clairvaux, although
unwilling, was at last persuaded to accept the challenge. . Louis
VII. , King of France, Count Theobald of Champagne, and the nobles
of the realm assembled to witness the notable contest. Abélard
came with a brilliant following; but on the second day of the synod,
to the surprise of everybody, ne abruptly closed the proceeding by
appealing to Rome. The works of Abélard were condemned, but his
appeal and person were respected, and Bernard prepared a strong
condemnatory letter to be sent to the Pope. As the great scholar
was on his way to Rome to follow his appeal, he stayed to rest at
Cluny with Peter the Venerable. who persuaded him to go to Ber-
nard. When the two great nearts met in the quiet of Clairvaux, all
animosities were resolved in peace; and Abélard, returning to Cluny,
abandoned his appeal and observed the rule of the house until his
death, which he endured, as Peter the Venerable wrote to Héloise,
fully prepared and comforted, at Châlons in 1142.
The infidels of the East having taken Edessa in 1146, the power
of the Christians in the Holy Land was broken; and Eugenius III. ,
who had been a monk of Clairvaux, appointed Bernard to preach a
new crusade.
He set on foot a vast host under the personal leader-
ship of Louis VII. and Conrad the Emperor, accompanied by Queen
Eleanor and many noble ladies of both realms. The ill fortunes
which attended this war brought to Bernard the greatest bitterness
of his life. So signal was the failure of the Second Crusade, that
but a pitiful remnant of the brilliant army which had crossed the
Bosphorus returned to Europe, and Bernard was assailed with exe-
cration from hut and castle throughout the length of Europe. His
only answer was as gentle as his life: “Better that I be blamed than
God. ” He did not neglect, however, to point out that the evil lives
and excesses of those who attempted the Crusade were the real
causes of the failure of the Christian arms.
In Languedoc in 1147 he quelled a dangerous heresy, and silenced
Gilbert, bishop of Poitiers, at the Council of Rheims.
In 1148 Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of Ireland,
who nine years before had visited Clairvaux and formed a lasting
friendship for Bernard, came there again to die in the arms of his
friend. It is related that the two saints had exchanged habits upon
the first visit, and that Malachy wore that of Bernard on his death-
bed. The funeral sermon preached by Bernard upon the life and
virtue of his Irish comrade is reputed to be one of the finest extant.
It seemed as if the Gael had come to show the Goth the way of
death. Bernard's health, early broken by self-imposed austerity and
penances, had never been robust, and it had often seemed that
nothing but the vigor of his will had kept him from the grave. In


## p. 1822 (#626) ###########################################

1822
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
the year 1153 he was stricken with a fatal illness. Yet when the
archbishop of Trèves came to his bedside, imploring his aid to put
an end to an armed quarrel between the nobles and the people of
Metz, he went cheerfully but feebly to the field between the con-
tending parties, and by words which came with pain and in the
merest whispers, he persuaded the men who were already at each
other's throats to forget their enmities.
He died at Clairvaux on January 12th, 1153, and was buried, as he
wished, in the habit of Saint Malachy. In 1174 he was sainted, and
his life is honored in the liturgy of the church on the 20th of August.
The marks of Saint Bernard's character were sweetness and gentle
tolerance in the presence of honest opposition, and implacable vigor
against shams and evil-doing. His was the perfect type of well-regu-
lated individual judgment. His humility and love of poverty were
true and unalterable. In Italy he refused the mitres of Genoa and
Milan in turn, and in France successively declined the sees of Châlons,
Langres, and Rheims. He wrote and spoke with simplicity and
directness, and with an energy and force of conviction which came
from absolute command of his subject. He did not disdain to use a
good-tempered jest as occasion required, and his words afford some
pleasant examples of naive puns. He was a tireless letter-writer, and
some of his best writings are in that form. He devoted much labor
to his sermons on the Canticle of Canticles, the work remaining un-
finished at his death. He wrote a long poem on the Passion, one
beautiful hymn of which is included in the Roman Breviary.
SAINT BERNARD'S HYMN
J
ESU! the very thought of thee
With sweetness fills my breast,
But sweeter far thy face to see
And in thy presence rest.
Nor voice can sing nor heart can frame,
Nor can the memory find,
A sweeter sound than thy blest name,
O Savior of mankind!
O hope of every contrite heart!
O joy of all the meek!
To those who fall, how kind thou art,
How good to those who seek!
But what to those who find ? Ah, this
Nor tongue nor pen can show.


