[Illustration]
A PERSIAN PEARL
AND OTHER ESSAYS
BY
CLARENCE S. DARROW
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
C. L. RICKETTS
MDCCCCII
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright
1899
Clarence S. Darrow
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CONTENTS
1 A Persian Pearl 9
2 Walt Whitman 43
3 Robert Burns 77
4 Realism in Literature and Art 107
5 The Skeleton in the Closet 139
A · PERSIAN · PEARL
[Illustration]
A PERSIAN PEARL
The reader and observer is constantly reminded that “there is nothing
new under the sun.” We no sooner find some rare gem of thought or
expression than we discover that it is only an old diamond, polished
anew, perhaps, and offered as an original stone. Neither the reader nor
the writer is always aware that the gem is antique and the setting alone
is new.
The rich mine where the treasure was first found was exhausted in a few
brief years, and then became like all the dust of all the worlds; but
the gem polished and worn by time and use, ever sparkles and shines,
regardless of the fact that the miner’s name is forgotten and his work
alone remains. Thus Nature, the great communist, provides that the
treasures of genius, like her own bountiful gifts of sunlight, rain and
air, shall remain the common property of all her children while any
dwell upon the earth.
Current literature seems to point to the ascendancy of what is often
termed the “pessimistic school.” In one sense this philosophy uncrowns
man and places him in his proper relation to the great universe, of
which he is so small a part; but while it makes less of man, it expects
less from him, and covers his deeds with that cloak of charity, which is
the legitimate garment of the great Unknown. But these modern
reflections on life and its problems, its purposes and lessons, are far
from new. Without venturing a guess as to their origin or age, we take
up that old Persian Pearl,—the “Rubaiyat,” and find on its musty pages
the great thoughts and searching questions, which have ever returned to
man since the intellect was born, and which will still remain unanswered
when the last word shall have been spoken, and the race have run its
course.
It is nearly eight hundred years since Omar Khayyam, the Persian
astronomer, philosopher, and poet, mused and wrote upon the uncertainty
of life, the eternity of time and the mutability of human things. Since
the rose bush was planted above his grave, the material world has been
almost made anew. Art and literature have given countless treasures to
the earth, and science has solved its mysteries without end. But the
riddles of existence—the problems of life, the deep heart of the
universe, the cause and purpose and end of all, are mysteries as dark
and inscrutable as they were eight centuries ago. To quote from the
Rubaiyat:
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil thro’ which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.
As Egypt is the newest country visited by the traveler, so this old
book, burnished by the genius of FitzGerald, comes to us as the latest
and profoundest word upon the infinite mysteries which over-shadow human
life. It seems to be the last word, rather than one of the first, spoken
to the perplexed soul of man, calling him from the vain pursuit of
vanities, and asking what all of it is about.
To an egoistic, boasting age and nation, this message, coming from a far
off time and a distant land, reminds us that all wisdom is garnered
neither now nor here. This Persian Pearl remained unpolished for more
than seven hundred years. It was left for Edward FitzGerald carefully
and patiently to burnish up the gem, and make it the thing of beauty
that we know.
It may be that research and study would reveal much of the personal
traits and private life of the great Persian philosopher, whose fame has
so outlived his clay, but with these we can have no concern. It is not
important to know his parents, or whether he had a wife or children, or
cattle or lands. All of these are gone and only his work remains. True,
we cannot but reflect on the personality of the poet in whose brain
these great thoughts were born, but we can know the man only by knowing
his works. Some there are who stand at a distance and view the acts of
the imperfect beings, who at the best stumble and grope along the
uncertain path between the cradle and the grave. All the footsteps that
are straight and true are unnoticed as they pass by, but the irregular,
uncertain, shifting tracks stand out alone to mark the character of the
pilgrim, who bore his heavy load the best he could. These forget that
every son of man travels an unbeaten path—a road beset with dangers and
temptations that no other wanderer met; that his footsteps can be judged
only in the full knowledge of the strength and light he had, the burden
that he carried, the obstacles and temptations that he met, and a
thorough knowledge of every open and secret motive that impelled him
here or there.
That Omar’s steps were often winding and devious, and like those of all
other mortal men, we gather from his words. No doubt his neighbors
delighted in gossiping about the great philosopher, and his reputation
was often tarnished by their idle words. These slanderers have been long
forgotten—they could not live upon the great name they sullied, and we
should not even know he was their prey except for lines like these:
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in Men’s eyes much wrong;
Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my reputation for a Song.
