I. - To A Boy About To Leave Home For Schoool.
And you are now, O Boy, about to leave
Your home, to lost your parents' kindly care
And daily oversight? The narrow nest
Becomes forsaken of the fledging. You
Are ready, ay, and willing now to bid
Adieu to homely sympathies and joys;
And - youthful though you be - I may not doubt
Your tender heart beats quick at the mere thought
Of new companions and associates,
Pastimes and scenes. 'Tis well; ere you depart
Listen to one who wishes you God-speed
As you advance along the path of life.
You leave your parents' home, and as you go
Their fervent prayers accompany their son,
Their thoughts are with you ever, their desires
For your advancement; carefully they hide
The pangs of parting, 'tis to save you pain,
And earnestly they pray their youthfue son
May reach to manhood, live a noble life --
An honour to them both and to himself.
But need I say when from their guardianship
You pass, and to a stranger home arrive,
You may not fondly hope, as heretofore,
To be the centre of solicitude:
Paternal care is gone, but in its place
Expect fair dealing - 'tis your proper right --
Joined to such kindness as your conduct claims
Its just reward. Be not down hearted then
When you arrive in unfamiliar scenes,
Behold new faces, mix with stranger lads
And lost the kindly intercourse of home.
Be not down-hearted, quit you like a man:
Is not the man a model for the boy?
Think of your parents, stifle rising sobs
And brush the welling tears of grief away.
Remember, too, your duty; 'tis to yield
Obedience to your guardians as you would
To your own parents, cheerfully to act
As 'tis directed - if you may not love
You can respect - thus ever strive to curb
Th' unruly tongue if it would wag against
The powers that be; a rude ill-mannered lad
Is a mere blot upon the comely face
Of fair society: a modest mien,
A gentle spirit, and an honest heart,
Commend their owner unto one and all.
What shall I say, O Boy, when first you come
To mingle with your school, your very world?
The school is but the world in miniature,
And your companions -- youthful though they be --
Contain the germs of every quality.
Soon shall you learn to mark, if you be shrewd,
The truthful lad, and in your mind contrast
The honest with the hypocritical,
The noble-hearted with the arrant sneak,
The candid with the false, the truly brace
With the mean coward, and the whisperer.
Choose then your company, and choose with care,
-- I speak to you for a straightforward lad
Anxious to do his duty by himself
And by his parents in all honesty --
Though in thus choosing be not arrogant;
Avoid the liar and the foul of tongue,
Such never mend their manners or their minds;
Avoid the lazy, those who squander time,
That precious trust, as if it were their own;
Avoid the mean who cringe to social rank
Even in boyish form; but strive to win
The love and confidence of noble souls
By like nobility within yourself.
Strive to be manly --if the tempter comes --
And come he will -- to whisper in your ear
That which your judgment tells you to be wrong,
Dally not with temptation, crush at once
The evil thought or wish: be ever bold
In honesty of purpose, word and deed,
Unheeding gibe or sneer: do what is right,
If right be manifest; if there be doubt,
Then ponder warily before you act;
As for the rest, maintain your self-respect
'Mongst your companions; never stoop to fawn,
To flatter, to conceal; if you receive
A hearty cuff, why, give it back again
As best you can, but malice harbour not
When all is past, and never strike the weak
And unoffending. Who would countenance
The bully loud of tongue and quarrelsome,
The coward in disguise? Apply your mind
As best you can to the allotted tasks
Whatever be your powers: work heartily,
Work honestly, and though the foremost place
May not be yours, why you have done your part
And need not to repine; as in your work
So in your games and pastimes, heart and soul
Join in the recreations of the hour;
A loit'rer is a dullard at the best.
And -- though I may not counsel foppery --
Needs must I add that proper self-respect
Inculcates ever neatness of attire,
And purity of person -- construe now
The "Sana mens in corpore sano,"
And understand --
Mayhap you smile, O Boy,
And deem my words grotesque, or my advice
Ill-suited to your judgment; think again!
And take this counsel with you as you leave
Your parents' roof-tree to begin your world.
Be diligent in study and in play,
Be modest, humble-minded, truthful, brave,
Pure-hearted, and pure-handed; for the rest,
Whatever be the place your talents give,
Or high or low (of minor moment this)
You found the structure of a useful life
Growing in honour and unblemished fame,
Of a career unshadowed by regret
For time misspent and apt occasion lost,
And gain in manhood a respected place
Among the worth of your native land.
Why grumble, friend, because you deem the world
Is folly-fraught, what is the world to you?
Better to stand aside and mark and laugh,
Than groan in spirit or turn querulous
O'er what you disapprove. Your constant theme
Of late has been the guardianship of youth,
And you wax eloquent when you narrate
The faults of education, of control,
And censorship, and tell how you would change
The mode of governaunce, your end and aim
Perfection of the mass. Well, have your say,
Spin out your theories, no harm is done.
But for myself, I cannot summon up
Enthusiastic zeal to battle down
Systems imperfect, that the while compound
Gold with the dross, have their foundations laid
On precedent, no mean criterion.
And what is your desideratum, pray?
Perfection -- mine, to spend a tranquil life,
And let the seething world arrange itself.
Yet for a moment let me follow out
A scheme of intermeddling -- little good
I fear were the result. Suppose, I hold
That education of the present day
Hath overmuch of one especial aim,
Rapidity, to cram the student full
Of themes congenial to his future walk
In life, whatever his vocation be;
While thoroughness is kept subordinate;
Suppose, I, say, this were but hinted at,
The learned world would hold me fanciful,
And for my pains reward me with a sneer;
Or, further, were I boldly to advance
The monstrous proposition that our youth
Are now-a-days taught rather to revere
Success than actual worth, who would believe
This fallacy? or were I to proclaim
That in the teaching of our golden youth
The languages are held of more account
Than virtue. Why! this were but foolish talk,
For well 'tis known the classics of themselves
Are the great font and well spring of all good,
That erudition points to virtue's crown,
And merit's meed displays, without the aid,
Of lecturer to analyse or point
The special moral of these common words
"Virtue" and "Merit." But suppose again,
I see my neighbour's son, a kindly lad,
Intelligent and modest, of good parts,
But timid and retiring, needing much
The helping hand, th' encouragement, the smile,
To draw him from his shell of bashfulness,
But crushed and daunted by his father's frown
Whenever he would venture to assert
His personality, were I to dare
The hones but unwelcome privilege
Of open-speaking, and to recommend
The sire to mend his rude impatient ways,
And cherish what is manly in his son,
Prithee would thanks be mine for my advice?
Or take the opposite; a forward lad
Is privileged and humoured to his loss
By doting parent, whose unsteady hand
Holds loose the reins of management, shall I
Intrude myself, forsooth, and point the way
To benefit the father and the son?
Unpalatable were my words, I trow,
While swift and sure would my rejoinder come,
"Desist, this is my business, Sir, not yours" --
You hold perfection is true
happiness,
While cultivation brings perfection? -- then
Perfection is equality of mind;
For to one common perfect level you
Would bring your studious fellowman. Is't so?
Your premises, I fear, are incorrect,
Study refines, but may not equalize;
All are not born alike in intellect.
Were ev'n the opportunities of all
Identical, how often do we see
A world-compelling father, and a son
Incapable and weak -- a churlish sire,
A gentle-mannered son -- profusion oft
Succeeds to avarice; Nature delights
In opposites and in equalities,
And to one common level never stoops.
But did your system in the
end prevail,
And ours become a model world, why then,
I fear me 'twere a tame world at the best;
Where were we grumblers then? alas! our day
And cherished calling were for ever gone;
Besides, the world already teems with worth,
And needs no special readjustment -- all
Aim at perfection in their different walks.
I ask where is the statesmen who misrules?