## p. 1823 (#627) ###########################################

SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
1823
The love of Jesus, what it is
None but his loved ones know.
Jesu! our only joy be thou,
As thou our prize wilt be!
Jesu! be thou our glory now
And through eternity!
MONASTIC LUXURY
From the Apology to the Abbot William of St. Thierry
THER
HERE is no conversation concerning the Scriptures, none con-
cerning the salvation of souls; but small-talk, laughter, and
idle words fill the air. At dinner the palate and ears are
equally tickled — the one with dainties, the other with gossip and
news, which together quite prevent all moderation in feeding. In
the mean time dish after dish is set on the table; and to make
up for the small privation of meat, a double supply is provided
of well-grown fish. When you have eaten enough of the first, if
you taste the second course, you will seem to yourself hardly to
have touched the former: such is the art of the cooks, that after
four or five dishes have been devoured, the first does not seem
to be in the way of the last, nor does satiety invade the appe-
tite.
Who could say, to speak of nothing else, in how
many forms eggs are cooked and worked up? with what care they
are turned in and out, made hard or soft, or chopped fine; now
fried, now roasted, now stuffed; now they are served mixed with
other things, now by themselves. Even the external appearance
of the dishes is such that the
eye,
,
well as the taste, is
charmed.
Not only have we lost the spirit of the old monasteries, but
even its outward appearance. For this habit of ours, which of
old was the sign of humility, by the monks of our day is turned
into a source of pride. We can hardly find in a whole province
wherewithal we condescend to be clothed. · The monk and the
knight cut their garments, the one his cowl, the other his cloak,
from the same piece. No secular person, however great, whether
king or emperor, would be disgusted at our vestments if they
were only cut and fitted to his requirements.
But, say you,
religion is in the heart, not in the garments ?
True; but you,
when you are about to buy a cowl, rush over the towns, visit the
as


## p. 1824 (#628) ###########################################

1824
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
markets, examine the fairs, dive into the houses of the merchants,
turn over all their goods, undo their bundles of cloth, feel it with
your fingers, hold it to your eyes or to the rays of the sun, and
if anything coarse or faded appears, you reject it. But if you are
pleased with any object of unusual beauty or brightness, you at
once buy it, whatever the price. I ask you, Does this come from
the heart, or your simplicity ?
I wonder that our abbots allow these things, unless it arises
from the fact that no one is apt to blame any error with confi-
dence if he cannot trust in his own freedom from the same; and
it is a right human quality to forgive without much anger those
self-indulgences in others for which we ourselves have the strong-
est inclination. How is the light of the world overshadowed!
Those whose lives should have been the way of life to us, by
the example they give of pride, become blind leaders of the
blind. What a specimen of humility is that, to march with such
pomp and retinue, to be surrounded with such an escort of hairy
men, so that one abbot has about him people enough for two
bishops. I lie not when I say, I have seen an abbot with sixty
horses after him, and even more. Would you not think, as you
see them pass, that they were not fathers of monasteries, but
lords of castles — not shepherds of souls, but princes of prov-
inces? Then there is the baggage, containing table-cloths, and
cups and basins, and candlesticks, and well-filled wallets - not
with the coverlets, but the ornaments of the beds.
My lord
abbot can never go more than four leagues from his home with-
out taking all his furniture with him, as if he were going to
the wars, or about to cross a desert where necessaries cannot be
had. Is it quite impossible to wash one's hands in, and drink
from, the same vessel ? Will not your candle burn anywhere
but in that gold or silver candlestick of yours, which you carry
with you? Is sleep impossible except upon a variegated mat-
tress, or under a foreign coverlet? Could not one servant har-
ness the mule, wait at dinner, and make the bed ?
If such a
multitude of men and horses is indispensable, why not at least
carry with us our necessaries, and thus avoid the severe burden
we are to our hosts?
By the sight of wonderful and costly vanities men
prompted to give, rather than to pray. Some beautiful picture
of a saint is exhibited and the brighter the colors the greater
the holiness attributed to it: men run, eager to kiss; they are
are