Eight hundred years ago, as to-day, the love of wine was one of the
chief weaknesses of the flesh. Doubtless the other frailties of human
nature are of substantially the same kind as eight centuries ago, for
while man may change the fashion of his garment or religion, nature is
ever consistent and persistent, and is the same yesterday, to-day and
forever. But our old human philosopher, like our modern human men, saw
the folly of his ways, and made many a brave resolve, but these good
intentions and solemn purposes melted in the sunshine then the same as
now.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
But Omar was greater than most of the weak and sinning children of
to-day. His own frailties taught him the rare lesson, that of all the
virtues, charity is the chiefest! And as we read the wondrous product of
his brain and understand the thoughts that stirred his being, we can
know the man better than his neighbors who judged a great soul by the
narrow vision of sordid minds. We know that his purpose was lofty, and
above all the mists and conflicting emotions and desires of his life he
rose majestic and supreme, unsullied by the specks that can only mar the
weak. Let us turn then to the philosophy and poetry of this great soul
to know the man, and as figs are not gathered of thistles, we may be
sure that broad thoughts, high aspirations, and tender charity are born
only of great minds and rare men.
To Omar Khayyam, the so-called sins of men were not crimes, but
weaknesses inherent in their being and beyond their power to prevent or
overcome. He knew that man could not separate himself from all the rest
of nature; and that the rules and conditions of his being were as fixed
and absolute as the revolutions of the planets and the changing seasons
of the year. Above man and his works he saw the heavy hand of destiny,
ever guiding and controlling, ever moving its creature forward to the
inevitable fate that all the centuries had placed in store for the
helpless captive, marching shackled to the block.
There have ever been two views of life. Both philosophies have been made
by man and mostly for him. One places him above all the rest of the
universe, whose infinite mysteries are constantly revolving and changing
before his hazy, wondering gaze. The portion of the world that comes
nearest to his eyes he cannot understand, and his own existence is a
riddle that all the ages have not solved. And yet, amidst it all, one
system teaches that man rules supreme,—and the fate of all the worlds,
or of all that may exist thereon, has no relation to his own. The other
peers into the thick darkness that hangs above, and can see no light, it
does not understand and will not guess; the endless mysteries are not
for mortal man to solve. Its devotees feel themselves part of a mighty
whole, and are powerless to separate their lives from all the rest, and
would not dare to undertake it if they could. They know that in the
great, unlimited universe they are less than the tiniest bubble in the
wildest, angriest sea. That in the words of the Rubaiyat:
We are no other than a moving row
Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show.
Omar Khayyam was probably not the first, certainly not the last, to feel
the impotence of man in the great power which animates the whole. He
could have no faith in the cruel religious tenets, which eight centuries
ago in Persia, as ever since in the Christian world, have taught the
responsibility of the helpless victim for the great, blind work in which
he had no part. He seemed to think that back of all the universe, some
intelligent power moved and controlled the world for some purpose
unknown to all except himself, but he could not think that man was in
any way accountable for the whole. To him, the great master sent us here
or there to suit his will, and it was left for us only to obey his
mighty power. The individual units of humanity were to him only:
Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this checker-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Even this does not sufficiently express his thought of man’s absolute
irresponsibility for his acts.
We have all met the parallel drawn between man and the pottery fashioned
by the moulder from the clay. Perhaps there is no better illustration of
the helplessness of the human being in the hands of the power that
fashioned and shaped him, even ages before his birth,—the uncontrollable
force that determined the length of his body, the color of his hair, the
size and shape of his brain and the contour of his face. But the
comparison made in the beautiful stanza wrought by Omar, and retouched
and gilded by the magic of FitzGerald, is wondrously powerful and fine.
The poet ranges his poor pieces of pottery in line, each representing a
man; each imperfect in structure or form, like all the other creatures
ever made. These poor, imperfect vessels, fresh from the potter, each
pleads its cause and makes excuses for its faults.
After a momentary silence spake
Some vessel of a more ungainly Make:
“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”
When will humanity be great enough and good enough to distinguish
between the fault of the potter and the fault of the pot! When can it
look over the myriads of human beings, each with his flaws and
limitations, and pity instead of blame!