Or where the grave and learned lawyer who
Pleads (save unconsciously) a worthless cause?
Did ever yet a leech his patient kill?
Did ever tradesman yet adulterate
His so-called "goods?" Did ever yet
A farmer's profits fail from his own fault,
Not from the evil seasons? Who has heard
Of the apothecar so base as mix
With health-renewing drugs a worthless mass
Of false material? I might multiply
Such queries, 'twere in vain, for well we know
It were a sacrilege to whisper them,
A mere delusion to believe their truth.
If you would have the truth, address yourself
To lawyer, doctor, farmer, and the like,
Crave instances of each in their own paths
To test if they be in the fault or no,
And then receive their answer frank and free;
For what authority of greater weight
Can I adduce and offer than -- their own?
Depend upon it, friend, there's sad abuse
Bestowed upon the world. You only need
To meet with the maligned ones face to face,
And with the explanation, the offence,
Th' incongruous act (but term it as you will)
Complained of vanishes; those who were held
As sinners are discovered to be saints,
Their code benevolence with honour joined.
He who was deemed a miser you fill find
Not for himself, but his successor hoards;
The so-called gambler would but benefit
His friends with Fortune's favours, what to him
Is fierce excitement, or the lust for gold?
He loves them not; and who has ever seen
Cupid and Mammon tripping hand in hand?
(O libellers beware, have charity!)
If aged be joined to youth 'tis manifest
That youth should be applauded to the skies,
For acting tender nurse to halting age;
While age -- need I continue to pour forth
Examples that an envious carping world
Would misconstrue till all is well explained?
Nay, I have said sufficient; were my theme
Expanded in this wise, why, you would swear
That I am over gentle for the part
Of critic, over generous to mark
Failings and foibles; that the roseate hue
Suits better the good-natured kindly man
Than the cold glare of stern reality.
Thus you have in a word, well-meaning friend,
My shrewd philosophy -- let well alone --
Take men on their own shewing, you will find
The world is better than 'tis ever called.
You would remodel? 'tis a futile task.
And equalise? climate and intellect
And bodily difference oppose you there.
You prate of virtue? but all recognize
Each in their different way, that virtue's crown
Is earnestness of purpose, honour, truth,
And uprightness of soul, altho' men deal
But seldom in heroics; and you hold
That innocence is man's great aim and end?
All good in theory! but never yet
Was innocence lodged in the heart of man,
His manhood drives it forth, and were you doomed
Ay, even you, to the companionship
Of such an innocent (did he exist)
I fear that soon your model would be found
Unsuited to your philosophic soul,
And gladly would you say the word -- Farewell!
You tell me there is one whom you respect,
Would gladly make your friend, but he enfolds
Him ever in a mantle of reserve,
So that you find your kindly sympathies
Thrown back upon yourself, till in despair
You vow to persevere no more; 'tis true
Reserve or "sullen modesty" exists,
But that which often passes for reserve
Is only Pride, that various quality,
Common and noxious, as the weeds that thrive
Profuse on every soil. Mayhap this man
Whose friendship you would, anxious, cultivate
Is ruled of Pride, and will have none of you.
Then if so, leave him to his own regard,
For there is ne'er a sight more pitiful,
More abject, and more nauseous than a man
Bending before his fellow to the ground,
Eager for notice, careless of disdain,
Prepared to barter slavishly away
His manhood for the notice of a churl.
But this apart, I would a word with thee
On Pride, the master passion of the mind.
What prithee rules the world? why, selfishness,
Th' ubiquitous, the irrepressible,
And upon selfishness is Pride engraffed.
Cherished within the heart of wilful man
Pride lurks, and often unsuspected lurks,
Smould'ring like hidden fire, subdued and still,
In some dark nook, prepared to leap to flame,
When by the lightest, gentlest touch 'tis stirred.
Like selfishness is Pride ubiquitous;
Yet there be forms of Pride that do assume
The quality of Virtue: self-respect
Is proper Pride, and woe be to the man
Who ceases to respect himself; for such
His place is sloven 'mongst his fellows, he
Wears ignominious out life's weary hour,
And passes without pity or regret.
Then Pride is Virtue too in many ways.
Pride mingles with ambition, honour, truth,
Nobility of soul, candour, and love.
Ambition? where is he who would advance
Upon the path of fame, who hath not felt
The spur of Pride to urge him on his way?
Honour? were Pride awanting honour dies.
Truth? ay, there's proper Pride in rectitude.
Nobility of soul? the purest form
Of Pride is centred here; nobility
Uprears on consciousness of inner worth,
But take the pride of inner worth away
Nobility expires. Candour? You ask
What hath integrity to do with Pride?
Why, this -- there is a pride in purity
That will not deign to sully with a lie,
And candour thus is based on proper Pride.
Then love? here Pride is in her element;
Who is not filled with an exultant joy
To mark the object of affection rise
In man's esteem, or in the path of life
Achieve distinction and enduring good?
Need I continue? In a hundred ways
Can Pride be set in Virtue's diadem,
But there's the converse -- he who walks abroad
And marks his fellowmen with glance acute
Knows well the many fashions Pride assumes.
Here is your haughty man, though wherefore proud
'Twould puzzle him and others to proclaim.
There is a fellow, to the inner core
Seeped in self-estimation, talks forsooth
As if he were a God (the first of men
Are pigmies at the best), and condescends
To gaze adown with an approving smile
On those he honours with his countenance;
Yet is this man no better than his kind,
Hath set his seal in no particular
On science, art, or knowledge -- but 'twere vain
To drive this self-esteem from out his soul.
Here is another insolent and rough,
His very soul in exaltation steeped
Because his purse is heavy, such as he
Will not and cannot realise the fact
That money neither is nor makes the man;
Were he away to-morrow, why, his gold
Remains another's, whence his vanity?
The other day I chanced upon a crowd;
The greetings and the interview were rife,
And worthy observation. One I saw
Of high position -- and he knew it well --
Gliding along with bended back, his eyes
Cast modest to the ground; when he did greet
His neighbour 'twas with diffidence, his hand
Was unobtrusive in the other's slid,
Nor did he lose his grasp, but there he stood
Civil and meek in proud humility.
Another, too, I saw, a magnate he,
Who with his neighbours spake, not haughtily,
But condescendingly, so that the tones
Though not the words proclaimed his loftiness.
Another, too, outbid humility,
By over frankness with his underlings,
And jested, laughed, and buffeted, until
His fellows waxed familiar; in a trice
His manner, index of his temper, changed.
Pride is Protean -- shall I name "false Pride,"
The pride of fine attire and luxury,
The pride of show, pretended affluence,
Of studied plainness of exterior,
Of speculation, would-be charity,
Of place, of honours, and of mimic worth?
You recognize them all, a lengthy train.
Where then the wisdom of these ancient words
Man know thyself? why man would stand aghast
Were he to recognize his own mean self,
Unless he vowed ('twere a herculean task)
To take conviction to his soul, and mend
His most uneven ways.
And shall I name
Another form of Pride, in essence false,
The pride of birth? for what, pray, is "blue blood,"
That men will prate about? a very myth.
The infant of the hind in lusty health
Oft betters far the nursling of the peer;
Treat both alike, and with advancing years
The former may, in power of intellect
And frame, superior prove -- Nature declines
To gift alone the lofty of the land
With grace of form and potency of brain,
But with a wayward will she flings her gifts
Now here, now there, broadcast upon the world.
You doubt my premises, the child, you say,
Mirrors his parent oft in face and form?
This may be, yet the blood that circles through
Peasant and peer one common quality
Possesses, prate you e'er so learnedly;
Go, analyse life's current if you will;
The crimson stream that's in the peasants' veins
Will oft contain a healthier element
Than the much-vaunted current that sustains
His noble master -- there's no question here
Of lineage or variety of race.
