Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net MY COMMONPLACE BOOK J. T. HACKETT â_Omne meum, nihil meum_â T. FISHER UNWIN LTD LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE _First publication in Great Britain, September, 1919._ _Second English Edition, September, 1920._ _Third English Edition, January, 1921._ _O Memories!_ _O Past that is!_ GEORGE ELIOT. * * * * * DEDICATED TO MY DEAR FRIEND _RICHARD HODGSON_ WHO HAS PASSED OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE _Of wounds and sore defeat_ _I made my battle-stay;_ _WingÃ¨d sandals for my feet_ _I wove of my delay;_ _Of weariness and fear_ _I made my shouting spear;_ _Of loss, and, doubt, and dread,_ _And swift oncoming doom_ _I made a helmet for my head_ _And a floating plume._ _From the shutting mist of death,_ _From the failure of the breath_ _I made a battle-horn to blow_ _Across the vales of overthrow._ _O hearken, love, the battle-horn!_ _The triumph clear, the silver scorn!_ _O hearken where the echoes bring,_ _Down the grey disastrous morn,_ _Laughter and rallying!_[1] WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY. * * * * * _I cannot but remember such things were,_ _That were most precious to me._ MACBETH, IV, 3. PREFACE[2] A large proportion of the most interesting quotations in this book was collected between 1874 and 1886. During that period I was under the influence of Richard Hodgson, who was my close friend from childhood. To him directly and indirectly this book is largely indebted. Hodgson (1855-1905) had a remarkably pure, noble, and lovable character, and was one of the most gifted men Australia has produced. He is known in philosophic circles from some early contributions to _Mind_ and other journals, but is mainly known from his work in psychical research, to which he devoted the best years of his life. Apart from his great ability in other directions, he was endowed, even in youth, with fine taste and a clear and mature literary judgment. This will appear to some extent in the quotations over his name, and the note on p. 208 will give further particulars of his career. He was from two to three years older than myself, and guided me in my early reading. Therefore, indirectly, he has to do with most of the contents of this book. But, more than this, about one-third of the main quotations (not including the notes which I have only now added) came direct from Hodgson. He left Australia in 1877, but we maintained a voluminous correspondence until 1886. This correspondence contained most of the quotations referred to, and the remainder Hodgson gave me in London on the only occasion I met him after he left Australia. (After 1886 he became so immersed in psychical research, and I in legal work, that our correspondence ceased to be of a literary character.) Thus directly and indirectly Hodgson has much to do with the bookâand, if it had been practicable, I would have placed his name on the title-page. This book is simply one to be taken up at odd moments, like any other collection of quotations. But there are two reasons why it may have some special interest. One reason is that it includes passages from a number of authors who appear to have become forgotten, or, at any rate, to be passing Lethe-wards. We, who dwell in the underworld,[3] cannot, of course, have a complete knowledge of what is known or forgotten in the inner literary circles of England. We can depend only on the books and periodicals that happen to come to our hands, and perhaps should not rely too much on such sources of information. Yet I cannot but think that Robert Buchanan, for example, has become largely forgotten, and apparently this is the case also with a number of other authors from whom I quote. Because of this, I have retained all the passages I had from such authors. It must be remembered that this book is not an anthology. A commonplace book is usually a collection of _reminders_ made by a young man who cannot afford an extensive library. There is no system in such a collection. A book is borrowed and extracts made from it; another book by the same author is _bought_ and no extract made from it. On the one hand a favourite verse, although well known, is written out for some reason or other; on the other hand hundreds of beautiful poems are omitted. So far from this being an anthology, I have, as a matter of course, omitted many poems that since the seventy-eighty period have become general favourites; and, as regards the most beautiful gems of our literature, they are almost all excluded. There are for example, only a few lines from Shakespeare. Some exceptions have, however, been made. In a series of word-pictures, a few of the best-known passages will be found. A few others have been included for reasons that will readily appear; they either form part of a series or the reason is apparent from the notes. Apart from these I have retained Blanco Whiteâs great sonnet and âThe Night has a thousand eyes,â written by F. W. Bourdillon when an undergraduate at Worcester College, Oxford, because with regard to these I had an interesting and instructive experience. I accidentally discovered that of four well-read men (two at least of them more thorough students of poetry than myself) two were ignorant of the one poem and two of the other. Seeking an explanation, I turned to the anthologies. I could not find in any of them Bourdillonâs little gem until I came to the comparatively recent _Oxford Book of Victorian Verse_ and _The Spirit of Man_. The Blanco White sonnet I could find _nowhere_ except in collections of sonnets, which in my opinion are little read. It will be observed that in anthologies alone