The history of the past is a record of man’s cruel inhumanity to man; of
one imperfect vessel accusing and shattering another for the faults of
both. In ancient times and amongst savage tribes, the old, the infirm,
and the diseased were led out and put to death; even later, the maniac
and imbecile were fettered, chained, beaten, and imprisoned because they
were different from other men. The world has grown a little wiser, and
perhaps humaner, as the centuries have passed away. We have learned to
build asylums, and treat the afflicted with tenderness and care. We have
learned not to blame the dwarf for his stature; the hunchback for his
load; the deaf because they cannot hear, and the blind because they
cannot see. We do not expect the midget to carry the giant’s load, or
the cripple to triumph in a contest of speed. We establish a regulation
size for policemen and soldiers, but we do not put a man to death
because his stature is below the standard fixed. We forgive the size of
the foot, the length of the arm, the shade of the hair, the color of the
eye, and even the form of the skull. But, while we do not blame a man
because he has an ill-shaped head, we punish him because the brain
within conforms to the bone which molds its form. The world has made
guns and swords, racks and dungeons, chains and whips, blocks and
gibbets, and to these have dragged an endless procession thro’ all the
past. It has penned and maimed, tortured and killed, because the
potter’s work was imperfect and the clay was weak. During all the ages
it has punished mental deformity as a crime, and without pity or regret
has crushed the imperfect vessels beneath its feet. Every jail, every
scaffold, every victim—is a monument to its cruelty and blind
unreasoning wrath. Whether it was a fire kindled to burn a heretic in
Geneva,—a gibbet erected to kill a witch in Salem,—or a scaffold made to
put to death an ordinary “criminal,” it has ever been the same,—the
punishment of the creature for the creator’s fault. There might be some
excuse if man could turn from the frail, cracked vessels, and bring to
trial the great potter for the imperfect work of his hand.
But we live in the shadows; we can see only the causes and effects that
are the closest to our eyes. If the clouds would rise, and the sun shine
bright, and our vision reach out into time and space, we might find that
these cracked vessels serve as high a purpose in a great, broad scheme,
as the finest clay, wrought in the most beautiful and perfect form. The
following stanza was born of this philosophy and would inevitably come
from the broad, charitable brain that had studied the creeds that told
of the cruelty of the great Maker, but whose brain and conscience had
not been stunted and warped by their palsying dogmas:
Then said a Second—“Ne’er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
And he that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.”
The cruel religious dogmas, which in Omar’s land and Age, as in our own,
blackened both man and his Maker, had no terrors for a soul like his. He
could not believe in eternal punishment. The doctrine was a slander,
alike to God and man. He felt something of the greatness of a force that
could permeate and move the countless worlds, which make up the
limitless, unfathomed infinite we call the Universe. He saw in man one
of the smallest and most insignificant toys created by this power to
serve some unknown end; and he could not believe that the Master-Builder
would demand of his imperfect children more than he had furnished them
the strength to give. His faith in the justice of man’s case before the
great Judge is shown in the following stanza:
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestin’d Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
But even more strongly he presents the case of God against man, and man
against God, for all the crimes and miseries and sufferings of the
world. It would doubtless be difficult in all the literature of the
earth to find a juster, bolder statement of the old question of the
responsibility for sin. To some minds, this strong expression may seem
like blasphemy, but it is manly and courageous, logical and just.
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make
And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherewith the face of Man
Is blacken’d—Man’s forgiveness give—and take!
This is not the cringing prayer of the coward, who asks God’s
forgiveness to appease his wrath, but the utterance of a noble soul, who
asks forgiveness for the shortcomings of his life, and at the same time
pardons his Maker for creating him as he did. The world has heard much
of man’s duty to God, of the responsibility which the unconsulted,
fragile children of a day owe to the power that is responsible for all.
It is time we heard more of the duty of God to man; the responsibility
of the Creator for making “conscious something” out of unthinking,
unfeeling clay.
“Oh, many a cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!”
The world has talked the same nonsense of the duty of children to
parents. It has taught this, because parents are larger, and have the
brute power to compel obedience to their demands. All the duties are
from parents to children,—from those who thoughtlessly, wantonly, to
satisfy their own desires, call into conscious being a human life,—send
another soul with all its responsibilities out on the great, wide sea,
to be tossed and buffeted and torn, until, mangled and dead, it is
thrown out upon the sands to bleach.