But (you may say) 'tis but a narrow view
You take of this broad subject; when men talk
Of noble blood, 'tis only to imply
That birthright gifts a proud inheritance
Of noble qualities -- the mode of speech
Is metaphorical, Nay (I reply),
All that our world contains, or good or bad,
Can be subjected to analysis.
Go, analyse in every rank of life
The rich or poor, the lofty or the low,
And from each class shall there be surely found
Samples indifferent: matter and mind,
Body and intellect alike corrupt;
Then what remains -- whence the inheritance?
View, as you will, this theory, it falls.
To put if diff'rently; 'twere proper Pride
To dwell upon an ancestor's renown
With reverential pleasure; but to claim
Inheritance in qualities that gave
Their owner fame were folly. True, the sire
May gift the son with patrimonial rights,
And Fortune and her favours none despise,
But noble intellect and noble frame.
Are Nature's gifts and no inheritance.
O why do we behold men vaunt themselves
On brilliant deeds they never have performed,
On wealth they hold, but never have achieved?
They who have by their own exertions gained
Riches, and by their merit fame, may point
With satisfaction to their past career
(Though merit oft is mute), and proudly say
"All this I did unaided and alone."
Yet in such speech their very accents jar.
But there's a Pride for me that special charms,
To live in tranquil unpretending life,
Unheeding fame or honours, and whose aim
Consists in this, to act a useful part,
And live and die at peace with all mankind.
You ask me wherefore I am well content
To lead a country life, to dwell retired
From the hoarse roar of cities, though of old
Not unacquainted with the busy town;
But may not I enquire, in turn, of one
Who, when he shuns betimes his town abode,
For sylvan scenes, is ever loud in praise
Of rural calm, wherefore it is that he
Forsakes not for an atmosphere refined
The dusk metropolis, but aye returns
Ungrudging to his home? If aught there be
Inexplicable here, why, let us twain
Lay to the score of difference in taste,
Our various modes; have I not ample cause
To love the country and its quiet joys?
'Tis true, the busy crowded town affords
Unceasing opportunity to view
With curious eye the various mingled mass
Of rude humanity, to speculate
With philosophic mind, if such your bent,
Upon the nature of your fellowman.
Then you have (an' you will it) intercourse
With kindred spirits; means convenient
To follow your pursuits, or grave or gay.
So far and good, but 'tis a complex life,
This city life of yours, cramped and controlled
By strait observances, its sustenance
Too oft excitement, that in turn begets
Desires and pleasures artificial.
Confess, my friend, you who with ample means
An easy life pursue, do'st ever walk
Abroad to breath the morn, 'ere the still streets
Begin anew to teem with restless life?
I fear me, nay; for you the day begins
With culling from the freshly printed-sheet
The new born news, and eagerly you scan
The various items garnered by the Press.
Nor is your eager craving for the news
Appeas'ed thus; the reading-room supplies
The various leading topics of the day,
Flashed from afar, quick as the quickest thought
On sympathetic wire -- then what were town
To you, an idle man, without your Club,
That social rendezvous; the lecture-room,
The school of music, or the theatre,
Your public entertainments, and your wars
Political, and the unnumbered means
Of trampling to the death the demon Time.
But -- you may answer -- all essential these
To cultivated men; in these we find
True cultivation and enjoyment, these
Enlarge the mind, and fashion us the lords
Of all creation.
Nay -- would I reply --
These be the pleasures, these th' essential aids
To town existence and enjoyment, still
The country man may mould his placid life
To cultivation, and his soul enlarge
Without the adventitious aids you love
To revel in; aye more! the country man,
Appreciative of his home, exults
In joys you know not of, and ever finds --
Altho' his life in unlaborious lines
Be cast -- abundant means to while away
The pleasureable Time -- here do I breathe
An atmosphere that's uncontaminate
Of made excitement or ambition; here
I live apart, and when I walk abroad
No jostling crowds offend, no curious eyes
Attend my wanderings; while all around
Gives unmixed delight -- a gladsome task
To read the book of Nature, to observe
The ways of dumb creation; to survey
The varied landscape, to surmount the toil
Of yonder hill, and from its level height
To feast the 'raptured gaze with mingled scene,
Ocean and table-land and pinnacle,
The smiling lake, the distant mountain-range
Stupendous, on whose bosom coldly gleam
The ling'ring snows that battle jealously
With summer combative -- a glorious map
Of Nature's fashioning when thus surveyed,
Enlarges more the mind than the dull round
Of streets and promenades. Then I have books
At will, with this advantage over you
That when I would a studious evening pass
With my beloved classics, here is peace,
Quiet unbroken, silence and repose;
While you are frequent doomed, irate, to hear
The strains unwelcome of itinerants;
And he who studies closely best can tell
The detestation in his soul aroused
When sudden breaks on his absorbed ear
A brazen clamour, music's mockery,
The organ-agony, prolonged and drear,
Or the shrill voice of detestable pipe,
Dismayed he hears, the charm of stillness gone,
Till his tormentors grant him glad release.
Reason grotesque against the town, you say,
Yet one among the many. Tell ne now,
Can not I study here as well as you?
Or dine as pleasantly on country fate
As you on town-made dishes; if I choose
To wander listless on a summer eve,
Those fragrant toys of lavish Nature, flowers,
Bloom in my path, on yielding moss I tread,
The while I listen to the earnest trill
Of lark or linnet, or the varied note
Of joy-inspiring merle; more grateful far
Be these, I trow, than the grim paving stones
And lengthy vistas of stern-frowning streets,
And the rude hawker's cry?
You have your friends
More numerous than mine, you idly boast;
For few our numbers here; but if my choice
Of friends be more restricted than your own
Are such not dearer and more confident
From paucity? the closest, warmest friend
Is never he who runs abroad and cries
"Hail fellow and well met" to every man
Of his acquaintance -- few and far between,
And worthy of the name are out true friends.
But you, on the defensive,
yet may add
That he who mingles frequent with the crowd
Hath deeper knowledge of his fellowman,
Hath better opportunity and cause
To probe to human nature's cunning depths
Than one who lives retired from active life;
And this I grant; because to study well,
And read unerringly the human mind,
There must before the shrewd observer pass
The varied throng, and from the aggregate
May knowledge of the unit he obtained.
Perplexing study this! to read the heart
Of man aright, with all his hidden ways
And crooked lines of thought, for well you know
How various is the temp'rament of man.
Each differs from his fellow, closely viewed,
As does the leaf when side by side 'tis placed
With others from the parent branchlet plucked,
You gaze, and lo! none are identical.
Thus far admitting, yet
I needs must add
(As I have tried to show) no cause exists
For wonder on your part, O friend, that some
Of studious temp'raments, prefer to dwell
Far from the busy hive of humankind:
If still you wonder, if we differ still,
Let us agree to differ -- yet one word,
The last, and I have done -- still do I hold
That I have reason in my argument.
You speculate, you theorise in vain:
You prate bout Man's greatness, whence its rise,
Wherefore its broad development; and yet,
Although your converse be dogmatical,
You leave the theme, discomfited, because
Your premises on no sure basis rest.
But can we mortals sift this mystery?
Reason, Intelligence, we all admit
Raise Man above the brute creation. Man
Gives to his reason proper exercise
Through Language; wherefore, then, has he acquired
This gift of Language?
"But" (you interrupt),
"Though Language be Thought's medium, there be
men
And men, a widespread difference between
This race and that: though all have languages,
'Tis "Climate" moulds the nation and the man:
All men perforce of wide Intelligence,
And Language as its medium, rule the world;
But there be differences 'twixt race and race
That "Climate" regulates?
