No More Learning

Death itself did not frighten him. He was not of those who
reconcile themselves to it as well as they can by never thinking
about it. On the contrary, he counsels us to have it always in
mind. "Think that the day which lights you is the last you
have to live. The morrow will have more charm for you if you
have not hoped to see it: "—
« Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum;
Grata superveniet quæ non sperabitur hora. ”
This is not, as might be supposed, one of those bravadoes of
the timid, who shout before Death in order to deaden the sound
of his footsteps. Horace was never more calm, more energetic,
more master of his mind and of his soul, than in the works of
his ripe age.
The last lines of his that remain to us are the
firmest and most serene he ever wrote.
Then, more than ever, must he have loved the little Sabine
valley. When we visit these beautiful tranquil spots, we tell
ourselves that they appear made to shelter the declining years of
a sage. It seems as if with old servants, a few faithful friends,
and a stock of well-chosen books, the time must pass there with-
out sadness. But I must stop. Since Horace has not taken us
into his confidence respecting his last years, and nobody after him
has told us of them, we are reduced to form conjectures, and we
should put as few of them as possible into the life of a man
who loved truth so well.
Copyrighted by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

## p. 2168 (#366) ###########################################

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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GEORGE BORROW
2177
upon her traitors and seducers! With what savage sarcasm and scorn
does he dissect the soul of the "man in black"! No other writing
more powerful, picturesque, and idiomatic has been done in this cen-
tury. He will advocate no policy less austere than purity, courage,
and truth. There is in his zeal a narrowness that augments its
strength, yet lessens its effect so far as practical issues are con-
cerned. He is an idealist: but surely no young man can read his
stern, throbbing pages without a kindling of the soul, and a resolve
to be high in deed and aim; and there is no gauging the final in-
fluence of such spiritual stimulus. England and mankind must be
better for this lonely, indignant voice.
England, and England's religion, and the Bible in its integrity,-
these are the controlling strings of Borrow's harp. Yet he had his
youthful period of religious doubt and philosophic sophism: has he
not told how walls and ceilings rang with the "Hey! " of the man
with the face of a lion, when the gray-haired boy intimated his skep-
ticism? But vicissitudes of soul and body, aided by the itinerant
Welsh preacher, cleansed him of these errors, and he undertook
and carried through the famous crusade recorded in The Bible in
Spain,' a narrative of adventure and devotion which fascinated and
astonished England, and sets its author abreast of the great writers
of his time. It is as irresistible to-day as it was fifty years ago: it
stands alone; only Trelawny's Adventures of a Younger Son' can
be compared with it as narrative, and Trelawny's book lacks the
grand central feature which gives dignity and unity to Borrow's.
Being a story of fact, 'The Bible in Spain' lacks much of the liter-
ary art and felicity, as well as the imaginative charm, of 'Lavengro';
but within its own scope it is great, and nothing can supersede it.
Gipsydom in all its aspects, though logically a side-issue with
Borrow, was nevertheless the most noticeable thing relating to him:
it engaged and colored him on the side of his temperament; and in
the picture we form of a man, temperament tells far more than
intellect because it is more individual. Later pundits have called
in question the academic accuracy of Borrow's researches in the
Romany language: but such frettings are beside the mark; Borrow is
the only genuine expounder of Gipsyness that ever lived. He laid
hold of their vitals, and they of his; his act of brotherhood with Mr.
Jasper Petulengro is but a symbol of his mystical alliance with the
race. This is not to say that he fathomed the heart of their mys-
tery; the gipsies themselves cannot do that: but he comprehended
whatever in them is open to comprehension, and his undying interest
in them is due not only to his sympathy with their way of life, but
to the fact that his curiosity about them could never be quite satis-
fied. Other mysteries come and go, but the gipsy mystery stays with
IV-137


