OF THE LITERATURE OF THE ENGLISH.
There are innumerable books; and the conceit of these Barbarians
attaches to them as to everything in their _Enlightened World_
(Litz-i-ten). Nothing outside of the Christ-god worshippers is allowed
to be enlightened--all else is darkness. This is true as to their
opinion, strange as it looks; and all the Literature in every part of
it shows this. The attainments and the experience of all to whom this
worship is unknown, receive no other than a curious attention from a
few of the literati. But we know that this conceit is absurd; ignorant
and superstitious Barbarians really think that, without the adoption
of their _Jah-Christ-Jew_ superstition, with all the _Canons_, no true
morality, no real civilisation, exists, nor can exist!
This I must premise; because we may dismiss at once the larger
portion of the Barbarian Literature, inasmuch as it relates to the
great Superstition. It is everywhere, striking into and permeating
everything, to be sure; but I refer to works avowedly devoted to it. It
makes the Books largely unreadable to one having no sympathy with the
author; and it requires patience and a long use to get over the disgust
caused by the offensive pretensions and ignorant references.
The Poetry of a people is generally placed _first_ among the Barbarian
_Literati_; and of this form the Western tribes are very fond. The
English boast that in this they excel all others; though, for that
matter, the same boast is made in everything.
The larger part of the Poetry may be called _trash_ (ru-b-isti).
Iterations and reiterations of the same conceits, the same shallow
sentiments, the same metaphors, mostly of an amatory and indelicate
sort. Poems, often tedious, verbose, strangely mixed with matters
of the Superstition and of the ancient (Roman) myths; laudatory
performances, _beslobbering_ (spr-au-fo) great men with empty
compliments, or giving lying exaltation to the fancied virtues of the
eminently bad; dull and long-winded reflections from minds too obscure
to reflect anything, unless with an added obscurity; an enormous
_Waste_ (Ban-s-he) which the English themselves never traverse.
Poetry with the Barbarians is far more esteemed than with us, although
in our annals are found evidences of its immemorial existence. As with
us, it takes many forms, and is reduced to an art. The two greatest
names are Milton and Shakespeare. The first of these is esteemed as
the most sublime of all poets, ancient or modern--but it is needful to
fix the quality, the essence of the sublime! Of the gloomy grandeur of
the man, and of his power of suggesting the vast and the intangible,
there can be no doubt. Nor is he wanting in a mournful sweetness--the
plaint of a beneficent being who feels an eternal despair! Nor can it
be otherwise, for the grand imagination of Milton is wholly occupied
with the devils of the Barbarian Superstition! With its terrible
images--with the Hell in which they and lost men for ever burn in
eternal fires, and yet are never consumed! He introduces the reader
(in his great Poem) to Paradise [Kar-din], where man once lived in
perfect wisdom and happiness--and here the Poet is full of that sad,
that tender, that inexpressible, sweet despair! From this Paradise (as
said elsewhere) man was enticed by Satan, who had been set free from
Hell for the very purpose; and then follow all the surprising pictures,
vast, terrible, indescribable--only possible to a mind fully possessed
by all the _horrors_ of the Jew Jah-god Idolatry.
Shakespeare, with a healthier mind, one not distorted by the
Superstition, and with a human, natural vigour and feeling, writes in
a manner to interest man. On the whole, the English Barbarians place
him far above all others of any time or place--call him the Divine
Shakespeare! This is very easy with a people who know nothing of the
poetry of the great East, nor of that of our Flowery Kingdom--in truth,
have but a slight acquaintance with the writers of the other Barbarians!
Disregarding this foolish conceit, we may admit that this man shows
a broad and comprehensive intellect--he is one who knows something
of himself, and that self is a manly self. And he simply exhibits
_himself_ in those creations of his fancy, wherein a great variety
of men and women show the passions, follies, and changing interests
of life. He has the power of vividly seeing and of clearly showing
what in his mind he sees, and in language often low and uncouth, but
frequently in fine and lofty tones. His certain knowledge of himself
gives pithy form to his wit; and his expressions are the direct
utterances of one who sees, not of one who does not nor cannot see.