Thus we arrive
At the true pith and marrow of your creed, --
That "Climate" is Comptroller of mankind.
There's this to say in favour of your view,
That those whom Nature, bountiful, hath set
In temp'rate climates, outwith the extremes
Of Phoebus' ardour, and rude Boreas' blast,
Do at this present constitute the power
Of this unequal Globe. But tell me, pray,
Hast ever heard of ancient Greece and Rome;
And shines the sun less brightly on those climes
In modern days than in the glorious past?
This theory, I fear, stands not the test
Of History, that dial of the world,
Inflexible and just.
Is Language, then,
The font and origin of human power,
And whence its source? There be some who advance
Man's history is simple, and his rise
Above the brute creation but a chance
And happy accident. A ready knack
Of imitation (say they) laid the base
Of vocal communing, that gives to man
Undoubted empire of a prostrate world.
The water's rush, the rapid torrent's roar,
The winds, their various melody and wrath,
The song of birds, the cry of animals,
The thunder's crash, first gave assistance whence
Man wove a language with this fellow-man;
Thence, brain and intellect grew keen and quick,
Mental imaginings had ample scope
For ampler play, and so the Nature grew
To high supremacy. They further hold
Man was but apish in the early times,
And were the test of human intercourse
And Education to the nobler form
Of ape applied, th' experiment would shew
That man and ape have common brotherhood.
Ingenious talk, no doubt! yet would I ask
Those theorists who love to vilify
All human kind (and in their proper selves
Seem to approve man's apish origin),
Whence comes it that the various apish tribes
Fail to invent a language of their own?
The world is old; materials are to hand
As from the first; yet man and man alone
Of all creation hath a language framed.
And language thus is but
a consequence,
But not the origin of human power.
Intelligence, Perception, Intellect,
The reasoning faculty, the spark divine
(However termed), raise man above the world,
And crown him king o'er all the lower herd.
But whence Intelligence? This era gives
A shoal of thinkers whose ideal range
Would class Perception as an accident,
Esteem Intelligence of mundane growth,
And Intellect as merely quickened power
Perforce of Imitation, but deny
That human gifts spring from a source divine.
Such men proclaim that Nature is their guide;
Nature (evasive and mysterious term!)
The mother of all wonders wrought on earth.
The age of miracles, they tell, is past;
They venture further, and to Nature trace
The so-called miracles of hallowed times,
And tell in subtle, wit-distracting words
That miracles existed but in name.
To mental speculation there's
no end,
And vanity may speculation breed.
I, too, have heard the glib and slippery tongues
Of daring theorists, men who exult
In weaving dogmas of their own, who love
To crush the purity of thought adown,
And spurn the teaching we esteem divine.
Such unbelievers loudly vaunt abroad
Their false philosophy; the self-same men
When seated with their children round the hearth
Of their own home, shrink ever from the words
Of spurious doctrine; those they fondly love,
They may not, will not with their teaching taint,
Thence their philosophy disproves itself,
Their inner consciousness proclaims it false.
And is the age of miracles
agone?
Come tell me now, what is a miracle?
A something beyond human power and ken.
This world we live in is a miracle,
And we the tiny creatures of a day
So marvellously wrought, are miracles.
Inexplicable and mysterious
Is all we see around. Nature, her works,
Her stores, her treasures, her appointed ways,
Who can interpret to their origin?
There's mystery in man's most simple act;
He moves, but whence his motion can he tell?
He thinks, and knows he thinks, but whence his
thought?
There's a wide difference between the act
And spring of action; why! this various earth
With miracle and mystery is charged,
And they who, impious, question heavenly signs,
Shall do aright to pause and aptly trace
The veriest trifle of our daily lives
To its prime origin, 'ere they essay
To rend the veil of sacred mystery,
And reach immortal knowledge in their pride.
To end where I began, we speculate
And theorise in vain -- our daily life
Is miracle and mystery in one.
That there's a ruling Power must all admit,
Else were there none existence, and that Power
May for high purposes at will command
One as the other class of miracles.
'Tis wiser far in all humility
To hold our place from heaven's benevolence
Ordered and fated from the first of Time,
Than trace presumptuous to mere accident
Or a subservient nature, human power,
That, at the best, is weakness in itself.
Can I, then, see thee, O Phile'tas, pine
From hour to hour, the prey to sad Mishap?
Arouse thee! be a man; let not the foes
To mental calm, sadness and black despair,
Consume thee; up and shew the lynx-eyed world
You rise superior to the common herd,
And yield not to the pangs of melancholy.
I ever deem, when troubles
come apace,
'Tis true nobility of soul to bear
Unflinchingly; true wisdom to withstand
The darts of fate without a word of woe.
Words may not mend the mischief; tears and groans,
I count not manhood's weapons 'gainst the shafts
Of evil fortune. He who wisely bears,
Bears silently, and wins the world's respect.
When disappointments come,
how excellent
A panacea for the wounded spirit
Is calm philosophy. When sorrow creeps
Mist-like athwart the brain, its ravages
May not without strong effort be repelled.
Needs then the victim of mischance to bar
The course of misery; his temp'rament,
Tastes, and pursuits must his procedure guide.
To him, who by an unexpected blow
Is of his means bereft, there still remains
Labour to cheer, to comfort, to instil
The balm of hope, but he who is oppressed
Like to thyself, not by Dame Fortune's frown,
Nor with the lack of gold, but with some woe
That gnaws and gnaws his cherished peace of mind,
Must gird him for the struggle with despair.
If he by temp'rament be studious,
Then let him read, read, read, until he drown
His sad reflections in the glorious depths
Of knowledge. If he seek variety,
Let him court authorship; although his powers
Be limited, and please none save himself.
If books and composition please him not,
Why, let him roam the fields of science next
In search of some absorbing liberal mode
Of crushing down the foe to mental calm.
Let him wax eloquent on insect life,
Or rapturous o'er shells -- no mean pursuits;
Or wander far in calculations vague
Among the stars. There be a thousand ways
To save the mind from preying on itself,
And summon back the peace that would away;
But he who sits him idly down to must
Upon his sorrows, tempts the Fates of Ill
To his destruction. Some in such like plight
Betake them to the flowing bowl to drown
Thought unendurable; while others seek
Companionship among the dissolute,
Who lie in wait for victims to their toils --
Their creed enjoyment, their religion nil.
Irresolute
of soul! sad is their end,
They vanish from our sight, from our regard,
Without the tear of sorrow as they pass.
He who would bear him nobly under Ill
Must be of iron nerve, of iron will;
Or, lacking these, must he betake himself
To some absorbing task. Employment gifts
Body and mind with seasonable rest:
The want of due employment is the curse
Of countless thousands. he who would endure
And bear him like a man when troubles come,
Shall, if he cast him on some kindred task,
Ward off despair; aye, mayhap madness too,
And keep his hold on pure tranquillity.
Sufficient have I said,
O friend of mine,
To rouse thee from thy lethargy of soul.
There's danger in despair. Learn to endure,
And so retain they fellowman's respect;
And what is even better still, thine own.
Hast ever in a city thoroughfare
Watched narrowly the passers-by -- their mien,
Expression, gait? An endless study this;
Instructive; ever fraught with benefit
To the observer. And hast ever marked
Th' absorbed, concentrated air of one and all?
Their daily avocations press them on
With eager footsteps and unrestful souls,
For the magician Self ordains that Man
Shall be his slave: ubiquitous is Self.
For whom, pray, do I toil?
For self; and you?
For self; but then (you add) your children form
Your dearest care. Aye! but they are your own;
And 'tis that they are flesh of your own flesh,
Bone of your bone, you love to nurture them;
This too is selfishness. Whence are our laws?
For self-protection. Whence our charities?