can Blanco Whiteâs one and only poem be kept alive. The second reason why this book may have a special interest is that it may serve as a reminder to my contemporaries of our stirring thoughts and experiences in the seventies and eighties. How interesting this period was it is difficult to show in a few lines. In pure literature, books of value simply poured from the press. In the closing year, 1889, âOne who never turned his back, but marched breast forwardâ died on the day that his last book, _Asolando_, was published, leaving Tennyson, an old man of eighty, the sole survivor of the poets of a great period. At almost the same moment âCrossing the Barâ was published. Apart from literature, the seventies and eighties were an eventful period in science and religion. Darwinism was still causing its tremendous upheaval, and the supposed conflict between religion and science exercised an enormous effect on the minds of men. Evolution had explained so much of the processes in the history of life, that the _majority_ of thinkers at that time imagined that no room was left for the super-natural. Science was supposed to have given a death-blow to religion, and the greatest wave of materialism ever known in the history of the world swept over England and Europe. It is strange how many great thinkers missed what now appears so obvious a fact, that causality still stood behind all law, and that Darwin, like Newton, had merely helped to show the method by which the universe is governed. (It seems to me that James Martineau stood supreme at that time as a man of genius who saw clearly the inherent defect of the whole materialist movement.) However, agnosticism, materialism, positivism flourished and triumphed. Science, whose dignity had been so long unrecognized, came into her own, and, in her turn, usurped the same dogmatic superior attitude she had resented in ecclesiasticism. On the one hand pessimistic literature and philosophy poured from the press; on the other hand new religions arose to take the place of the old. Theosophy and spiritualism were in evidence everywhere (leading in 1882 to the happy result that the Society for Psychical Research was founded). Harrison, Clifford, Swinburne and others preached the deification of man. There were discords within, as well as foes without the church. The severely orthodox fought against the revelations of Colenso and the higher criticism; Seeleyâs _Ecce Homo_ and a host of other works aroused fierce antagonism; Pius IX, who had in 1864 published his Syllabus which would have destroyed modern civilization, proclaimed the infallibility of the Pope in 1870âand in 1872 was deprived of temporal power. Such questions as the literal interpretation and inerrancy of the Bible were the subjects of intense conflictâand especially strange is it to remember the dire struggle of well-intentioned men to maintain the horrible doctrine of eternal punishment. I imagine that this book will assist to some extent in recalling the atmosphere and aroma of that remarkable period. I have made very little attempt to arrange my quotationsâand now wish I had done less in that direction. The book is intended for casual reading, and to arrange it under headings would tend to make it _heavy_. The element of surprise is more calculated to make the book attractive. I began the notes that are appended to some of the quotations with the intention of giving only such short, necessary explanations as would be of assistance to the inexperienced reader. When, however, I began to write, I found my pen running away with me. Apart from the usual, ineffectual efforts of oneâs youth, I had never before attempted literary work, and for the first time experienced the great pleasure there is in such writing. With the immense variety of subjects in a collection of quotations, one could continue to write over a series of years; but it was necessary to keep the book within reasonable bounds, and, therefore, I had arbitrarily to come to a stop. In these notes I do not claim that there is much, if any, originality,[4] they are mostly recollections of old reading. Still they may serve the important purpose of revivifying old truths (see p. 78). I have been astonished at the great deal of work this book has involvedâand also how much I have needed the assistance of my friends. There were some sixty or seventy quotations in respect to which I had neglected to give any reference to the authors (for the same reason as one did not put the names on photographs of old friendsâit seemed impossible that the names could be forgotten). The difficulty of finding even one such quotation is enormous, and we have no British Museum in Adelaide, but only some limited public libraries. However, with the help of my friends I have succeeded in tracing the paternity of most of these âorphans.