His, on the whole, was a very large and true manhood, which, in spite
of unfavourable influences and some tarnish, manifested itself, and
occasionally in grand and beautiful forms. In very garbage there are
sparkling gems. He often offends decency, but is less indecent than
his time--and when he is simply himself, the natural morality of a
large man becomes conspicuous. Some of his minor things, based on the
affectations of his period, and formed on bad models, which he weakly
copies, are not without marks of his rich fancy, yet are so indecent
that in our Flowery Land they would be suppressed. None the less, you
will find these objectionable verses in the hands of the youth of both
sexes.
This degradation of the moral sense is very common. It finds
form in the versification of those poets whom the English style
_Amatory_--chiefly with them, but more repulsively with the
play-writers. Examples of this indelicacy and coarseness are lying
about anywhere. It seems to us very strange: for to what good? No
doubt, poetry very properly deals with human emotions and interests;
but why should the poet dare to print what he would not dare to utter,
unless among the shameless!
Some of these trivialities are not wanting in sweetness and
tenderness--and some have a very refined feeling. The great blemish is
_falseness_.
The Western Barbarians addict themselves always to a false and affected
mode whenever they address themselves to the female: and the style is
absurd. It is borrowed from the obsolete manners of ages ago, when it
was the fashion [phan-ti-te] to pretend the most exalted reverence
for the sex. They were addressed as goddesses, and there was a whole
armoury of weapons of Love, from which these fantastic poets armed
their divinities, and pretended to be pierced through and through,
wounded, bleeding, at their feet! Dying, transfixed, and rolling their
languishing eyes in death, imploring the goddesses to save them, even
if by one glance of their bright eyes! The amount of this nonsense is
perfectly astonishing!
I give a fair specimen here from a much admired writer of this class:--
"Sweet Phillis, idol of my heart,
Oh, turn to me those tender eyes!
Transfix my breast with Cupid's dart,
But listen to my dying sighs!
"I cling, imploring, to your knees;
Oh, cruel goddess, turn to me!
One kiss the burning pain will ease--
Thy lips give Immortality!"
The Elegiac [mo-un-fu] is, perhaps, the most cultured among the refined
poets. The most distinguished of the English living writers of verse
is very elegant in this form. He cannot emancipate himself from the
habits of his people--for the wretched he can find no solace but in the
Superstitions of the Christ-god worship. He demands a _Sacrifice_ quite
inhuman, when he suggests the only remedy for human grief. Possibly,
he finds in this, a meaning of a different kind from what the language
(used in the Superstition) itself implies. He may see a meaning common
to all sorrowful and thoughtful men--_Self-Sacrifice_, demanded by the
highest perception of justice, and, therefore, inevitable. In this
department some of the minor poets sing very sweetly, tenderly--with
a nice refinement. Generally, however, there is a sort of despair
wailing in an under-tone of pathos. It would seem to arise from the
gloomy spirit of the Barbarian nature, intensified by the terrible
Superstition.
The comic poets are coarse, trivial, and not much esteemed. There
is humour, but it is of the barbarous and unclean. It is frequently
strangely fantastic, and delights in laughing at the terrific in the
"_Sacred Writings_," or at the Priests, in a covert manner; often in
_travesties_ of the prayers, _rites_, and other _holy_ things, which no
one would dare openly to ridicule. Poetry is not much read, unless by
young girls and lads, who, in the season of the sentiments, find food
to feed their desires, or to print their tender epistles and speeches,
in the Sentimental Authors.
Very rarely is there anything striking or true; and the mass of Verses,
after receiving the _paid-for_ attention of the daily writers, sleep a
sleep of oblivion.
The Prose writings are innumerable--largely, however, mere _re-hashes_
[mi-pi-stu] of existing works. It is a trade to make these new forms of
old books--cutting down, working over, and revising. History, accounts
of bloody fights, forays, commotions, massacres, and burnings, now by
one Christ-god tribe and now by another; Biography, Travels, Lives of
_Great men_ (never heard of out of some Barbarian tribe); these are
many, and read by the _Literati_. A few books, rarely read, devoted
to _Science_ and to _Art_, are printed, commonly to the ruin of the
printers.