To gratify our self-esteem we give
In large: the world approves. There our reward.
We hand a copper to the beggar lad
On the roadside: the act both gratifies
Him who bestows and the recipient.
There's ever selfishness in pampering
Our self-esteem, though in itself the act
Be worthy credit.
I may not pursue
This line of argument; for you may cry,
"Enough; the argument is false. You ban
"Not man alone, but every act of man.
"While he exists you cannot separate
"Him from himself. Nor is it selfishness
"To act a noble part and nobly live."
True! I reply; yet can you separate
Nobility, so called, from selfishness?
Ponder anew, and ponder warily.
There's egotism in every human act:
Expression, thought, love, hate -- all's selfishness;
And ne'er a mind but has its base allay.
How difficult to read the
mind of Man!
Him you know long you learn to know aright;
But with the stranger 'tis far different.
Language, 'tis aptly said, serves to conceal
The thoughts of man; and, we might add, his mien
Conceals his inner self. Yet there be tricks
Of manner, gesture, voice, attire, and gait
That indicate what he would vainly hide.
A shifty glance a shifty soul betrays.
Give me a man all worthy of the name!
He meets unswervingly his neighbour's eye,
Nor looks askant; nor, restless, shifts about
As he would hide himself. Some would proclaim
This vague uneasiness as "Modesty."
Yet it were difficult, in sooth, to tell
Wherein a being come to man's estate
Needs this especial gift of bashfulness,
Or falls to be applauded for its use.
Yet would I not commend (mistake me not)
The shallow knave, loquacious and pert,
Who passes through the world self-satisfied
And confident, a terror to his friends.
There is a mean 'twixt tattling and reserve.
Hast ever chanced with half-a-dozen
friends
(Acquaintances or friends, or what you will)
To travel? And before the journey's done,
However short, I say, the journey be,
Hast not observed that of this company
A Butt is singled out, who swift becomes
An object of derision to the rest?
The persecutors shew their selfishness,
Their egotism, vain glory, arrogance,
In acting thus; the persecuted strives,
But strives in vain, his paltry self to shield
From he sure ken of would-be master minds.
And has it chanced to you
to journey far
With utter strangers -- to observe, to note,
And to interpret each peculiar Self?
One man enfolds him in reserve, replies
Coldly when spoken to, and moves away;
Pride or Timidity encrust his soul,
And it remains with you, by after chance,
To touch the chord that tells his real self.
Another wears his heart upon his sleeve,
Prates willingly and glibly; in a trice
Tells his own history and asks for yours.
Another ponders ere he answers you;
Answers unwillingly as if his words
Were pearls of price dropped from his grudging lips.
This man is argumentative, and that
Pathetic; this man dogmatises loud,
His neighbour in a whisper tells his tale
Apologetic, meek, with head on side.
You glance around. Each fashions for himself
A mein the reflex of his actual self,
Though all unconscious wherein he's betrayed.
Here if Formality; there Carelessness.
One saunters easily in loose attire:
Another prides him on his sober suit
Of careful cut; a third his form displays
Obtrusively bedecked; a fourth would fain
Achieve distinction by a wondrous gem
Flashing conspicuous -- "his own to each" --
While others pitying mark, and vaunt themselves
On their superior Personality.
To mental speculation there's
no end;
And thus, with keen-eyed observation joined,
'Tis possible to read aright the heart,
To learn man's foibles and his vanities,
And trace them to one certain source -- to self.
But wherefore not? (you ask). All this must be
Of sheer necessity. Existence is
A necessary Evil; nor can Man
Tear self from out his heart while he exists.
Self is not selfishness. Shall we ignore
The good that's done, altho' the motive be
Not wholly pure, and shall we then despise
That benefactor who applauds himself?
Nay, I reply. Yet
self and selfishness
Are close akin. Go study for yourself
Man and his ways -- there's opportunity
In store -- and when you lean to penetrate
The outer coating of concealment each
Enwraps him with, then must you needs confess
This is no thin-spun cobweb theory.
Yet know I that this latent love of self
May mingle Good with Evil; hath its use,
Its place and profit in this world of ours,
And may perchance a lofty aim subserve.
But, thus admitting, let us sternly blame
The daily-growing practice of self-praise,
The vaunt, th' advertisement, the paltry modes
That folks employ to tell the good they do.
For every hundred benefactions done
I ask if there be one originate
Of motives wholly pure. Answer me this?
Yet must not active Charity
be baulked,
And active Good, whate'er the motive be.
I would but ask the generous of hand
To be the truly generous of heart;
For there's a crust of selfishness o'er Man,
And humbly must we own there's ample room
For single-mindedness in one and all.
Were Father Time disposed to lend an ear
Unwonted and benignant, to our prayers,
I fear he'd find them so incongruous
That ere a minute's lapse the good old man
Straight would repent of his benevolence,
And flee his vehement petitioners.
There would be found a gen'ral discontent
Each with th' existent order. Age would crave
For youth, the boy for manhood's dignity,
The man for added years with added wealth,
And loud the spinster-wail o'er faded charms,
With supplications for renew'ed youth.
But Time, the wise, looks ever grimly down,
Inexorable and indifferent,
And alters not the mighty law of change.
'Tis sad to ponder o'er
the by-past years,
And think of all the loved ones who are gone:
To dwell in fancy on the lineaments,
Th' expression, glance, and well-remembered voice
Of one departed from us, till we, fain
For the corporeal presence of the dead,
Rebel in spirit at the high decree
That snaps the closest bonds, and vainly call
For restoration of a tie more dear
Than very life.
Oft in the pensive hour
I love to muse upon the past: to dwell
In sweet remembrance on the friends of youth
Departed, changed -- a memory alone.
This youth (though many years have rolled along
Since last we met) in fancy I behold
As it were yesterday, and I can hear
His joyous laugh, or in a monotone
His task delivered to the jealous ear
Of carping pedagogue. That youth, to him
A close ally, but doomed, alas, to death
Ere on his brow was manhood's impress set,
Can I behold: his active frame I view,
And catch again the very trick of glance,
Arch, joyous-gleaming, irresistible,
Till, all forgetful of departed Time,
I well-nigh dream me by his side again.
Another too ------- but wherefore idly dwell
On what is gone for ever? Memories
Savour of weakness, are of none avail,
And rarely does th' expectancy of youth
Bear fruit to promise. Him we idolize
In boyish days and deem a demigod
We meet in after years a man of care,
Timid and common-place, and shorn outright
Of his divinity; and he who yields
The glory of his youth to envious Death
Escapes the rubs and crosses of a world
That frets the soul of generosity
To selfishness: "Whom the gods love die young."
O what a change is wrought
upon us all
By Time, th' inflexible. The lad at school
With rounded cheek and fearless, liquid glance
I well remember: on our different roads
We part, and only at long intervals
Chance throws us twain together. When I next
Behold the playmate of my school-boy days
He stands before me stalwart, bearded, tall,
The bloom of health on his undaunted face,
And vigour in his frame; a gen'rous youth,
Eager to cope with Life, to cast himself
Into Life's struggles, doubting not to find
His way with roses strewn, suspecting naught
Of the world's hard, out-wearying policy.
After the lapse of years again we meet:
The bloom, the gladsome confidence are gone;
Care sits upon his brow; the generous heart
Has merged its faith, its generosity,
Into suspicion and well-guarded lines.
But Time moves on apace. When next we meet
Mayhap grey hairs and wrinkles may proclaim
Their own pathetic tale, and to myself
I sadly say, "Is, then, the ingenious youth
On whom my fancy dwelt admiringly,
The buoyant and the gay, to THIS transformed?"
And, sadder still, I catch, in turn, his glance,
That shews he reads in me the self-same change,
And whispers to himself his wonderment.