â In this and other directions I have had the kind assistance of many gentlemen. Of these first and foremost comes Mr. G. F. Hassell, the publisher of the Adelaide edition, who, in his devotion to literature as well as to his own art of printing, is a worthy representative of the old Renaissance printers. He has given me every assistance, has gone through every line, and, as he is both an exceedingly well-read man and also of a younger generation than myself, I have left it to him to decide what should be omitted and what retained in this book. Professor Mitchell has also been so kind as to revise and make suggestions concerning a number of notes on philosophic and other subjects. Professor Darnley Naylor has been uniformly good in revising any notes of a classical natureâthough he takes no responsibility whatever for the views I express. Dr. E. Harold Davies has also helped me with two notes on music, in one instance correcting a serious mistake I had made. Sir Langdon Bonython, my friend of many years, has assisted me with practical as well as literary suggestions, and has thrown open his library to me. Mr. Francis Edwards, of High Street, Marylebone, has assisted in my search for references to quotations. Mr. H. Rutherford Purnell, Public Librarian of Adelaide, and his staff have helped me throughout, and Mr. E. La Touche Armstrong, Public Librarian of Melbourne, has gone to great trouble on my account. Miss M. R. Walker has assisted me in various ways, and especially in preparing the very difficult Index of Subjects. Mr. Sydney Temple Thomas has lent me a number of important books I specially required. Others who have helped me in one way or another are two English friends, Mrs. Caroline Sidgwick and Mrs. Rachael Bray, Messrs. J. R. Fowler, H. W. Uffindell, S. Talbot Smith and Dr. J. W. Browne, of Adelaide, Professor Dettmann of New Zealand, Professor Hyslop of New York and Mr. F. C. Govers of the State War Council, Sydney. For permission to include quotations from their works I thank the following authors: Rev. F. W. Boreham, Mr. F. W. Bourdillon, Mr. A. J. Edmunds, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. Thomas Hardy, O.M., Professor Hobhouse, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Mr. E. F. Knight, Mr. R. Le Gallienne, Mr. W. S. Lilly, Mr. Robert Loveman, Sir Frederick Pollock, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, Professor A. H. Sayce, Mrs. Cronwright Schreiner, Mr. J. C. Squire, Mr. Herbert Trench, Mr. Samuel Waddington, Mrs. Humphry Ward, Mr. F. A. Westbury, Mr. F. S. Williamson and Sir Francis Younghusband. For extracts from the writings of their relatives I am grateful to Lady Arnold, Sir Francis Darwin, Mr. Henry James, The Earl of Lytton, Dr. Greville McDonald, Miss Martineau, Miss Massey, Mr. W. M. Meredith, Mrs. F. W. H. Myers, the Rev. Conrad Noel, Mr. William M. Rossetti, Sir Herbert Stephen and Lord Tennyson. Mr. Piddington has also given much assistance. I am indebted to the following for quotations from the works of the authors named: of Ruskin to the Ruskin Literary Trustees and their publishers, Messrs. George Allen and Unwin; of Brunton Stephens to Messrs. Angus and Robertson; of C. S. Calverley to Messrs. G. Bell and Sons; of George Eliot to Messrs. William Blackwood & Sons; of James Kenneth Stephen to Messrs. Bowes and Bowes; of Francis Thompson to Messrs. Burns and Oates; of R. L. Stevenson to Messrs. Chatto and Windus and to Messrs. Charles Scribnerâs Sons; of Robert Buchanan to Messrs. Chatto and Windus and to Mr. W. E. Martyn; of James Thomson (B.V.) to Messrs. P. J. and A. E. Dobell; of D. G. Rossetti to Messrs. Ellis; of Swinburne to Mr. W. Heinemann; of Mr. Le Gallienne, H. D. Lowry, Stephen Phillips and J. B. Tabb to Mr. John Lane; of R. Loveman to the J. B. Lippincott Co.; of A. K. H. Boyd, R. Jeffries, W. E. H. Lecky and the Rev. James Martineau, to Messrs. Longmans Green & Co.; of Alfred Austin, T. E. Brown, Lewis Carroll, Edward Fitzgerald, F. W. H. Myers, Walter Pater, Lord Tennyson and Charles Tennyson Turner to Messrs. Macmillan & Co.; of V. OâSullivan to Mr. Elkin Matthews; of Mrs. Elizabeth Waterhouse to Messrs. Methuen & Co.; of Robert Browning to Mr. John Murray; of Dr. Moncure Conway and Sir Alfred Lyall to Messrs. Paul (Kegan), Trench Trubner & Co.; of George Gissing to Mr. James B. Pinker; of John Payne to Mr. O. M. Pritchard, his executor, and to Mr. Thomas Wright; of Sir Edwin Arnold, P. J. Bailey (Festus) and Coventry Patmore to Messrs. George Routledge & Sons; of G. Whyte Melville to Messrs. Ward Lock & Co. (songs and verses); of George MacDonald to Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son; Mr. Rudyard Kiplingâs âLâEnvoiâ is reprinted from Departmental Ditties, by kind permission of the author and Messrs. Methuen & Co.; âTo the True Romanceâ is published by Messrs. Macmillan & Co., to whom I am deeply indebted, not only for this and the permissions mentioned above, but also for much assistance in tracing copyrights. Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., Mr. John Murray and Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son have been most helpful in this direction, as have also been Messrs. T. B. Lippincott, the Oxford University Press and Messrs. Watts & Co. Messrs. Constable & Co. have generously granted permission for the quotations from George Meredith and, as the representatives in London of the Houghton Mifflin Co. of Boston, Mass., have secured the quotations from the works of American authors published by that Firm, viz., T. B. Aldrich, R. W. Gilder, W. V. Moody, S. M. B. Piatt, E. M. Thomas, C. D. Warner and the Classics of Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier. Messrs. G. P. Putnamâs Sons have also given much help; the lines from Anna Reeve Aldrich and R. C. Rogers are published by their New York House. Mr. Martin Seeker joins in the consent given by Mr. Squire for the extract from his poems. I thank the Editor of the Contemporary Review for quotations from the writings of Professor A. Bain and the Rev. R. F. Littledale; and the Editor of the Nineteenth Century for some lines by W. M. Hardinge (Greek Anthology) and an article on Multiplex Personality. I thank also the Society for Psychical Research for an obituary article by F. W. H. Myers on Gladstone, printed in the Journal of that Society. For any unintentional omissions, oversights, or failures to trace rights I beg to tender my apologies. The distance of Adelaide from the centre of publication may, in