Of romances and novels there are no ends. With these and the newspapers
the English Barbarians almost entirely occupy themselves, when they do
read. The novels pretend to portray _life_, in its usual vicissitudes
and with a natural show of the feelings. But the feeling depicted
is that of Love, and the Life, the life of a Lover. In this curious
creature, unknown in our Central Kingdom, the English young people of
both sexes delight. I cannot describe him; he has no existence outside
of a diseased brain. The great Shakespeare describes him, "Sighing like
a furnace, with a woful ballad made to his mistress' eyebrow!" which
will do as well as a more extended notice.
There are _Metaphysical_ works. We have no term to represent it. It is
a book which dimly suggests _phantoms_--things unseen, and not to be
seen--mere words without bodies. Usually, making the matters of the
common Worship still more inscrutable.
Close to these, and blended often in a confused mixture with them--a
compound defying all reasonable analysis--come the Philosophical. This
term is a grand one with the Barbarians, and embraces all knowledge.
The Philosophical writers pretend to the most exalted insight and
outsight--they measure the whole infinite and finite, mind, matter,
and the very nature of moral and divine things. The Philosopher loves
Wisdom, and Wisdom loves and teaches him!
Each philosopher, however, knowing everything, knows some things better
than others; and usually exhibits to the world that _eccentricity_
by which he is known. He parades this on all public occasions of the
_Literati_; and feels happy and serene mounted on his _Hobby-horse_
(again we have nothing to fit this word)--he appropriates the name of
the ridden Hobby. Thus, some time since, one of these discovered and
taught that man was an Ape--an Ape of high form. This discovery was
not very well received; however, he was afterwards honoured by a title
derived from his ancestor, and styled the _Simian_ philosopher. In the
old Roman, _Simia_ means Ape. He is vulgarly and better known, however,
as the Hobby-horse philosopher, from his own name, _Hobbs_!
Just now, this speculation has revived again, with but slight change.
One Darwin dreams of immortality from the usefulness of _his_ theory.
In this, man no doubt is found in the _Simia_, but he _passes through_
that type; it is well enough to find there the immediate origin, but
the true _germ_ lies further back among the _tadpoles_!
I do not know what tadpoles are, and did not think it worth while to
inquire.
This philosophy, called Darwinian, is greatly admired for its
profundity--especially by the select circle of Mutual Admiring
Thinkers--but is strongly denounced by the Bonzes, and by the Halls of
Learning and Literati of the Superstition. It makes man no immortal
being at all, these say; and dethrones all the gods.
In our Flowery Land we may smile at these speculations and
_eccentricities_--for such and similar vagaries are as old as
Literature; and the special notion of Darwin, as to the _Origin of
Species_, has not even the attraction of novelty. The _speculation of
evolution_, by which all visible forms are developed from a form less
perfect below it, and this from another below that, and so on, down to
the beginning, is a clumsy mode of stating that original forms were
few, and contained wrapped up in them, many--and that possibly there
may have been primarily only _one_, containing all! The Sovereign Lord
Himself! In truth, it is the immemorial _out of nothing_ idea; for when
a creator of worlds, in the shape of man, has got to a single form
containing all, he has yet to account for that _Single Form_.
The few, most advanced of the Barbarian Philosophers, cut adrift
entirely from the _Superstition_. They copy largely from the Greeks,
Romans, and ancient peoples, who said, on such subjects, over and over
again what these modern imitators say--and said it better. In _Physics_
these moderns think themselves wiser. They may be, in the use of some
things, but are not in the nature. Our Sect called _Taos-se_ resemble
these speculative writers in many things: the English may not directly
teach the _Metempsychosis_; but in effect it is the same. Evolution may
hold to an original germ which is fixed and indestructible; yet what
matters if to the observer this germ takes on every possible shape! The
Metempsychosis does not contradict the notion of an original germ--it
is entirely consistent with it. This speculative inquiry into the
nature of things is as old as man, who, even before he knows how to
formulate his thoughts, has the deep shadows of them. The Old Greeks
introduced _the Literature_ of these fancies to the Western Barbarians,
though themselves were no more than bright and beautiful dreamers
of old dreams. The human intellect will always, as it has always,
search into the unsearchable, applying to it whatever of sharpness,
of imagination, of culture, it may have. There will be the inquiry,
but never the answer. The mind itself finds its advantage; nor could
the Sovereign Lord have designed otherwise, else the intellect would
not persist in a vain task. Nevertheless, wise men rest satisfied with
the _intuitions_ of the moral and intellectual nature. The origin and
essence of the Sovereign Lord and of the visible world cannot be known.