But after all, whether it was wise or unwise, just or unjust, we have
been placed upon the earth as sentient beings and charged with the
responsibilities of life; and practical philosophy asks the question,
what does it mean, and how shall we take the journey which a higher
power has decreed that we shall make?
The poet and the dreamer and the copy book have told us much of the
meaning of life. We often repeat these lessons to make ourselves believe
them true. When we feel a doubt casting its shadow across our path, we
read them once again to drive the doubt away; and yet, in spite of all,
we know absolutely nothing of the scheme, or whether there is any kind
of plan. We are only whistlers passing through a graveyard, with our
ears tied close and our eyes shut fast. It would surely be as well to
step boldly up and read the inscription on the marble tomb and then walk
round and look at the vacant, grinning space upon the other side, calmly
waiting to record our name.
Measured by the philosophy of to-day, Omar Khayyam was a pessimist; he
was not gifted with second sight. He saw no spooks and ghosts, and he
would not look out into the midnight, and declare that his eyes
discerned a glorious rainbow, bright with fresh colors and unbounded
hopes. All the proud promises and brave assumptions and false theories
of the world were to him a mockery and a sham. The mysticisms of
religion and philosophy alike were hollow and bare. The “jarring sects”
and quibbling doctors, with their fine-spun webs, were worthy the
attention only of children and professors. This is the way he put them
down:
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by the same door wherein I went.
While it is true that in the common meaning Omar was a pessimist, still
this word, like many others, is rarely well defined. All men understand
the uncertainties of life, the disappointments and troubles of
existence, and the infinitesimal time that is reluctantly parceled out
to each mortal from the eternity that had no beginning and will have no
end. The pessimist looks at all the hurry and rush, the torment and
strife, the ambitions and disappointments that are the common lot, and
can see no prizes so tempting as rest and peace. He makes the most of
what he has, and looks contentedly forward to the long sleep that brings
relief at last.
Omar Khayyam was not deceived by all the glitter and bustle of the
world. He saw the stage from behind the curtain, as well as from the
circle before the scenes. He looked on the great surging mass of men,
ever pulling and pushing, striving and trying, working and fighting, as
if all eternity was theirs in which to build, and all unmindful of the
silent bookkeeper, who could be deceived by no false entries, and ever
remembered to demand his dues. Of life he said:
‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest
A Sultan to the Realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
In the presence of all that the world had to offer,—while honors and
glories fell fast upon his head, he still could not close his eyes to
the facts of existence, and the mortality of human things. It may be
that he mused too much upon the great fact that ever sternly faces
life,—the great being before whom all monarchs bow, and in whose
presence all crowns are shattered. To the boasting and forgetful, these
words may not be pleasant, but they still are true:
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d
Of the Two worlds so learnedly are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their words to Scorn
Are scatter’d and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
Neither the great nor the good could avoid the common fate; the
unyielding messenger came alike to call the proud Sultan and the good
and kindly friend.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
Death is so common that we sometimes wonder why men make plans,—why they
ever toil or spin. But, of course, we can see only the leaves that fall
from other stalks. Rarely do we feel that all this has a personal
meaning, and that our turn soon must come. Omar looked at the stricken
friends around him, and thus mused:
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
It has never required the great or the learned to note the constant
falling of the leaves and the ceaseless running of the sands. It is
mainly from this that systems of religion have been evolved. Man has
ever sought to make himself believe that these things are not what they
seem; that, in reality, death is only birth, and the body but a prison
for the soul. This may be true, but the constant cries and pleadings of
the ages have brought back no answering sound to prove that death is
anything but death.
Our old philosopher could not accept these pleasing creeds on faith. He
preferred to plant his feet upon the shifting doubtful sands, rather
than deceive himself by alluring and delusive hopes. Upon the old
question of immortality, he could answer only what he knew, and this is
what he said:
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass’d the door of Darkness through
Not one returns to tell us of the Road
Which to discover we must travel too.
This stanza is perhaps gloomy and hopeless, but it is thoughtful, and
brave, and beautiful. We may seek to be children if we will, but
whatever our desires, we cannot strangle the questions that ever rise
before our minds and will not be put away. To our own souls we should be
just and true. Peace and comfort, when gained at the sacrifice of
courage and integrity, are purchased at too high a price. The truth
alone can make us free, and
“One flash of it within the tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.”