Yes, Time is ever busy with us all,
Graving his change upon our mortal frames,
Until he yields his place to one who ends
Out faltering career, impartial Death.
And how our tastes, our
habits, and pursuits
Change as the years roll on. You, my good friend,
Grave, saturnine, to business a mere slave,
I well remember in your youthful days,
Blithsome and frank, and ever loud of tongue;
Though -- let me whisper -- with your humour mixed
A spice of arrogance. How well you loved
The idle prank; how earnest in the game,
Where easily you bore the priz'ed palm
Against all comers. As the years resolved
In active sports, for sports alone you lived;
Your horse, your gun, your rod the only talk.
But now -- ah well! -- how trifling is the place
These hold in your esteem. Your tone is changed,
Your manner circumspect, your aspect grave.
Say! doth Ambition claim you for her own;
Do speculative joys your spirit hold;
Is gold you aim, business your stalking-horse?
I may not hope for your confession; but
The world is Conqueror, and you have bowed
Submissive to the laws of Self and Change.
Sweet is true Friendship:
but can friendship
change?
Need I, then, answer? Rarely are the ties
Of friendship formed all-worthy of the name.
There's Fellowship of growth ephemeral,
The sport of circumstance, which men confound
With the rare virtue; there's Acquaintanceship
That hath its life in frequent intercourse,
Its death in isolation. What (you ask)
Is, then, true Friendship? Firm affection knit
To close regard, the gradual growth of years;
Not to be shaken by the sudden blast
Of rude adversity. Yet even here
Change intermeddles frequent, Mammon waves
His golden wand, and from her pedestal
Friendship falls shattered; for where interests clash
The firmest friendships on the instant die.
That there be no diversity,
O friend,
'Twixt you and me shall ever be my prayer.
Each man hath in his heart of hearts ONE friend,
And one alone, though his acquaintanceship
Outnumber his accounting; and that friend --
Such is the magic virtue of regard,
And such the charm of kindred intercourse
And mental interchange -- is ever held
Enshrined in estimation, and remains
Unaltered. So with you. I cannot gaze
With critical and searching eye upon
Your lineaments to trace advancing years;
I may not probe your unsuspecting thought
In search of failings: ever you remain
To me unaltered? Are you not my friend,
My alter ego, consecrated term?
And verily do I believe that Time
Shall in mine eyes be impotent to work
A change on you: ev'n were your locks to blanch,
Your cheek to pale, your step to lose its strength,
I'd fail to mark the traces of decay,
And spurn conviction from my consciousness.
How it may be with you I cannot tell,
But some, I know, are so fastidious
That life's a burden to them. As they pass
Wearily through the world, each little cross
And rub become of magnitude; they loathe
Manners and tastes that differ from their own,
And with a jaundiced eye their kind survey.
"Cui bono?" I enquire.
Although the world
Be not to my especial liking, or
My fellow-men be not to my desire
In each particular, shall I then fret
Unsociable, and wear my life away?
What! shall I view Man's whimsicalities
With scowling face, and turn contemptuous
From the free manner, or the empty laugh,
The joke that jars, the irony that stings?
This were to dub myself unto myself
A paltry fellow, all unfit to cope
With a wide world that sneers at squeamishness.
Suppose I listen to an orator
Of voice persuasive and undoubted art,
Manner and matter both to mine own mind,
But (for Perfection never did exist)
Pronouncing faulty a word or two,
Am I therein the speaker to condemn,
The speech, and fine-spun thread of argument?
Nay! I condone those trifling blemishes
For general excellence. So, too, with him
Whose manner is at fault, whose matter sound --
I listen with respect, although mine ears
Have sore offence. Am I to turn in wrath
Aside from him who stutters woefully?
Am I to shun a man because his glance
Is (to his loss) oblique? I walk, abroad,
And find my chance acquaintance of the day
Disposed to smile on me. Am I forsooth
To move aside because no kindred themes
Exist between us? Still I answer, Nay.
Better by far to tolerate
the world,
Than be for ever with the world at war.
Yet there be limits, and discretion, too,
In dealing with the many. If I find
A courteous man (although he suit me not)
'Tis easier to reply with courtesy
Than to offend him. If another strive
With speech offensive to enforce his point,
Why, listen with a smile until escape
Be possible. Again, if Fate unkind
Send a pot-valiant fellow in your way,
With mischief in his eye, war in his soul,
Why, then, defend yourself; no Law forbids,
And ne'er a Judge but would protect his head
With ready hand, did pressing need compel,
Though in this realm of wisely-ordered Law
The argumentum bacculinum ought
To be a dream alone of the far Past.
Yet there's a lack of dignity
in Wrath,
That wretched substitute for mental strength;
And he who knows how sweet is self-respect,
Is ever penitent when the fierce hour
Of ire is past. Wrath is the last resort;
And if it be that man can stem the tide
Of anger, then his soul hath its reward
In mental calm, and conscious victory.
Besides, if there be proper self-control,
How seldom is a just occasion giv'n
For bitter anger. Rather would I soothe
Than fight a vicious man.
The minor faults,
The mannerisms, the whimsicalitites,
Must they for ever jar upon the soul?
In part they form a never ending source
Of observation with amusement joined,
For him of subtle ken. He can survey --
And from a humorous point -- the thousand forms
That self assumes in every fellow-man:
The oddities that unawares crop out,
The passion for pre-eminence, he love
Of notoriety -- all may be viewed
With an indulgent eye; there's room enough
To see, to stand aside and meddle not.
Capricious is the mass,
the ever fain
For petty eminence. Some would affect
Distinction in their dress, and strut abroad
Like peacocks, of their various plumage proud:
Such ever will forget 'tis the attire
Remains of value, not the man within.
Others regard sobriety of garb
As their criterion. Some there are disdain
To view the passers-by, contemptuous wend
Their haughty way, and spurn the humble ground.
Others regard the stranger with a stare
Bold, insolent, intolerant, and rude;
While other timidly pass on their way
Exultant in obtrusive modesty,
And shun the public gaze. These and such-like,
Each with their individualities,
Their tricks of manner, and their mental whims,
Fall to be studies, not in wrath observed.
Then there's the haughty
variable man,
Great in exclusiveness and in self-love.
I smile on an acquaintance as we pass,
As oftentimes I smiled on him before:
He gives me the cold shoulder, frowns, or stares
On vacancy -- what then? I still survive!
Why should I fret; why should I vex myself?
The world is wide: 'tis but a sample this
Of the world's changeful mood. Better by far
To shew myself unconscious of the slight
Then waver, stand aghast, or redden swift
And mutter choleric. If there be cause
For scorn against me, then must I endure
With patience; if Caprice his ruler be,
And he himself be all unworthy note,
Why, then, let me extend th' unconsciousness
Of his contempt unto the man himself;
But if it be this is a man of freaks,
Of oddities, and whimsicalities,
Whose temper veers with every wind that blows,
But yet is worthy an observant hour,
Then let me tolerate discourtesy
In hope of future studious intercourse
With him by Nature fitted for display
Of her own waywardness.
Those blemishes
Of mind and manner, what an endless theme!
And much, I fear me, while the world endures
For toleration there is ample room.
Perfection of Society! We hear
The phrase and ask its meaning. Not until
Uneven "Feeling" in its various forms
Be scholared and repressed, can we behold
Society perfected: until then
The phrase exists in name and name alone.
If, then, 'tis needful ever
to control
The taste and temp'rament fastidious,
Even in common intercourse with men
Of chastened minds and educated parts,
What say you to the daily intercourse
With the "proxnum vulgus"? Here is scope
For toleration! but an ample field
For study. Only be the twain combined
And various knowledge will be surely reaped.