The source, the purpose, the end, and the nature of Things are beyond
the scope of man. He may ask, and he may find delight in the asking;
for new ranges and glimpses of the infinite may flash upon him. But
when he thinks he _knows_--that he has _discovered_--he is a fool!
Another department of what is called _Philosophy_ deals with the
mind, as the part just referred to more particularly affects to deal
with matter. And writers upon the mind, when they speak of the moral
function, call _that_ by another name. Thus we have the _Intellectual_
and _Moral_ philosophers, with their many books. Very commonly this
division is not sustained, and moral and merely mental evolutions
run together. Indeed, there are those who deride this division, and
assert that the moral has no real existence; that the mind itself is
but matter _instinct_ of life, and has no existence independent of
material organisms. They say that man is an animal endowed with _Life_,
and that this occult and hidden force is indivisible. That divisions
of the faculties may be convenient to give exactness to mental
movements, but are otherwise fanciful. They deny a "Moral faculty,"
asserting that it is only a peculiar refinement of the life-_instinct_;
that the wish to do honestly is no more than this, and, educated
to enlarged views, expands into all that man conceives of Justice.
That you may just as easily train one to do dishonestly; and then an
honest act gives pain. This proves the very proposition denied--the
faculty may be misinformed--the pain demonstrates the existence of
the faculty. An animal has the Life-Instinct or mind, if you will;
but who imagines that the animal is ever pained by any remorse! To
this, these philosophers reply that the pain does not really exist
only as the remains of a _secondary instinct_, remembering consciously
or unconsciously the penalty awaiting _disobedience_. The animal,
they say, may be so trained that it will feel this pain or shame; and
man, for ages disciplined, transmits to his offspring this _secondary
instinct_ of inherited fear; and, _here_, is the so-called moral
faculty.
I may be pardoned in this tedious attempt to give the Flowery Kingdom
some insight into the thoughts of the Barbarians on abstract matters,
not for their novelty, but as a further illustration of that which is
so well understood by our _Literati_--to say, the ceaseless activity
of the human mind and its tireless inquiry into the things of the
mighty world. A beneficent fact or it would not be. Perverted by
vain thinkers, who do not think, because egotist; yet in humble
men, conscious of ignorance, a solace. These reverence the Sovereign
Lord, never comprehending other than His infinite Wisdom (and this by
delightful flashes), nor His works, nor His methods, nor the use of
Man, nor of any the smallest thing, nor the origin, nor the design!
Enough that He is, and that by some inscrutable, though certain sense,
man, with a grateful joy bounds towards Him, claims to be His, and
feels Immortal!
The Barbarian _Literati_ have often rested upon the Greeks as final in
Metaphysics. Plato, whom they call Divine, was very generally followed
in his notion respecting the eternal and independent existence of
spirit and matter. But the newer men insist upon one substance only,
and remove the Sovereign Lord so far back into the deeps of an Unknown,
that he vanishes, or becomes an unintelligent and unconscious Cause.
Here again reproducing the _Fate_ of remote antiquity.
One school of Philosophers indulges in a curious form of materializing
the mind. Pretending to fix all the mental and moral processes in the
very substance of the brain, they declare that by a careful examination
of the head, the exact qualities of the individual may be discovered!
Some of these pretend to be teachers and _Indicators_--for fees, giving
a precise chart to any one who wishes of the forces of the brain, so
that he may order his affairs accordingly.