## p. 2178 (#376) ###########################################

2178
GEORGE BORROW
us, and was to Borrow a source of endless content. For after sharp-
ening his wits on the ethnological riddle, he could refresh himself
with the psychical aspect of the matter, discovering in them the incar-
nation of one essential human quality, incompletely present in all
men. They are the perfect vagabonds; but the germ of vagabondage
inheres in mankind at large, and is the source of the changes that
have resulted in what we call civilization. Borrow's nature comprised
the gipsy, but the gipsy by no means comprised him; he wandered
like them, but the object of his wanderings was something more than
to tell dukkeripens, poison pigs, mend kettles, or deal in horseflesh.
Therefore he puzzled them more than they did him.
'The Gipsies of Spain' (1841) was his first book about them;
'Lavengro' came ten years later, and 'Romany Rye' six years after
that. In 1874 he returns to the subject in 'Roman Lavo-lil,' a sort
of dictionary and phrase-book of the language, but unlike any other
dictionary and phrase-book ever conceived: it is well worth reading
as a piece of entertaining literature. His other books are translations
of Norse and Welsh poetry, and a book of travels in 'Wild Wales,'
published in 1862. All these works are more than readable: the
translations, though rugged and unmusical, have about them a frank.
sensuousness and a primitive force that are amusing and attractive.
But after all, Borrow is never thoroughly himself in literature unless
the gipsies are close at hand; and of all his gipsy books Laven-
gro' is by far the best. Indeed, it is so much the best and broadest
thing that he produced, that the reader who would know Borrow
need never go beyond these pages. In 'Lavengro' we get the cul-
mination of both the author and the man; it is his book in the full
sense, and may afford profitable study to any competent reader for a
lifetime.
'Lavengro, in fact, is like nothing else in either biography or
fiction and it is both fictitious and biographical. It is the gradual
revelation of a strange, unique being. But the revelation does not
proceed in an orderly and chronological fashion: it is not begun in
the first chapter, and still less is it completed in the last. After a
careful perusal of the book, you will admit that though it has fasci-
nated and impressed you, you have quite failed to understand it.
Why is the author so whimsical? Wherefore these hinted but uncon-
fessed secrets? Why does he stop short on the brink of an important
disclosure, and diverge under cover of a line of asterisks into another
subject? But Borrow in 'Lavengro' is not constructing a book, he
is creating one. He has the reserves of a man who respects his own
nature, yet he treats the reader fairly. If you are worthy to be his
friend, by-and-by you will see his heart,—look again, and yet again!
That passage in a former chapter was incomplete; but look ahead a
-
---


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GEORGE BORROW
2179
hundred pages and consider a paragraph there: by itself it seems to
say little; but gradually you recognize in it a part of the inwoven
strand which disappears in one part of the knot and emerges in
another. Though you cannot solve the genial riddle to-day, you may
to-morrow. The only clue is sympathy. This man hides his heart
for him who has the mate to it; and beneath the whimsical, indiffer-
ent, proud, and cold exterior, how it heaves and fears and loves and
wonders! This is a wild, unprecedented, eloquent, mysterious, artistic
yet artless book; it is alive; it tells of an existence apart, yet in con-
tact with the deep things of all human experience. No other man
ever lived as Borrow did, and yet his book is an epitome of life.
The magic of his personal quality beguiles us on every page; but
deeper still lie the large, immutable traits that make all men men,
and avouch the unity of mankind.
'Romany Rye' is the continuation of 'Lavengro,' but scarcely
repeats its charm; its most remarkable feature is an 'Appendix,' in
which Borrow expounds his views upon things in general, including
critics and politics. It is a marvelously trenchant piece of writing,
and from the literary point of view delightful; but it must have hurt
a good many people's feelings at the time it was published, and even
now shows the author on his harsh side only. We may agree with
all he says, and yet wish he had uttered it in a less rasping tone.
Like nearly all great writers, Borrow, in order to get his best
effects, must have room for his imagination. Mere fact would not
rouse him fully, and abstract argument still less. In 'Lavengro' he
hit upon his right vein, and he worked it in the fresh maturity of
his power.
The style is Borrow's own, peculiar to him: eloquent,
rugged, full of liturgical repetitions, shunning all soft assonances and
refinements, and yet with remote sea-like cadences, and unhackneyed
felicities that rejoice the jaded soul. Writing with him was spon-
taneous, but never heedless or unconsidered; it was always the out-
come of deep thought and vehement feeling. Other writers and
their books may be twain, but Borrow and his books are one. Per-
haps they might be improved in art, or arrangement, or subject; but
we should no longer care for them then, because they would cease
to be Borrow. Borrow may not have been a beauty or a saint; but
a man he was; and good or bad, we would not alter a hair of him.
Nothing like an adequate biography of Borrow has ever been pub-
lished: a few dates, and some more or less intelligent opinions about
his character and work, are the sum of what we know of him-out-
side his own books. Some of the dates are probably guess-work;
most of the opinions are incompetent: it is time that some adequate
mind assembled all available materials and digested them into a sat-
isfactory book. It is hardly worth while to review the few meagre