## p. 1825 (#629) ###########################################

SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
1825
near
invited to give, and the beautiful is more admired than the
sacred is revered. In the churches are suspended, not corona,
but wheels studded with gems and surrounded by lights, which
are scarcely brighter than the precious stones which are
them. Instead of candlesticks, we behold great trees of brass
fashioned with wonderful skill, and glittering as much through
their jewels as their lights. What do you suppose is the object
of all this? The repentance of the contrite, or the admiration
of the gazers ? O vanity of vanities! but not more vain than
foolish. The church's walls are resplendent, but the poor are
not there.
The curious find wherewith to amuse them-
selves; the wretched find no stay for them in their misery.
Why at least do we not reverence the images of the saints,
with which the very pavement we walk on is covered ? Often
an angel's mouth is spit into, and the face of some saint trodden
on by passers-by.
But if we cannot do without the
images, why can we not spare the brilliant colors ? What has
all this to do with monks, with professors of poverty, with men
of spiritual minds?
Again, in the cloisters, what is the meaning of those ridicu-
lous monsters, of that deformed beauty, that beautiful deformity,
before the very eyes of the brethren when reading? What are
disgusting monkeys there for, or satyrs, or ferocious lions, or
monstrous centaurs, or spotted tigers, or fighting soldiers, or
huntsmen sounding the bugle ? You may see there one head
with many bodies, or one body with numerous heads. Here is
a quadruped with a serpent's tail; there is a fish with a beast's
head; there a creature, in front a horse, behind a goat; another
has horns at one end, and a horse's tail at the other. In fact,
such an endless variety of forms appears everywhere, that it is
more pleasant to read in the stonework than in books, and to
spend the day in admiring these oddities than in meditating on
the law of God. Good God! if we are not ashamed of these
absurdities, why do we not grieve at the cost of them ?
III-115


## p. 1826 (#630) ###########################################

1826
SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
FROM HIS SERMON ON THE DEATH OF GERARD
“As the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. ” — Sol. Song i. 5
PER
ERHAPS both members of the comparison — viz. , “As the tents
of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon ” — refer only to the
first words, "I am black. ” It may be, however, that the
simile is extended to both clauses, and each is compared with
each. The former sense is the more simple, the latter the more
obscure. Let us try both, beginning with the latter, which seems
the more difficult. There is no difficulty, however, in the first
comparison, “I am black as the tents of Kedar,” but only in the
last. For Kedar, which is interpreted to mean “darkness or
"gloom," may be compared with blackness justly enough; but
the curtains of Solomon are not so easily likened to beauty.
Moreover, who does not see that “tents” fit harmoniously with
the comparison ? For what is the meaning of “tents” except
our bodies, in which we sojourn for a time? Nor have we an
abiding city, but we seek one to come. In our bodies, as under
tents, we carry on warfare. Truly, we are violent to take the
kingdom. Indeed, the life of man here on earth is a warfare;
and as long as we do battle in this body, we are absent from
the Lord, - i. e. , from the light. For the Lord is light; and so
far as any one is not in Him, so far he is in darkness, i. l. , in
Kedar. Let each one then acknowledge the sorrowful exclama-
tion as his own:-“Woe is me that my sojourn is prolonged! I
have dwelt with those who dwell in Kedar. My soul hath long
sojourned in a strange land. ” Therefore this habitation of the
body is not the mansion of the citizen, nor the house of the
native, but either the soldier's tent or the traveler's inn. This
body, I say, is a tent, and a tent of Kedar, because, by its inter-
ference, it prevents the soul from beholding the infinite light, nor
does it allow her to see the light at all, except through a glass
darkly, and not face to face.
Do you not see whence blackness comes to the Church
whence a certain rust cleaves to even the fairest souls ? Doubt-
less it comes from the tents of Kedar, from the practice of
laborious warfare, from the long continuance of a painful so-
journ, from the straits of our grievous exile, from our feeble,
cumbersome bodies; for the corruptible body presseth down the
soul, and the earthly tabernacle weigheth down the mind that