Many whom Education hath not reached
Do wear the heart upon the sleeve, content
To find a listener, and in a trice
Their own peculiar selves, their inner lives
Are open as the day. "Mayhap," (you say);
"But wherefore listen to a history
That interests you not?" "True, (I reply);
But I remain a listener so long
As it contents me, not a moment more;
And there be ways and means to end the theme
With mutual satisfaction." For the rest,
There is a native kindliness of heart,
A singleness of purpose and good will,
Among the homely toilers of the world
That shames their so-called betters; and 'tis rare
To find an ill-bred churl, if he receive
His proper due, be it in word or smile.
Whatever, then, may your
position be,
O friend, as through the many-peopled world
You pass, -- whether it be your lot to mix
With the refined or vulgar, rich or poor,
The men of education and of note,
The pampered sons of luxury and ease,
The weary toilers in the weary groove,
The low in state, the homely and the rude,
The townsman or the rustic, -- you shall find
That each and all have their peculiar ways
Discordant with your own. If so it be
That you are irritable, fiery-souled,
And over prompt to challenge grievances,
Why, then, beware: soon shall you find yourself,
As is a hornet's nest, overwhelmed and pierced
With venomed stings. 'Tis an unequal strife.
Better for your own peace the laissez faire
So far as in you lies, and better far
To study than to war with human kind;
Along the highway of the jealous world
To saunter all unheeded -- no mean lot --
And an amused spectator of your kind.
'Twere folly to expect Perfection here,
And worse than folly to attempt the task
Of patching up the various flaws in Man.
Has Fortune, fickle jade, deserted thee
Sylvanus, O my friend, who until now
Had'st gold in store, and as a consequence
The sordid world's esteem? Art thou bereft
Of thy possessions by a sudden turn
Of Fortune's fated wheel? a bitter lot,
And unexpected as 'tis bitter; yet
Reflect, and yield thee never to Despair.
True! thou art poor; what then is Poverty --
The acme of distress? Nay, not with thee
Now in the strength and vigour of thy prime;
Of cultivated parts and varied lore
And wide attainments, and the art profound
Of reading as a book thy fellowman.
No mean possessions these for him whose task
Is now to wrestle with a grudging world.
Be not dismayed, true friends surround thee still,
Friends who have loved thee ever for thyself,
Not for they gold. 'Tis true, a paltry few
Who formerly were holden in esteem
Of thee, unconscious of their sordid souls
May look askant, and coldly pass thee by;
So be it, is the friendship of such men
Worthy to be with a brass farthing weighed?
Nay, let them go, and from thy memory
Uproot them utterly. Yet rest assured,
Altho' this is a selfish world of ours,
Yet there be men who can commiserate
Misfortune, and appreciate true worth.
Take comfort, then, O friend, let fortitude
And resolution and high courage aid
Thee in thy future course; tho' Fortune's wheel
Hath by a sudden inauspicious turn
Bereft thee of thine all, th' inconstant Dame
Loves to be importuned and struggled with,
And she may smile 'ere long on thee again.
Friends worthy of the name will help thee on,
Where thou in honour canst their aid accept,
And proudly they shall see thee, dauntless, mould
A Future for thyself all-worthy thee.
So you, my friend, in matrimonial toils
Are caught at last; you who have ever held
That ease can only be attained apart
From feminine society: you yield
To Fate, and follow in your neighbours' wake!
Ah's me! how often have I gazed on you,
And listened to your shrewd sarcastic voice,
As seated, glass in hand, among your friends,
You would inveigh against all womanhood;
And sooth! your silvered locks and portly form
Gave you authority, although the text
Was uncongenial. 'Twas your theory,
That single life is single blessedness: --
And now your practice? I remember well,
As one by one your fellows dropped away,
Fain for connubial bliss, you heaved a sigh
Profound, and then the head of wisdom shook;
And you did say farewell, as if the way
Were dreary and the parting evermore.
Then to the flowing cup anew you turned
To seek for comfort in your heavy loss.
Some smiled, some frowned, some muttered -- 'twas
your way --
But one and all agreed that single life
In you was typified. Why! after all,
You were but cunning, in concealment skilled,
Unwilling to admit that in your breast
There beats a heart susceptible and fond.
Confess, now, those rude quips and saws of yours
Were summoned for the nonce to veil your thoughts:
You were but timid, shivered on the brink
Of matrimonial purpose. Language may,
And often does, conceal our thoughts. Mayhap
You overdid your part. Admit you this?
Yet were it so, ere now you had succumbed
To the persuasive Fair. Tell me, I pray,
How comes it you were caught in Beauty's toils?
Did love steal unawares into your breast
As you did sleep, and would not be dislodged?
Did Cupid, artful, shoot you through the heart
In some unguarded moment? Such has been
And oft shall be again: the world, though old,
Is ever young in the love-mystery.
Or did the maiden of your soul approach,
Gaze in your eyes, and conquer there and then?
Love at first sight! an arrow from the Gods
The fact remains you are
about to wed;
Then let a Benedict congratulate
His old familiar friend. But recollect,
No longer now can you aspire to teach
Your quaint philosophy. Your theories,
On your own showing, by your marriage bond,
Approve them fallacies. You must reverse
Your old position by this act of yours,
And where you lectured you must listen now.
May Happiness attend this
union, friend!
A fitting union I must needs allow.
A dozen lustres o'er your head have passed,
And o'er the maiden's, four. The event thus far
Is equalized. Experience is conjoined
With blushing modesty and guileless youth.
'Tis ever sweet to see the golden sun
Light up the winter snow disconsolate;
To see the graceful ivy fondly cling
Around the hoary Oak. But simile
You may not relish. Let me whisper, then,
I have beheld your Bride. In days of yore
Men deified the qualities; they loved,
And wisely, to adore true excellence;
And were I vers'ed in Mythology
I might declare 'twas Venus who bestowed
Upon the maid both grace and loveliness:
Minerva, too (I trust), hath Wisdom given,
And in due course Diana will vouchsafe
(I further trust) her heavenly helping hand
At that most critical and anxious stage
Dreaded yet reckoned on by wedded dames.
Then for yourself, though have said farewell
To jovial Bacchus, though the beardless youth
Apollo hath long time forsaken you,
Yet well I know Virtue and Wisdom both
The main ingredients of your mind compose,
While on your form hath Dignity impressed
The seal of HOnour. Happy, then, must be
The combination here presented: Youth,
Grace, Beauty, blushing Inexperience,
With Manliness, Command, and Dignity,
And length of days conjoined.
'Twere needless sure
To image coming Matrimonial bliss,
For well I know your soul is steeped in joy,
That you with rapturous impatience wait
The hour that gifts you with a loving spouse.
How gladly will you cast aside the slough
Of ancient habit; gladly, too, conform
To the new rules of sweet domestic life.
No longer, then, for you the lazy lounge,
The pipe, the tankard, and the dishabille.
The slipshod habits of the Bachelor
Must vanish one and all, for you become
The Master of a House well-ordered, trim,.
And decorous. Self must you banish quite,
Existing for your wife and her alone.
O with what loving pride shall you forestall
Her every wish, run at her call, obey
Her whims (even th' immaculate have whims),
Go out of doors when she so wishes it,
Or stay within and read aloud to her,
Study her new costumes, admire them all,
As 'tis your duty; promptly pay her bills,
The sacrificial tribute t her charms;
And need I say 'twere very cruelty
To leave you gentle wife to pine alone?
In justice both to her and to yourself
Must you forsake -- and mark you, utterly --
Your Club, your old convivial haunts and friends,
Such and such-like are not for Benedicts.
But calm and tranquil shall
your pleasures be
When Matrimony claims you for its own.