Yes, one flash of the true light is better than all the creeds and
dogmas. It is better, even though these hold out the fairest prospects
and the brightest dreams, and the flash of true light is only the
blackest midnight.
Not only would Omar take away the hope of Heaven, but he leaves us with
little to boast while we live upon the earth. Our short, obscure
existence is not felt or noticed in the great sweep of time and the
resistless movement of the years. Along the pathway of the world we
leave scarce a footprint, and our loudest voice and bravest words are as
completely lost as if spoken in the presence of Niagara’s roar.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour’d
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
The weakness and littleness of man has been the subject of endless words
before and since, but never has poet put it more strongly than here. The
Eternal Saki—the great wine pourer, tips his pitcher and turns out
millions of bubbles, and still they come forever, and each of us is one.
But however brave and stoical Omar seems to be, still he feels sad when
witnessing the flight of years and the ravages of time. It is, of
course, useless to fight the inevitable, and the strongest will must
bend and break before the weakening touch of age. Whether it is good or
bad, all cling to existence, and sadly and reluctantly let go the
tendrils that hold to pulsing life. The fading of Spring and youth, and
the coming of Autumn with its suggestions of the approaching end, is
most beautiful and touching in this marvelous book:
Yet, Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
This strain of sadness is sincere and true. To recognize the inevitable
and not pretend to deceive one’s self is one thing, but to think that
all is just and wise and best may be quite another. Omar felt that fate
was inexorable, relentless and hard.
The moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on; nor all your piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
He would have tempered her hardness with a little human love and tender
pity, and bade the great Recorder leave much untold. He recognized the
fact that the scheme could not be changed, and that even our brief
existence depended upon our subservience to the great will that would
neither break nor bend; but he still regretted that it was not better
and kinder and more forgiving than it is. There is almost a wail in the
strain of sadness in which he laments the rigor of unyielding fate.
Would that some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
Ah Love! could you and I with him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?
It is impossible to live to a moderate age without forming some idea of
the conduct of life; this may be practical or theoretical, or both. But
either with or without consciousness we construct some plan of life and
its purpose, and our daily conduct conforms more or less closely to the
theory that we accept. The religionist teaches that the hope of future
rewards and punishments must be kept before the mind, or man would give
himself completely to indulgence, and the race would die. This theory
loses sight of the fact that Nature herself is constantly wiping out
those who defy her laws, and preserving longest those who conform to the
conditions she has imposed. Excesses of all kinds destroy and weaken
existence, and bring the natural penalty, which leaves only the more
rational and temperate to perpetuate life upon the earth. Of course
these observations apply, not to the fashions and forms and conventions
of man, except so far as these conform to the unbending laws of nature,
which must ever be supreme.
From Omar Khayyam’s views of life, he could not but think that it was
the duty of every pilgrim to get the most he could in his journey
through the world. But, really, all accept this obvious fact. The
Religionist says merely that man should be less happy here,—that his
enjoyment may be the greater in the world to come. It is not in the
theory as to life’s purpose that men have differed, but as to the
conduct that really brings the greatest happiness when the last balance
has been struck, and the book is forever closed. Our poet could not see
the days and years go by and life’s sands swiftly running out, and still
postpone all enjoyment to some far off, misty time. He believed in the
reality of to-day, and that beyond the present all was but a vision and
a dream. In his day, as in ours, the priests held out the hope of heaven
and fear of hell, to keep the wanderer in the narrow path. But Omar was
a philosopher and astronomer. He peered into the infinite depths of
endless space, and could see only moving, whirling worlds like ours, and
could find no place for heaven or hell. What the mysteries of astronomy
could not reveal, the theories of life left equally in the dark. While
he refused to be moved by a literal heaven and hell, he yet felt a deep
meaning attached to these old religious views. The humane, progressive
thinkers of to-day have scarcely gone beyond this old seer, who lived
eight centuries ago and pondered the same problems over which our
theologians wrangle now. The following stanza gives an interpretation of
these religious dogmas, which for beauty and breadth and insight seems
to be the latest product of ethical, religious thought, instead of the
musty musings of an old pagan, who has been dust almost eight hundred
years:
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-Life to spell;
And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell.”