They profess to tell parents in what art or business a child should be
placed, and in what manner certain good qualities may be made to grow
and bad ones to shrink! They say that over each thinking part of the
brain rises a corresponding _bump_ [Ko-be], that these _bumps_ contain:
some thoughts of music, some of hate, some of love, some of numbers,
some of place, and so on. They make charts showing these bumps and the
thoughts which lie beneath them! These they sell, marking the bumps
(after examination) to show the person what he is. If, for instance,
his _acquisitiveness_ (thoughts to take things) is a very large bump,
he must develop a counteracting bump or he will assuredly become a
thief! It is not quite clear how this development is to be brought
about. Some carry this absurdity so far as to say that a man with bad
bumps is not responsible--he ought rather to be regarded as an object
to be cared for by the State. Before the bumps of the child be formed
and hardened, _any_ form may be given to them, by applying a gentle and
continuous pressure. Government, therefore, ought to have all children
examined in youth, and apply to the heads the proper moulds! In this
way a perfectly moral society would be assured!
I refer to this nonsense as the only novel speculation among the
Western Barbarians. And any one can readily discover in this, old
notions moulded into a defined and material shape, to give charlatans
[Qu-ak-st] an opportunity to plunder.
There are many books of the _Moral Philosophers_, who make a _Science_
of certain movements of mind, and call it _Ethical_. But these books
are to our habits useless or absurd--sometimes positively hurtful.
The idolatries and superstitions colour and distort--distinctions
are confounded, and a rational morality wanting. A merely Jewish
ordinance from the _Sacred Writings_ is made as important as a plain
moral precept. The human conscience is overloaded with arbitrary and
unreasonable matters taken from the _Superstition_, and, bewildered,
despairs of well-doing. To offend in some priestly _dogma_, is more
terrible than to break an established law of honesty. Disobedience in
the false demoralises the conscience as much as disobedience in the
true, when both are received as true.
In fact most of the _moral_ books are merely books written to uphold
the great Superstition, and the morality is debased by its injurious
connection. By what strange perversion could the cultivated mind ever
be brought to announce a principle like this, to say; "Belief alone
saves man from eternal Hell; morality without it is only a snare of the
Devil." _Belief_ means an undoubting acceptance of all the pretensions
of the _Superstition_ (as explained elsewhere). What must be the effect
of teaching so false and presumptuous an enormity? The Sovereign
Lord will not deign to look with pity. He is a consuming fire! Heart
and hands pure--a life of disinterestedness--worship warm, grateful.
Nothing worse. First, BELIEVE--in the most monstrous thing which the
diseased human imagination ever created--the Jew-Jah theology and
worship!
When a system of morals is based upon such a pretension, it can only be
hurtful; unless, as is largely the fact, the healthy human _instinct_
unconsciously rejects the error. Still, great harm is done--must
be done. And how much of prevailing licentiousness and barbarism
may be placed to account of this false system cannot be defined.
It is the immediate father of _Atheism_. Men reject the tremendous
assumptions and believe nothing. But tender consciences, those in
whom the divine faculty is large and clear, in general, directed by
a true consciousness, simply disregard the horribly false things and
attach themselves to the true. In this, vindicating the nobility
of nature, which rises to its true recognition of the Sovereign
Lord, _in spite_ of surrounding errors. But, others, not so strong,
delicate in conscience and feeble in mind, become the victims of this
dreadful system. Thus it is also the father of _Idolatry_. For these
victims, fearful of eternal destruction, place themselves entirely in
the hands of the Bonzes, and adore all the gods and observe all the
_rites_. They cannot be sure, of themselves, that they do properly
_Believe_; a thing of a very mysterious nature, concerning which (as
I have remarked) the contention is ceaseless. Nor can these victims
of the Superstition, ardent _devotees_ though they be, always obtain
satisfactory _evidence_ that their _Salvation_ is sure. Then follow
the self-imposed penances, and the sacrifices imposed by the Bonzes.