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2180
GEORGE BORROW
details. Borrow was born in 1803 and died in 1881; his father, a sol-
dier, failed to make a solicitor of him, and the youth, at his father's
death, came up to London to live or die by literature. After much
hardship (of which the chapters in 'Lavengro' describing the produc-
tion of 'Joseph Sell' convey a hint), he set out on a wandering pil-
grimage over England, Europe, and the East. As agent for the
British and Foreign Bible Society he traversed Spain and Portugal,
sending to the Morning Herald letters descriptive of his adventures,
which afterwards were made the substance of his books.
He mar-
ried at thirty-seven, and lived at Outton Broad nearly all his life
after. His wife died a dozen years before him, in 1869. She left no
children.
His first book, a translation of Klinger's 'Faust,' appeared in 1825;
his last, The Gipsy Dictionary,' in 1874; a volume called 'Penquite
and Pentyre,' on Cornwall, was announced in 1857, but seems never
to have been published. Targum,' a collection of translations from
thirty languages and dialects, was a tour de force belonging to the
year 1835. On the whole, Borrow was not a voluminous writer; but
what he wrote tells.
Durian Hanthome
AT THE HORSE-FAIR
From Lavengro
"W
HAT horse is that? " said I to a very old fellow, the
counterpart of the old man on the pony, save that the
last wore a faded suit of velveteen, and this one was
dressed in a white frock.
"The best in mother England," said the very old man, taking
a knobbed stick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at
first carelessly, but presently with something like interest; "he is
old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. You
won't live long, my swain; tall and overgrown ones like thee
never do: yet, if you should chance to reach my years, you
may boast to thy great-grand-boys, thou hast seen Marshland
Shales. "
Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl
or baron, doffed my hat; yes! I doffed my hat to the wondrous
horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England; and I too


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GEORGE BORROW
2181
drew a deep ah! and repeated the words of the old fellows
around. "Such a horse as this we shall never see again; a pity
that he is so old. "
Now, during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I
had been the object of some person's observation; that eyes were
fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I
thought myself watched from before, sometimes from behind; and
occasionally methought that if I just turned my head to the right
or left, I should meet a peering and inquiring glance; and indeed,
once or twice I did turn, expecting to see somebody whom I
knew, yet always without success; though it appeared to me that
I was but a moment too late, and that some one had just slipped
away from the direction to which I turned, like the figure in a
magic lantern. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of
eyes glaring over my right shoulder; my attention, however, was
so fully occupied with the objects which I have attempted to
describe, that I thought very little of this coming and going, this
flitting and dodging of I knew not whom or what. It was after
all a matter of sheer indifference to me who was looking at me.
I could only wish whomsoever it might be to be more profitably
employed, so I continued enjoying what I saw; and now there
was a change in the scene: the wondrous old horse departed with
his aged guardian; other objects of interest are at hand. Two or
three men on horseback are hurrying through the crowd; they are
widely different in their appearance from the other people of the
fair-not so much in dress, for they are clad something after
the fashion of rustic jockeys, but in their look: no light-brown
hair have they, no ruddy cheeks, no blue quiet glances belong to
them; their features are dark, the locks long, black, and shining,
and their eyes are wild; they are admirable horsemen, but they
do not sit the saddle in the manner of common jockeys, they
seem to float or hover upon it like gulls upon the waves; two
of them are mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man
with a countenance heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As
they rush along, the crowd give way on all sides, and now a
kind of ring or circus is formed, within which the strange men
exhibit their horsemanship, rushing past each other, in and out,
after the manner of a reel, the tall man occasionally balancing
himself upon the saddle, and standing erect on one foot. He had
just regained his seat after the latter feat, and was about to push
his horse to a gallop, when a figure started forward close from.


## p. 2182 (#380) ###########################################

2182
GEORGE BORROW
beside me, and laying his hand on his neck, and pulling him
gently downward, appeared to whisper something into his ear;
presently the tall man raised his head, and scanning the crowd
for a moment in the direction in which I was standing, fixed his
eyes full upon me; and anon the countenance of the whisperer
was turned, but only in part, and the side-glance of another pair
of wild eyes was directed towards my face; but the entire visage
of the big black man, half-stooping as he was, was turned full
upon mine.
But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and
with another inquiring glance at myself, the big man once more
put his steed into motion, and after riding round the ring a few
more times, darted through a lane in the crowd, and followed
by his two companions, disappeared; whereupon the figure who
had whispered to him, and had subsequently remained in the
middle of the space, came towards me, and cracking a whip
which he held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearly
equal to that of a pocket-pistol, he cried in a strange tone:—
"What! the sap-engro? Lor! the sap-engro upon the hill! »
"I remember that word," said I, "and I almost think I
remember you. You can't be - "
"Jasper, your pal!
Truth, and no lie, brother. "
"It is strange that you should have known me," said I. "I
am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have rec-
ognized you. "
"Not so strange as you may think, brother: there is some-
thing in your face which would prevent people from forgetting
you, even though they might wish it; and your face is not much
altered since the time you wot of, though you are so much
grown.
I thought it was you, but to make sure I dodged about,
inspecting you. I believe you felt me, though I never touched
you; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui palor-
two relations. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine
always does at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers
in that lane. "
"And where are you staying? " said I: "in this town? "
"Not in the town; the like of us don't find it exactly whole-
some to stay in towns: we keep abroad. But I have little to do
here- come with me, and I'll show you where we stay. "
We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and pass-
ing along the suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which we