If these places are but states of consciousness, it of course must
follow that we make our own heaven and hell, and it is, therefore, the
right and duty of each, not to wait for some dreamy mirage born of old
superstition, unmanly fear, and unfounded faith, but to take the
present, fleeting moment, and with it do the best we can. This stanza
may seem painfully sad and hopeless, but it contains the true philosophy
of life:
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
Not only is the present the all important time, but the realities know
nothing except the present. There is no moment but the one that’s
here,—the past is gone, the next one has not come, and he that misses
the present loses all there is.
Some for the Glories of This World, and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
As to how the pleasures of life are to be found, men never have agreed
and never can. Our view of pleasure, like our feelings and emotions,
grows from the condition of our being, and is the result of causes that
we did not create and cannot control. Some there are who look at all the
strife and suffering of the world, and feel no kinship to the great,
surging mass that moves and feels and thinks. These walk silently along
the path alone, oblivious alike to the pleasures and the sufferings of
the world around. Others there are whose souls are so sensitive that
they feel the joys and sorrows of the world, and who cannot separate
their lives from all the sentient, moving things that teem and swarm
upon the earth. Both can and must feel those appetites and desires that
are ever incident to being. Without these, nature could neither bring
life upon the earth nor sustain it when it came. It is in the balancing
of these feelings that nature almost necessarily makes the imperfect
man. Unless the emotions and desires are sufficiently developed, the
creature is cold, impassive, pulseless clay. If too much developed, it
runs the risk of sacrificing the higher emotions and more lasting
enjoyments to the fleeting, sensual pleasures of the hour. Almost every
person must stand upon one side or the other of this shadowy line, which
no man can see, and which he would have no power to cross, even if he
knew where it ran.
Perhaps the Rubaiyat shows too much leaning toward the sensual; too
great fondness for the vine. Some of the allusions were perhaps
symbolical, but still, Omar doubtless was very fond of wine and found in
its use one of the chief purposes of life. Philosophy and theology could
not satisfy his mind. These furnished only visionary, inconsistent
theories of existence, utterly barren and futile,—wholly purposeless and
wrong. After studying and wrangling and disputing, he threw them to the
winds and reached out for the realities,—however transitory and
unsatisfactory these realities seemed to be. His exchange of theories
and mysticisms for wine may be symbolical or not, but whether literal or
figurative, he could hardly be cheated by the trade. This is the way he
relates the story of his change of heart:
You know, My Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse.
After throwing the theoretical philosophy to the winds, he turned to the
vine to learn what life really meant. No doubt, the vessel here is
figuratively used. It might mean a wine cup, it might mean feeding a
beggar, it might mean a warm room and comfortable dress. It meant
something besides the intangible, barren theories, which have ever
furnished theologians and professors with the pleasing occupation of
splitting hairs and quibbling about the meaning of terms.
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean’d, the secret of my Life to learn;
And Lip to Lip it murmur’d—“While you live,
Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.”
Neither would it do to postpone the pleasures of the wine,—time is
fleeting, and every hour may be the last. Life has no space for
resolutions or regrets. These only rob existence of a portion of the
poor prizes that she stingily scatters into the ring to be fought and
scrambled after by the crowd.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling;
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.
It is not the dainty sipping of the wine that our poet commends for the
peace of the soul, but the giving up of self to the enjoyment of the
hour,—the complete abandonment that forgets time and space and eternity,
and knows only the moment that is.
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow’s tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
This stanza may mean wine,—it may mean any strong purpose, or intense
emotion that takes possession of our life,—that makes us its devoted
slave, anxious to dare or suffer for the privilege of enlisting in a
cause. That Omar knew something of life’s pleasures and realities,
besides the wine he lauded, is apparent from his work. His insight was
so deep that he could not be deceived by the tinsel and glitter and
trappings that make up the vain show with which men deceive others, and
attempt to beguile themselves. In Persia eight hundred years ago, there
were probably no twenty-story buildings, no railroads, nor street cars,
nor telegraph wires; perhaps no chambers of commerce, nor banks; but no
doubt these old Mohammedans had much as useless and vain and artificial
as these inventions of a later day. There was then, as now, the master
with all the false luxury that idleness could create in that land and
time; there was also, as to-day, the hopeless slave, whose only purpose
on the earth was to minister to the parasite and knave; and both of
these, master and man alike, were helpless prisoners in the schemes and
devices, the machinery and inventions, the worthless appendages and
appliances that bound and enslaved them, and that have held the world
with ever increasing strength to the present day.