They are _victimised_ by the Bonzes in an endless variety of ways. Some
build Temples; some go about begging, in mean garbs, to get money for
the _poor_ Bonzes; and the like; much as we see among our superstitious
devotees. Superstition merely reproduces its natural effects, varied
according to the circumstances. Still there remain those poor creatures
to whom no escape is possible. They struggle in vain with the dark
doubts which envelop them. They believe in all the horrors of their
worship: that but a few are saved from hell; that goodness, charity,
self-sacrifice, gifts to the Temples, to the poor, even to the
Bonzes--_nothing avails_. Unless they have _believed_ and been duly
accepted and enrolled among the _Elect-few_, they are merely children
of the Devil, awaiting death, when they become his associate in _Fires
of the tormented_, for ever and ever! These poor wretches feel already
all the _horrors_ of the damned. They find no solace in a moral life;
no peace in a grateful heart, turned to a benign, Heavenly Father. To
yield to the natural emotions, to indulge in this peace, is vanity--is
to be ensnared in the wiles of the enemy of Souls!
They catch sometimes feebly at a _hope_ of Salvation, then fall
again into a dreadful despair. At last the feeble mind gives way.
They feel themselves already lost; they fancy they have committed
the Sin which Jah himself will never pardon--(to use the words of
the _Sacred Writings_)--the _sin against the Holy Ghost_, for ever
unpardonable--they writhe, they cry, they beat their breasts, they fall
down in unspeakable agony--"the pains of Hell have got hold of them!"
This is again from the _Sacred books_. The scene closes in death, or
worse, in a _mad-house_; where in chains or under vigilant keepers (to
prevent self-destruction or the destruction of others), these wretches
vanish from human hope and sympathy! The frightful Superstition in
these victims has been a _reality_! And no human mind can bear that and
live!
I will close these remarks upon the _Literature_ of the English
Barbarians, by giving some examples of the different poetic
compositions.
From an Amatory poet, who refers to the conjugal endearments of the
Roman Jupiter and his goddess--Queen Juno, on Mount Ida, where,
according to the old traditions of the Greeks, these gods often
resorted:--
"When Juno makes the bed for Jove,
And waits the god with blushing grace--
Soft music charms the air above,
And breathing fragrance fills the place.
Mortals expect the deep repose;
Ocean is calm, the Winds are still,
The heavenly rapture overflows,
And Nature feels th' ecstatic thrill."
I think our poorest poets could have improved upon "makes the bed." In
cold England, however, bed-making is important. And for a wife of the
Upper Castes to make the bed for her Lord, with her own hands, is to
show a great love and devotion. It is laughable to think of the goddess
so domestically employed, though the top of Mount Ida must be cold
enough!
The poetry of the Idolatry has much of an amatory sort, very curiously
mixed with its terrors. I give a rather refined specimen, quite free of
the diabolic:--
"What grief, what darkness fills my breast,
That coldly I have strayed from thee!
Thou art my Love, my Life, my Rest;
All other love doth fade and die.
Oh, never may the joys of sense,
Entice my ardent soul again!
Thou art my only sweet Defence--
To love thee not is endless pain!"
From an unknown writer I extract the following, who refers to a great
Sailor of the Western Barbarians. This man, repressing the revolts of
his crew, with undaunted mind, day after day, and night after night,
for weeks and weeks, still kept on, steering _westerly_ across the
infinite, big seas. Possessed with one great and fixed idea--that _Land
lie beyond_. At length, when all hope had nearly died, far away like
a cloud, the great _New World_ was discovered! We know of this in our
Annals, in the dynasty _Ming_.
"To be--this marks the nobler man--this Force,
This _visioned_ soul, which sees the shadow cast
Of a great Object in its every course,
Urging it onward--common men will rest
With common things; such spirits are possessed
By greater somethings, which will not be hushed
With 'lullabys'--which are within the breast
_Like inspirations_--sleepless as the rush
Of world-surrounding waves, and which no earth can crush!"
This is a writer who takes the _Sea_ as the scene of his poem. The
style is affected; but much liked.
I add below an example of _Blank Verse_, a form greatly in use:--
"The Morn, exultant, on the mountain tops,
Leads in the Day--and over all the World
Delightful Joy spreads forth his glorious wings!"
This appears to be a parody of Shakespeare, who says beautifully:--
"Oh, see where jocund Day stands tip-toe,
On the distant, misty mountain tops!"
Very much of the poetry is obscured, and spoilt by the influence of
the Superstition; and very much by artificiality and affectations.
And everywhere there are poor or indifferent imitators of the ancient
Greeks and Romans; upon whom the _Literati_ mould their poetic conceits.