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GEORGE BORROW
2183
crossed; the chalk precipice, with the ruin on its top, was now
before us; but turning to the left we walked swiftly along, and
presently came to some rising ground, which ascending, we
found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath.
"You are one of them," said I, "whom people call- »
"Just so," said Jasper; "but never mind what people call us. "
"And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whis-
pered: I suppose he's one of ye. What is his name? "
"Tawno Chikno," said Jasper, "which means the small one;
we call him such because he is the biggest man of all our
nation. You say he is handsome- that is not the word, brother;
he's the beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of
Tawno. An earl's daughter, near London a fine young lady
with diamonds round her neck- fell in love with Tawno. I
have seen that lass on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to
Tawno, clasp his feet, begging to be his wife or anything
else if she might go with him. But Tawno would have noth-
ing to do with her: 'I have a wife of my own,' said he, 'a law-
ful Romany wife, whom I love better than the whole world, jeal-
ous though she sometimes be. >»
"And is she very beautiful? " said I.
"Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of
taste; however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so
beautiful as himself. "
____________________
――――――――
――
――――――
We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills, or
downs, the sides of which were covered with furze; in the midst
of this valley were various carts and low tents forming a rude
kind of encampment; several dark children were playing about,
who took no manner of notice of us. As we passed one of the
tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman sup-
ported upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middle
age, and besides being lame, was bitterly ugly; she was very
slovenly dressed, and on her swarthy features ill-nature was most
visibly stamped. She did not deign me a look, but addressing
Jasper in a tongue which I did not understand, appeared to put
some eager questions to him.
"He's coming," said Jasper, and passed on. "Poor fellow,"
said he to me, "he has scarcely been gone an hour, and she is
jealous already. Well," he continued, "what do you think of
her? you have seen her now, and can judge for yourself — that
'ere woman is Tawno Chikno's wife! "


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2184
GEORGE BORROW
We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight
distance from the rest, and which exactly resembled the one
which I have described on a former occasion; we went in and
sat down, one on each side of a small fire which was smoldering
on the ground; there was no one else in the tent but a tall
tawny woman of middle age, who was busily knitting.
"Brother,"
said Jasper, "I wish to hold some pleasant discourse with you. "
"As much as you please," said I, "provided you can find
anything pleasant to talk about. ”
"Never fear," said Jasper; "and first of all we will talk of
yourself. Where have you been all this long time? "
"Here and there," said I, "and far and near, going about
with the soldiers; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat
down, father and family, in the town there. "
"And do you still hunt snakes? " said Jasper.
"No," said I, "I have given up that long ago; I do better
now: read books and learn languages. "
"Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting;
many's the strange talk I have had with our people about your
snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and
mother in the lane. "
"And where are your father and mother? "
"Where I shall never see them, brother; at least, I hope so. "
"Not dead? "
"No, not dead; they are bitchadey pawdel. "
"What's that? '
"Sent across - banished. "
―――――
"Ah! I understand; I am sorry for them.
here alone? "
And so you are
"Not quite alone, brother. "
"No, not alone; but with the rest-Tawno Chikno takes care
of you. "
"Takes care of me, brother! "
"Yes, stands to you in the place of a father-keeps you out
of harm's way. >>>
"What do you take me for, brother? "
"For about three years older than myself. "
"Perhaps; but you are of the gorgios, and I am a Romany
Chal. Tawno Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro! "
"Is that your name? "
"Don't you like it? "


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GEORGE BORROW
2185
"Very much, I never heard a sweeter; it is something like
what you call me. "
"The horseshoe master and the snake-fellow-I am the first. "
"Who gave you that name ? »
"Ask Pharaoh. "
"I would if he were here, but I do not see him. "
"I am Pharaoh. "
"Then you are a king. "
"Chachipen Pal.