But Omar knew that all of this was a delusion and a snare;—that it
failed of the purpose that it meant to serve. He turned from these
vanities to a simpler, saner life, and found the sweetest and most
lasting pleasures close to the heart of that great nature, to which man
must return from all his devious wanderings, like the lost child that
comes back to its mother’s breast. What simpler and higher happiness has
all the artificial civilization of the world been able to create than
this:
A Book of Verses underneath the bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
It is these bright spots in life’s desert that make us long to stay.
These hours of friendship and close companionship of congenial souls
that seem the only pleasures that are real, and from which no regrets
can come. It is away from the bustle and glare of the world, above its
petty strifes, and its cruel taunts, in the quiet and trust of true
comradeship, that we forget the evil and fall in love with life. And our
old philosopher, with all his pessimism, with all his doubts and
disappointments, knew that here was the greatest peace and happiness
that weary, mortal man could know. In the presence of the friends he
loved, and the comradeship of congenial lives, he could not but regret
the march of time and the flight of years, which heralded the coming of
the end. Poor Omar was like all the rest that ever lived—he looked
forward into the dark, unknown sea, and shuddered as he felt the rising
water on his feet.
All of us know how small and worthless are our lives when measured by
the infinite bubbles poured out by the great creative power. All know
that we shall quickly sink into the great dark sea and the waves will
close above us as if we had not been. And yet we do not really think of
the world as moving on the same when we have spoken our last lines and
retired behind the scenes. To the world we are little,—to ourselves we
are all. We almost hope that for a time at least we shall be
missed,—that some souls shall sorrow and some lives feel pain. We hope
that here and there some pilgrim will tell of a burden that we helped
him bear, or a road we tried to smooth. That sometime when the merry
feast is on, a former friend shall feel a momentary shadow rest upon his
heart at the thought of the face he used to know and the voice that now
is still. Thus Omar and FitzGerald mused and hoped and told in
beautiful, pathetic lines:
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!
And when like her, O Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,
And in your blissful errand reach the spot
Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass!
WALT
WHITMAN
[Illustration]
WALT WHITMAN
The work of Whitman stands alone in the literature of the world. Both in
substance and construction he ignored all precedents and dared to be
himself. All the rules of form and taste must be unlearned before the
world can accept his style as true literary art. Still it may be that
Walt Whitman was a poet, and that sometime the world will look back and
marvel at the mechanical precision and glittering polish that confines
and emasculates for the sake of a purely artificial form.
Measured by the common rules, Whitman’s work is neither poetry nor
prose; it is remotely allied to the wild chanting of the primitive
bards, who looked about at the fresh new marvels of earth and sky and
sea, and unhampered by forms and rules and customs, sang of the miracles
of the universe and the mysteries of life. Whitman seems one of those
old bards, fresh from the hand of nature, young with the first creation,
the newest handwork of the great Master, untaught in any schools,
unfettered by any of the myriad chords, which time is ever weaving about
the brains and hearts and consciences of men as the world grows gray; a
primitive bard of nature, born by some chance or accident in this old,
tired, worn-out world, dropped into this Nineteenth century with its
machines and conventions, its artificial life, its unnatural morals and
its fettered limbs. He alone in all the ages seems to have been
specially given to the world, still fresh with the imprint of the
Creator’s hand, and standing amid all our false conventions, natural,
simple, true, “naked and not ashamed.” To the world with its crowded
cities, its diseased bodies, its unnatural desires, its narrow religion,
and its false morals, he comes like a breeze of the morning, from the
mountains or the sea. Aye, like a breath of that great, creative life,
which touched the fresh world and brought forth the green grass, the
sparkling waters and the growing, beauteous, natural earth.
No one ever fell in love with Whitman’s work for its literary art, but
his work must live or die because of his philosophy of life and the
material he chose from which to weave his songs. It is in his whole
point of view that Walt Whitman stands so much alone. No one else has
ever looked on the universe and life as this man did. If religion means
devotion to that great unseen power that is ever manifest in all of
nature’s works, then Walt Whitman was the most reverent soul that ever
lived. This man alone of all the world dared defend the Creator in every
part and parcel of his work. The high mountains, the deep valleys, the
broad plains and the wide seas; the feelings, the desires, and the
passions of man; all forms of life and being that exist upon the earth,
were to him but several manifestations of a great creative power that
formed them all alike, made each one needful to the whole, and every
portion sacred through its Master’s stamp.