some measure, serve as an excuse for such shortcomings. _All profits derived from the sale of this book will be paid to the Red Cross Fund._ J. T. HACKETT. Adelaide. PREFACE TO THE SECOND ENGLISH EDITION. In preparing this edition I have made a great number of more or less important corrections, alterations and additions. Most of these occupy only a few lines apiece and, although none call for special mention, they should together add to the interest and usefulness of this book. For a number of them I am indebted to Mr. Vernon Rendall, formerly editor of the _AthenÃ¦um_ and _Notes and Queries_. With his wonderfully wide and exact knowledge of English and classical literature, he gave me much assistance and I am grateful to him. The issue of a Second Edition enables me to thank my friend, Sir John Cockburn, for his truly remarkable kindness to me. When I sent this book home from Adelaide to be published, he undertook the heavy work of seeking the consent of the numerous copyright owners, negotiating with publishers, and seeing the book through the press. Only those who are experienced in such matters can realize the _enormous_ amount of time and labour that all this involved. It is impossible for me to express adequately my obligations to my friend. He did not include any reference to himself in the original Preface, in spite of my insistence by letter and cable. In associating his name with this book, I am bound to add that Sir John disagrees with and, therefore, disapproves of much that I have said in some notes on the Ancient Greeks. J. T. HACKETT. London, _September, 1920._ PREFACE TO THE THIRD ENGLISH EDITION. This has presumably to be called a new edition, rather than a new issue, seeing that there are revisions and alterations. But these are not numerous, and the only ones to which I need call special attention are the substituted verses on pp. 153-5. I am indebted to Mr. Denys Bray for permission to include his daughterâs verses. J. T. HACKETT. Mentone, _December, 1920._ YOUTH AND AGE _Verse, a breeze âmid blossoms straying,_ _Where Hope clung feeding, like a beeâ_ _Both were mine! Life went a-maying_ _With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,_ _When I was young!_ _~When~ I was young?âAh, woful When!_ _Ah! for the change âtwixt Now and Then!_ _This breathing house not built with hands,_ _This body that does me grievous wrong,_ _Oâer aery cliffs and glittering sands_ _How lightly ~then~ it flashed along:â_ _Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,_ _On winding lakes and rivers wide,_ _That ask no aid of sail or oar,_ _That fear no spite of wind or tide!_ _Nought cared this body for wind or weather_ _When Youth and I lived inât together._ _Flowers are lovely: Love is flower-like;_ _Friendship is a sheltering tree;_ _O! the joys, that came down shower-like,_ _Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,_ _Ere I was old!_ _~Ere~ I was old? Ah, woful Ere,_ _Which tells me, Youthâs no longer here!_ _O Youth! for years so many and sweet_ _âTis known that Thou and I were one,_ _Iâll think it but a fond conceitâ_ _It cannot be, that thou art gone!_ _Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tollâd:â_ _And thou wert aye a masker bold!_ _What strange disguise hast now put on_ _To ~make believe~ that Thou art gone?_ _I see these locks in silvery slips,_ _This drooping gait, this alterâd size:_ _But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,_ _And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!_ _Life is but Thought: so think I will_ _That Youth and I are house-mates still._ _Dew-drops are the gems of morning,_ _But the tears of mournful eve!_ _Where no hope is, lifeâs a warning_ _That only serves to make us grieve_ _When we are old:_ _âThat only serves to make us grieve_ _With oft and tedious taking-leave,_ _Like some poor nigh-related guest_ _That may not rudely be dismist,_ _Yet hath outstayâd his welcome while,_ _And tells the jest without the smile._ S. T. COLERIDGE. My Commonplace Book Our God and soldier we alike adore, When at the brink of ruin, not before; After deliverance both alike requited, Our God forgotten, and our soldiers slighted. FRANCIS QUARLES (1592-1644). * * * * * In an age of fops and toys, Wanting wisdom, void of right, Who shall nerve heroic boys To hazard all in Freedomâs fight? ... So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, _Thou must_, The youth replies, _I can_. R. W. EMERSON (_Voluntaries_). * * * * * ENGLAND When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The studentâs bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Countryâam I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child! WORDSWORTH (1803). * * * * * Careless seems the great Avenger; historyâs pages but record One death struggle in the darkness âtwixt old systems and the Word; Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,â Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. J. R. LOWELL (_The Present Crisis_). * * * * * Many loved Truth, and lavished lifeâs best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for her, At lifeâs dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her.... They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. J. R. LOWELL (_Ode at Harvard Commemoration, 1865_). This Ode was written in memory of the Harvard University men who had died in the Secession war. Our own brave men are also fighting in the cause of Truth, against the hideous falsity of German teaching and morals. * * * * * The futureâs gain Is certain as Godâs truth; but, meanwhile, pain Is bitter, and tears are salt: our voices take A sober tone; our very household songs Are heavy with a nationâs griefs and wrongs; And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake Of the brave hearts that nevermore shall beat. The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet! J. G. WHITTIER (_In War Time_). * * * * * PRIEST âThe glory of Man is his strength, And the weak man must die,â said the Lord. CHORUS Hark to the Song of the Sword! PRIEST Uplift! let it gleam in the sunâ Uplift in the name of the Lord! KAISER Lo! how it gleams in the light, Beautiful, bloody, and bright. Yea, I uplift the Sword Thus in the name of the Lord! THE CHIEFS Form ye a circle of fire Around him, our King and our Sireâ While in the centre he stands, Kneel with your swords in your hands, Then with one voice deep and free Echo like waves of the seaâ âIn the name of the Lord!