## p. 1827 (#631) ###########################################

SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
1827
museth upon many things. Therefore the souls' desire to be
loosed, that being freed from the body they may fly into the
embraces of Christ. Wherefore one of the miserable ones said,
groaning, “O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me
from the body of this death! ” For a soul of this kind knoweth
that, while in the tents of Kedar, she cannot be entirely free
from spot or wrinkle, nor from stains of blackness, and wishes
to go forth and to put them off. And here we have the reason
why the spouse calls herself black as the tents of Kedar. But
now, how is she beautiful as the curtains of Solomon ? Behind
these curtains I feel that an indescribable holiness and sub-
limity are veiled, which I dare not presume to touch, save at
the command of Him who shrouded and sealed the mystery.
For I have read, He that is a searcher of Majesty shall be over-
whelmed with the glory. I pass on therefore. It will devolve
on you, meanwhile, to obtain grace by your prayers, that we
may the more readily, because more confidently, recur to a sub-
ject which needs attentive minds; and it may be that the pious
knocker at the door will discover what the bold explorer seeks
in vain.


## p. 1828 (#632) ###########################################

1828
BERNARD OF CLUNY
Twelfth Century
BY WILLIAM C. PRIME
ITTLE is known concerning the monk Bernard, sometimes
called Bernard of Morlay and sometimes Bernard of Cluny.
The former name is probably derived from the place of his
origin, the latter from the fact that in the introduction to his poem
De Contemptu Mundi' he describes himself as a brother of the
monks of Cluny. He lived in the twelfth century, a period of much
learning in the church; and that he was himself a man of broad
scholarship and brilliant abilities, the Latin poem, his only surviving
work, abundantly testifies.
This poem, divided int ree books, consists in all of about three
thousand lines. It is introduced by a short address in prose to
Father Peter, the abbot of the monastery, in which the author
describes the peculiar operations of his mind in undertaking and
accomplishing his marvelous poem. He believes and asserts, “not
arrogantly, but in all humility and therefore boldly, that he had
divine aid. "Unless the spirit of wisdom and understanding had been
with me and filled me, I had never been able to construct so long a
work in such a difficult metre. ”
This metre is peculiar. In technical terms each line consists of
three parts: the first part including two dactyls, the second part two
dactyls, the third part one dactyl and one trochee. The final trochee,
a long and a short syllable, rhymes with the following or preceding
line. There is also a rhyme, in each line, of the second dactyl with
the fourth. This will be made plain to the ordinary reader by
quoting the first two lines of the poem, divided into feet:-
Hora no | vissima | tempora | pessima | sunt, vigi | lemus;
Ecce mi | naciter | imminet | arbiter | ille su | premus.
The adoption of such a metre would seem to be a clog on flexi-
bility and force of expression. But in this poem it is not so. The
author rejoices in absolute freedom of diction. The rhythm and
rhyme alike lend themselves to the uses, now of bitter satire and
revilings, now of overpowering hope and exultant joy.
The title scarcely gives an idea of the subject matter of the
The old Benedictine, living for the time in his cell, had
nevertheless known the world of his day, had lived in it and be
poem.