And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present and can be
none in the future,
And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn’d to
beautiful results,
And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death.
And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are
compact,
And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as
profound as any.
I will not make poems with reference to parts.
But I will make poems, songs, thoughts, with reference to ensemble,
And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to all
days.
Whitman’s philosophy knew no evil and no wrong. The fact of existence
proved the right of existence; in the great workshop of nature every
tool had its special use and its rightful place.
The imperfections of the world come from the narrow visions of men. If
the perspective is right, the universe is right. From the narrow valley
the house may look old and worn, the fences decayed, the fields barren,
the woods scraggy and the cliff ragged and bare; but climb to the only
place where either life or landscape can be rightly seen, the mountain
top, and look once more. The hills, the valley, the stream, the woods,
and the farms have melted and blended into one harmonious whole, and
every imperfection has been swept away. The universe is filled with
myriad worlds as important as our own, each one a tiny floating speck in
an endless sea of space—each whirling, turning, moving on and on and on,
through the countless ages, past and yet to come. No one can tell the
purpose of their tireless, endless flight through space; but still we
know that each has an orbit of its own, and every world is related to
the rest, and every grain of sand and the weakest, feeblest spark of
power has its needful place in the balance of the whole. So all of good,
and all of bad, and all of life, and all of death, and all of all, has
the right to be and must needs be. Walt Whitman did not even know how to
divide the evil from the good, but he sang them both alike.
I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of
wickedness also.
What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?
Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent.
The universe can make no mistakes, every particle of energy that has
permeated the world since time began, has been working toward a
completer system and a more harmonious whole. There is a soul of truth
in error; there is a soul of good in evil. From the trials and sorrows
and disappointments of life, even from its bitterness and doubt and sin,
are often born the holiest desires, the sincerest endeavors and the most
righteous deeds.
Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse
unreturn’d love,
But now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is certain one way
or another,
(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return’d,
Yet out of that I have written these songs.)
This is the old, old philosophy, ever forgotten, yet ever present. It is
sure in the world of mechanics, it is equally true in the world of
morals and of life. Nothing is lost; the force that once was heat is
transformed to light; the flood that destroyed the grain, comes at last
to turn the miller’s wheel. What we call sin and evil make the
experiences of life and go to the upbuilding of character and the
development of man. We can know only what we have felt, and however much
we try to deceive others, we can tell only of the experiences we
ourselves have had. The poorest life is the one that has no tale to
tell. In the doubts and darkness of life, in the turbulence of mind and
the anguish of the soul, it is most consoling to feel that resignation
and confidence which comes from a realization that all is right and that
you are master of yourself and at peace with God and man. This calm,
optimistic, self-reliant philosophy is ever present with its consoling
power in all Walt Whitman’s work.
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral
drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the
learning of all times,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d
universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes.
And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each, am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about
death).
I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the
least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four and each moment
then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the
glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by
God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
This is not the boasting of the ignorant egotist who vaunts himself
above his fellow man, but the calm, conscious serenity of a great soul,
who has learned the patient philosophy of life.
There is an egotism that is cheap and vulgar and born of ignorance
alone. There is an egotism that comes from the knowledge that after all
what we are depends not upon the estimate of the world, but upon the
integrity and character of ourselves. This consciousness of individual
worth brings that peace of soul, “which the world can neither give nor
take away.”
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after
all),
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself;
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million
years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tennon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
Happy is the man that has climbed to the height on which Walt Whitman
stood. Happy is he that has mastered the haste and impatience of youth,
and is content to bide his time. Happy is he that has so far solved the
problem of life as to know that reward is not received from others and
cannot be withheld by others, but can be given only by ourselves. Such a
man has struck the subtle harmony which unites his soul with the
universal life and he knows that no one but himself can cut the cord.
To a great mass of men and women, Walt Whitman is known almost alone by
that portion of his work called “Children of Adam.” These poems have
called forth the fiercest opposition and the bitterest denunciation, and
if the common judgment is correct, they are obscene and vile. While this
portion of his book is by far the smallest part, still, before the court
of public opinion, he must stand or fall upon these lines. In one sense
public opinion is right, for unless these stanzas can be defended, his
point of view is wrong, and Walt Whitman’s work will die. We need not
accept all he did, or give unstinted praise to all his work, but his
scheme is consistent in every portion of his thought, and his point of
view will determine the place he shall fill in art and life.