â VOICES WITHOUT Where is he?âhe fades from our sight! Where the Sword?âall is blacker than night. Is it finishâd, that loudly ye cry? Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die? O bury us deep, most deep; Write oâer us, wherever we sleep, âIn the name of the Lord!â KAISER While I uplift the Sword, Thus in the name of the Lord, Why, with mine eyes full of tears, Am I sick of the song in mine ears? God of the Israelite, hear; God of the Teuton, be near; Strengthen my pulse lest I fail. Shut out these slain while they wailâ For they come with the voice of the grave On the glory they give me and gave. CHORUS In the name of the Lord? Of what Lord? Where is He, this God of the Sword? Unfold Him; where hath He His throne? Is He Lord of the Teuton alone? Doth He walk on the earth? Doth He tread On the limbs of the dying and dead? Unfold Him! We sicken, and long To look on this God of the strong! PRIEST Hush! In the name of the Lord, Kneel ye, and bless ye the Sword! R. BUCHANAN (_The Apotheosis of the Sword, Versailles, 1871_) * * * * * Short is mine errand to tell, and the end of my desire: For peace I bear unto thee, and to all the kings of the earth, Who bear the sword aright, and are crowned with the crown of worth; But unpeace to the lords of evil, and the battle and the death; And the edge of the sword to the traitor and the flame to the slanderous breath: And I would that the loving were loved, and I would that the weary should sleep, And that man should hearken to man, and that he that soweth should reap. W. MORRIS (_Sigurd the Volsung, Book III_). * * * * * SACRIFICE Though love repine, and reason chafe, There came a voice without reply,â ââTis manâs perdition to be safe, When for the truth he ought to die.â R. W. EMERSON. * * * * * GREEKS OR GERMANS? Do not imagine that you are fighting about a single issue, freedom or slavery. You have an empire to lose, and are exposed to danger by reason of the hatred which your imperial rule has inspired in other states. And you cannot resign your power, although some timid or unambitious spirits want you to act justly. For now your empire has become a _despotism_, a thing which in the opinion of mankind has been unjustly acquired yet cannot be safely relinquished. The men of whom I speak, if they could find followers, would soon ruin the state, and, if they were to found a state of their own, would just as soon ruin that. (_Speech by Pericles._) I have observed again and again that a democracy cannot govern an empire; and never more clearly than now, when I see you regretting the sentence you pronounced on the Mityleneans. Having no fear or suspicion of one another, you deal with your allies on the same principle. You do not realize that, whenever you yield to them out of pity, or are prevailed on by their pleas, you are guilty of a weakness dangerous to yourselves and receive no gratitude from them. You need to bear in mind that your empire is a _despotism_ exercised over unwilling subjects who are ever conspiring against you. They do not obey because of any kindness you show them: they obey just so far as you show yourselves their masters. They have no love for you, but are held down by force.... You must not be misled by pity, or eloquent pleading or by generosity. There are no three things more fatal to empire. (_Speech by Cleon_) THUCYDIDES, II, 63; III, 37, 40. It will be seen that these odious sentiments are attributed by the impartial Thucydides to his hero Pericles as well as to the demagogue Cleon. The Greeks were fervent supporters of Democracy and Equality, but not when it came to dealing either with foreign states or with their own _women or slaves_. (See also Socrates and Aristotle, p. 367.) * * * * * These are the times that try menâs souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he, that stands it _now_, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives anything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated. THOMAS PAINE (1776). Outside the Bible and other books of religion, I think it would be difficult to find any single passage in the worldâs literature that produced so wonderful a result as the above passage of Tom Paineâs. It was the opening paragraph of the first number of _The Crisis_, and was written by miserable, flaring candle-light, when Paine was a private in Washingtonâs ill-clad, worn-out army at Trenton. The soldiers, who were then despairing from hardship and defeat, were roused by these words to such enthusiasm that next day they rushed bravely in and won the first American victory, which turned the tide of the war of independence. Previously to this, it was through Paineâs pamphlet, _Common Sense_, that the Americans first saw that separation was the only remedy for their grievances. Conway tells an amusing story about _Common Sense_ and _The Rights of Man_. When the Bolton town crier was sent round to