Of the Comic and common it is well to read little. Coarseness and
indecency seem inseparable from all vulgar humour.
The Descriptive, tinged with the melancholy of the Superstition and
Barbaric gloom, is often fine and smooth--sometimes tender and elegant.
I give an extract from an author of no repute, but agreeable; and the
more so to me, because inoffensive. It is not defiled by the Idolatry
of the Barbarians:--
"_Spring-time_ of life, with open-eyed delight,
Wondering at beautiful earth and sky!
Budding in sweet expectancy, and bright
With smiles and charming grace, and blushingly
Unconscious of a Love, just to be born--
A trembling Joy, which smiles and tears adorn!"
From the same, written in the open country; which, though obscure
sometimes, flows on finely, eloquently:--
"Stretched to the brilliant sky, on all sides clear,
Are hills, and dales, and groves, and golden corn--
Whilst in the peerless air, all things are near;
And far or near they each and all adorn!
Here, let us rest, on this fair, breezy hill,
Beneath the shade of this high, spreading beech--
And feel and see that we are Nature's still:
Her Peace and Beauty ever in our reach.
Her calm, majestic glory, harvest-crowned,
Fills heaven and earth, and blends them into _one_.
How vast and solemn bends the blue profound;
How sweet and strong th' immortal gods move on!
Move on, resistless, yet, with tender grace--
Inflexible, yet soft as summer rain--
Intangible--as where yon shadows race,
With nimble Zephyrs, o'er the waving grain!
Ineffable, though murmurs everywhere,
Swell into Anthems of delightful tone;
And smiling hill-tops, and the radiant air,
Rest in expressive Silence, all their own!
And there, by Avon's stream, are Warwick's towers;
And, here, is labour toiling in the fields:
For Lord [Tchou] or serf alike, the patient hours
Give back to Nature all which Nature yields.
Still human hope aspires and will not die;
_Will_ rear aloft its monumental walls;
Informed by Instinct builds as builds the bee--
Mounting secure where stumbling Reason falls!
So Temples rise _Immortelles_ of the race;
Where mouldering with the stones tradition clings--
Touching the landscape with ennobling grace,
And giving dignity to common things.
* * * * *
The day declines, and so my holiday;
Care slumbering by my side awakes again;
Grasps on my hand and leads my steps away--
So rudely rules the Martha of my brain!"
The _Martha_ is a scolding, busy _house-wife_ [bro-msti], taken from
an incident narrated in the _Sacred Writings_. The writer refers to
Temples in a pleasing way, and to the "mouldering stones," where,
about the dead, innumerable legends survive. Burials are near to
the Temples, and the graves are on _Holy_ ground. His reference is
comprehensive--meaning the universal _Hope of Immortality_, symbolized
by the lofty Fanes.
I give below a few of the absurdities from the _Comic_, taken from a
greatly esteemed author in this Line.
"Three wise men of Gotham
Went to sea in a bowl [tou-se];
If the bowl had been stronger,
My tale had been longer!"
The meaning of which is, I suppose, that when wise men do foolish
things they no more escape the consequences of folly than others.
"I bet you a crown to a penny,
And lay the money down,
That I have the funniest horse of any
In this or in any town.
_His tail is where his head should be_--
'You bet! Well, come and see.'
And sure enough, within his stall,
The horse was _turned_--and that was all!"
Another, very ridiculous:--
"There was a man of our town
Who thought himself so wise,
He jumped into a bramble bush,
And scratched out both his eyes.
But when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush,
And scratched them in again!"
This would _seem_ to suggest that a conceited man, having committed
an egregious blunder, rashly undertakes to remedy it by one equally
unwise. The folly of conceited impulsiveness!
Another, and I have done.
"Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner,
Eating his Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
Oh, what a good boy am I!"
This is to encourage children with an idea that, if they be _good_,
they shall have _plums_. It is very significant of the low culture. As
if one were to imagine that the possession of a big plum (riches, or
the like) demonstrated the moral excellency of the possessor!
Commentaries and parodies of these _Comic_ trivialities have been
written, and, forsooth, their beauties and meanings need exposition!