seize these prohibited books, he reported that he could not find any Rights of Man or Common Sense anywhere! For trying to save the life of Louis XVI during the revolution, Paine was thrown into the Bastille, and only escaped death by a curious accident. It was customary for chalk-marks to be made on the cell-doors of those to be guillotined the following morning, and these doors opened outwards. When Paineâs door was marked, it happened to be open, and the mark was made on the inside, so that, when the door was shut, the mark was not visible. If Paine had not been a sceptic, this would have been described in those days as a wonderful interposition of Providence! Conway lays a terrible indictment against Washington. When Paine, whose services to America, and to Washington himself, had been so magnificent, was thrown into the Bastille, Washington could have saved him by a wordâbut remained silent! This was no doubt the reason why Paine, after his liberation, was led to make an unjust attack on Washingtonâs military and Presidential work. It was due to this attack on Washington and the bigotry of the time against the author of _The Age of Reason_, that Paine fell utterly into disrepute. When the Centenary of American independence was celebrated by an Exhibition at Philadelphia, a bust of Paine was offered to the city by his admirers, but was promptly declined! And yet Conway says that on the day, whose centenary was then being celebrated, Paine was idolized in America above all other men, Washington included. The foregoing notes were made on reading an article on Paine by Moncure D. Conway in _The Fortnightly_, March, 1879. I think the fact mentioned in the last paragraph and the town-crier story do not appear in Conwayâs subsequent _Life of Paine_. Even at the present day bigotry seems to prevent any proper recognition of Paineâs fine character and important work. (The unpleasant flippancy[5] with which he dealt with serious religious questions is no doubt partly the cause of this.) I find very inadequate appreciation of him in _The Americana_ and _The Biographical Dictionary of America_âand also in our own _Dictionary of National Biography_. The general impression among the public still probably is that Paine was an atheist; as a matter of fact, he was a Theist, and his will ends with the words, âI die in perfect composure and resignation to the will of my Creator, God.â Carlyleâs reference to Paine is amusing: âNor is our England without her missionaries. She has her Paine: rebellious staymaker; unkempt; who feels that he, a single needleman, did, by his _Common-Sense_ Pamphlet, free Americaâthat he can and will free all this World; perhaps even the other.â (_French Revolution._) * * * * * Buy my English posies! You that will not turnâ Buy my hot-wood clematis, Buy a frond oâ fern Gatherâd where the Erskine leaps Down the road to Lorneâ Buy my Christmas creeper And Iâll say where you were born! West away from Melbourne dust holidays beginâ They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynnâ Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Mainâ Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! Buy my English posies! Ye that have your own Buy them for a brotherâs sake Overseas, alone. Weed ye trample underfoot Floods his heart abrimâ Bird ye never heeded, O, she calls his dead to him! Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas; Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these! Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and landâ Masters of the Seven Seas, O, love and understand! RUDYARD KIPLING (_The Flowers_). Of the verses in this fine poem which speak for the various British Dominions I take only the one that represents my own country. At the time Kipling wrote, the inhabitants of our beloved mother-country did not seem to fully realize that we were their kindredâthat our fern and clematis made _English posies_âbut no doubt their feeling has altered since we have fought side by side in mutual defence. However, to us England was always âhome,â and when Kipling wrote this poem he entered straight into our hearts. * * * * * FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY RUFINUS Here lilies, here the rosebud, and here too The windflower with her petals drenched in dew, And daffodillies cool, and violets blue. MELEAGER Itâs oh! to be a wild windâwhen my ladyâs in the sunâ Sheâd just unbind her neckerchief and take me breathing in, Itâs oh! to be a red roseâjust a faintly blushing oneâ So sheâd pull me with her hand and to her snowy breast Iâd win. PLATO TO ASTER Thou gazest on the starsâa star to me Thou[6] artâbut oh! that I the heavens might be And with a thousand eyes still gaze on thee! PALLADAS Breathing the thin breath through our nostrils, we Live, and a little space the sunlight seeâ Even all that liveâeach being an instrument To which the generous air its life has lent. If with the hand one quench our draught of breath, He sends the stark soul shuddering down to death. We, that are nothing on our pride are fed, Seeing, but for a little air, we are as dead. AESOPUS Is there no help from life save only death? âLife that such myriad sorrows harboureth I dare not break, I cannot bearââone saith. âSweet are stars, sun, and moon, and sea, and earth, For service and for beauty these had birth, But all the rest of life is little worthâ âYea, all the rest is pain and griefâ saith he âFor if it hap some good thing come to me An evil end befalls it speedily!â[7] PHILODEMUS I lovedâand you. I playedâwho hath not been Steeped in such play? If I was mad, I ween âTwas for a god and for no earthly queen. Hence with it all! Then dark my youthful head, Where now scant locks of whitening hair instead, Reminders of a grave old age, are shed. I gathered roses while the roses blew, Playtime is past, my play is ended too. Awake, my heart! and worthier aims pursue. W. M. HARDINGE (_Nineteenth Century_, Nov. 1878). My notes tell me nothing of Hardinge, except that he was the âLeslieâ in Mallockâs _New Republic_. Another version of Platoâs beautiful epigram (which was addressed to âAster,â or âStarâ) is the following by Professor Darnley Naylor: Thou gazest on the stars, my Star; Oh! might I be The starry sky with myriad eyes To gaze on thee! The Greek Anthology is a collection of about 4,500 short poems by about 300 Greek writers, extending over a period of one thousand seven hundred years, from, say, 700 B.C. to 1000 A.D. At first these poems were epigramsâusing the word âepigramâ in its original sense, as a verse intended to be inscribed on a tomb or tablet in memory of some dead person or important event. Later they included poems on any subject, so long as they contained one fine thought couched in concise language. Still later any short lyric was included. This wonderful collection forms a great treasure-house of poetry, which gives much insight into the Greek life of the time, and it also largely influenced English and European literature. For instance, the first verse of Ben Jonsonâs âDrink to me only with thine eyes,â is taken direct from the Anthology (Agathias, _Anth. Pal._, V., 261). I may add that the second verse, in which the poet sends the wreath, not as a compliment to the lady but as a kindness to the roses which could not wither if worn by her, is also borrowed from a Greek source. (Philostratus, _Epistolai Erotikai_.) Numberless English and European scholars have attempted the difficult task of translating or paraphrasing these little poetic gems into correspondingly poetic and concise language, but the beauty of the original can never be fully retained. * * * * * PLATO TO STELLA Thou wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled:â Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead. SHELLEYâS VERSION. * * * * * PTOLEMY I know that we are mortal, the children of a day; But when I scan the circling spires, the serried starsâ array, I tread the earth no longer and soar where none hath trod, To feast in Heavenâs banquet-hall and drink the wine of God. H. DARNLEY NAYLORâS VERSION. Although there cannot be absolute certainty, this Ptolemy is no doubt the great Greek astronomer; and the epigram would date from about 140 A.D. * * * * * HERACLEITUS. They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY (1823-1892). This is a paraphrase of verses written by Callimachus on hearing of the death of his friend, the poet Heracleitus (not the philosopher of that name). Francis Thompson (_Sister Songs_) hoped that his ânightingalesâ would continue to sing after his death, just as light would come from a star long after it had ceased to exist: Oh! may this treasure-galleon of my verse, Fraught with its golden passion, oared with cadent rhyme, Set with a towering press of fantasies, Drop safely down the time, Leaving mine islÃ¨d self behind it far Soon to be sunk in the abysm of seas, (As down the years the splendour voyages From some long ruined and night-submergÃ¨d star). * * * * * When I consider the shortness of my life, lost in an eternity before and behind, âpassing away as the remembrance of a guest who tarrieth but a day,â the little space I fill or behold in the infinite immensity of spaces, of which I know nothing and which know nothing of meâwhen I reflect this, I am filled with terror, and wonder why I am _here_ and not _there_, for there was no reason why it should be the one rather than the other; why _now_ rather than _then_. Who set me here? By whose command and rule were this time and place appointed me? How many kingdoms know nothing of us! The eternal silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me. PASCAL (_PensÃ©es_). * * * * * Ye weep for those who weep? she said, Ah, fools! I bid you pass them by. Go weep for those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry. Whom sadder can I say? she said. E. B. BROWNING (_The Mask_). See also Seneca (_Hipp._), _Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent_, âLight sorrows speak, but deeper ones are dumb.â * * * * * Star unto star speaks light. P. J. BAILEY (_Festus, Scene 1, Heaven_). * * * * * O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,â How then should sound upon Lifeâs darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Deathâs imperishable wing! D. G. ROSSETTI (_Lovesight_). * * * * * Our deeds are like children that are born to us; they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never: they have an indestructible life both in and out of our consciousness. GEORGE ELIOT (_Romola_). * * * * * Room in all the ages For our love to grow, Prayers of both demanded A little while ago: And now a few poor moments, Between life and death, May be proven all too ample For loveâs breath. RODEN NOEL (_The Pity of It_). * * * * * There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining Under those spider-webs lying!... Is it your moral of Life? Such a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife? Over our heads truth and natureâ Still our lifeâs zigzags and dodges, Ins and outs, weaving a new legislatureâ Godâs gold just showing its last where that lodges, Palled beneath manâs usurpature. So we oâershroud stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland; Nothings grow something which quietly closes Heavenâs earnest eye; not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes. R. BROWNING (_Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_). Hugues of Saxe-Gotha is an imaginary name, but it probably indicates the great Sebastian Bach, who came from that part of Germany. The âmasterpiece, hard number twelve,â referred to in the poem, may be (Dr. E. Harold Davies tells me) the great Organ Fugue in F Minor, which is in âfive partâ counter-point. This very interesting poem is written in a half-humorous fashion, but its intention is quite serious. In a wonderfully imitative manner,[8] it describes the wrangling and disputing in a five-voiced fugue (where five persons appear to be taking part): One is incisive, corrosive; Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant; Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive; Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant: Five ... O DanaÃ¯des, O Sieve! (For killing their husbands the fifty DanaÃ¯des were doomed to pour water everlastingly into a sieve.) âWhere in all this is the music?â asks Browning. And, although he is writing humorously, yet, however rank the heresy, he finds that the fugue, with its elaborate counterpoint, is wanting in the essentials of true art. He prefers Palestrinaâs simpler and more emotional mode of expression: Hugues! I advise _meÃ¢ poenÃ¢_[9] (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena! Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ, Blare out the _mode Palestrina_. In the poem, where occurs the passage quoted, one can vividly follow the poetâs thought. Music is essentially the language of feeling, of _emotion_; the fugue is a triumph of _invention_, and, therefore, the result of _intellect_. Feeling is elemental, simple, and unanalysable. The subtleties of pure harmony are the expression of deepness and richness of feeling; the intricacies of the fugue are artificially constructed and, therefore, unsuited to the expression of pure emotion. They represent intellect as against feeling. And essentially in the moral world, but also in our general outlook upon truth and nature, the spiritual perception is derived from simple human emotion rather than intellect; âThou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.â (The whole of Browningâs poetry teaches that love, not intellect, is the solution of all moral problems, and the goal of the universe.) In the poem the organist has been playing on the organ in an old church; and Browning suddenly sees an illustration of his thought in the fine gilded ceiling covered by thick cobwebs. The cobwebs that obscure the gold of the ceiling are the intellectual wranglings that destroy music in the fugueâand both are symbolical of what occurs in our lives. Truth and Nature, âGodâs goldââthe pure, simple truths of the higher lifeâare over us, bright and clear as the noon-day sun. But by doubts and disputations, warring philosophies and contending creeds, by strife over non-essentials, casuistries, self-deceptions, by questions of dogma (often as fine as any spiderâs web), by endless âcomments and glozes,â we lose sight of the elemental truths and clear principles that should guide our lives. The pure and simple-hearted reach the Mount of Vision: to them comes the clear sense of Love and Duty. Those of us who turn our intellects to a perverse use and exclude the spiritual perception of the soul are like the spiders who cover up âstars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland.â We obscure and forget all noble ideals, abolish Godâs high âlegislature,â and follow a lawless life of selfish passion and sordid ambitions. The Good and Beautiful and True have been obliterated and forgotten; âGodâs goldâ is tarnished, His harmonies lost in discord; and we become morally dead. So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; Cold plashing past it, crystal waters roll; We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!... Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send; And when it fails, fight as we will, we die, And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. MATTHEW ARNOLD (_Palladium_). * * * * * (Referring to the Gorham case) The future historian of opinion will write of us in this strain: âThe people who spoke the language of Shakespeare were great in the constructive arts: the remains of their vast works evince an extraordinary power of combining and economizing labour: their colonies were spread over both hemispheres, and their industry penetrated to the remotest tribes: they knew how to subjugate nature and to govern men: but the weakness of their thought presented a strange contrast to the vigour of their arm; and though they were an earnest people, their conceptions of human life and its Divine Author seems to have been of the most puerile nature. Some orations have been handed downâapparently delivered before one of their most dignified tribunalsâin which the question is discussed: âIn what way the washing of new-born babes according to certain rules prevented Godâs hating them.â The curious feature is, that the discussion turns entirely upon the manner in which this wetting operated; and no doubt seems to have been entertained by disputants, judges, or audience, that, without it, a child or other person dying would fall into the hands of an angry Deity, and be kept alive for ever to be tortured in a burning cave. Now, all researches into the contemporary institutions of the island show that its religion found its chief support among the classes possessing no mean station or culture, and that the education for the priesthood was the highest
{'title': 'My Commonplace Book by James Thompson Hackett', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}