Your spouse shall ever prove a comforter,
A solace, and a joy. O when twain souls
Are knit together by undoubted love,
How sweet it is to dwell on kindred thoughts
Through kindred conversation. For your sake
I pray that Muta, silent goddess, shall
Have her abode far from your cheerful home,
For woman's tongue is ever woman's strength,
And were a padlock set upon that tongue
Her strength and charm were gone. Long, therefore,
may
Your spouse, my friend, solace you with the sweets
Of conversation; night as well as day
Her proper part shall be to counsel you.
As every word (you know) some meaning hath,
In many words in meaning multiple,
And from their total you shall wisdom pluck
Convinced, if need by, by her argument
You shall derive true pleasure from her powers
Of rhetoric which ever cast a spell
O'er listening man. Then you must recollect
It is your part not only to admire
Your gifted partner, but to lead her forth
To the admiring gaze of a gay world.
Your duty thus shall summon you to ball,
Banquet, and theatre, her constant squire,
Pleased in her pleasures, happy in her joys.
And well you know that when the nuptial knot
Is firmly tied there is not longer room
For carping Jealously; devoted Lord,
Devoted Lady makes. Proud shall you be
When the young men admiringly surround
Her chair, and wait impatient for a word,
A glance, a smile; these only be the tricks
Of fascination, the proprietor
Of all such fascinations is yourself.
O privileged possessor of such charms!
Although you lounge at ball or theatre
Your wife's attendant, no inglorious lounge
Is yours; you hold a proud position there.
The "dolce far niente" you have lost,
And lost without regret, for you have gained
Man's chief ambition, a devoted wife.
And there be other matrimonial joys.
What! shall you marry nor expect an heir?
All in good time that heir may bless your home,
And lusty infant cries shall fill your ears.
Well know I the solicitude that fills
A parent's heart; in fancy can I see
Yourself an anxious worshipper before
The shrine of babyhood. Your privilege
To nurse, to hush, to flatter, and to soothe
The small disturber of domestic ease
To slumber, in the tardy-wearying night.
Need I continue? Nay! enough is said
To fortify your resolution. True,
Common acquaintances of ours enquire,
When it is told you are about to wed,
"Cui Bono?" but methinnks I have replied.
Go then, O candidate for happiness,
Marry, put to the blush your enemies
Or spiteful friends (one and the same are they),
And revel in pure matrimonial joys.
If olive branches wave about your home,
Why then 'tis well, but is those be denied,
Your loving wife shall be your every care;
And she in turn shall nurse you faithfully,
Tending assiduous your declining years.
'Tis folly to conceive that age and youth
Refuse to blend harmonious. years have weight,
And inexperience to experience turns:
Thus all appropriate shall your union be,
You know that all you want you have in her,
While all that she can want she has in you,
And thus a happy future waits you both.
May I have prophesied aright. Farewell.
Friend, I have marked your gradual rise in life,
And with complacent eye have seen you grasp
Ambition's fruits; what may not Labour gain
When with Ambition and high talent joined?
The prize is yours, and Happiness no doubt
Attends; now from your lofty pedestal
You gaze adown, and roundly lecture me.
You tell me I am shy and indolent,
That 'twas my duty to have elbowed down
Th' opposing world, and forced a passage through
To Honour's vantage-ground -- a public life
Hath charms, you say, the rustic knows not of;
That mere rusticity is awkwardness,
And slow Intelligence, inactive power,
-- Where power exists -- and that the world esteems
The man of action and of varied parts
Where Cultivation with Audacity
Commixes, and on such an one delights
To lavish benefits and shower rewards:
All this you tell me; what if I reply
There is variety in Happiness,
There are grades of content, and men who deem
The restless honours of a restless world
Of little value even when attained?
Methinks I see you smile at my reply,
Methinks you shrug your shoulders as your read,
And toss your haughty head with captious jerk.
Well, well, let me withdraw my trite remark,
And I shall answer in all seriousness.
Friend, when you chide the
unambitious man
For lack of will to win a lofty place,
You ever do forget Ambition is
A lavish quality, the foremost place
In this and the other path, a thing desired
And coveted by lynx-eyed multitudes;
Then grudge not the retiring man his ease,
For therein is the better place for you
And such as you who would advantage gain.
Men, too, are born unequal. Some have minds
Designing, bold, and restless, others love
Retirement and the calm of private life.
Here is a man of letters, there of words,
Here is a a lawyer to the manner born,
And there a soldier; here Diplomacy
Obtains recruits, there Science and the Arts.
The bent in general the profession shapes,
Though here and there, no doubt, misfashioning
Is oddly evident. Who shall account
For diff'rences in taste, desire, or thought?
Know you two men who feel and think alike,
Appear alike, or speak and move alike?
It may not be; Nature herself delights
In inequalities. Shew me two leaves
On tree or shrub alike, two blades of grass
That match in texture, hue, or quality;
Or bring to me two grains of yellow sand
Identical in colour, shape, and size,
Or shew two equal grains of corn; in vain
Th' attempt. Similitude, we find, exists,
But not equality. The Seasons, too,
Although they fail not in their order, yet
Vary beyond the ken of watchful man.
The human races on this various globe
Differ as clime and situation wills.
And as the races, so the units, too,
All are unequal, habit, frame, and thought;
Shrewd Nature stamps the personality,
And who may change this universal Law?
To end this disquisition:
wonder not
That all men are not gifted with quick wits;
That some remain unmoved by power or place.
Then, there's Locality to intervene,
With Fortune, Chance, and various accident.
Some have their future cut and carved for them,
Others are set to incongenial work,
And act, as best they can, their dreary parts;
Some sail their barque upon a tranquil sea,
Others upon the wild tempestuous wave;
Some court the storm, they cannot brook the calm,
While others shun adventure. Indolence
Possesses many, Caution many more;
And Apathy enfolds in pleasing toils
A countless shoal, who spin Existence out
Careless of Aught Ambition or high aim,
But loving life for the mere ease it brings.
Yet there be lofty aims though far apart
From eagle-eyed Ambition; do you hold
Man's Summum bonum to be fame and power?
These both are founded on the world's respect.
Is then "Respect" your aim, and can respect
Be only granted unto Fame and Power?
I answer, No, an unpretending life,
Useful and ready to devote itself
To weak mortality, to comfort, aid,
And solace in the countless active ways
That Charity directs may win a place
Nobler than mere Ambition can bestow.
But leaving active Charity
aside
And chaste Benevolence which ever win
The world's respect, you closely pin your faith
To high Ambition, as the guide of man
To worthy action and an honoured place?
Alas! you then despise the common herd
Unmoved of greatness, and the proud desire
To win distinction? But one question more
And I have done. Can there be Happiness
Without ambition? Swift your answer comes, --
Not happiness, but grovelling content.
Then must the grovellers remain content
In their unenviable tranquillity.
For me, let me confess, I fondly love
The joys of Solitude; a tranquil life
Far from the city's roar, for me hath charms
Excelling far the turmoil of the crowd;
Books, the embodiment of Thought, supply
Companionship, and would I walk abroad,
There's teeming Nature in her myriad ways
To counsel and instruct -- a public life,
A never-resting, anxious, grasping life,
That bids the heart beat quick, and wears away
The sympathies of mind, such is your goal,
Your starting point, and final purpose too;
Then Oratory is your forte.
You love to sway the fickle populace
With swelling words, to note the passions rise
And fall obedient to your silvery tongue;
For me, alas, even Oratory stirs
No yearnings me within, the closet more
Contents me than the platform, my desire
Ever to dwell outside fierce Passion's roar,
To meditate, to study as I will;
And (dare I whisper it?) to vegetate,
If indolence possess my fickle mind.
Then, too, I love, if so the humour moves,
Betimes to write my wayward thoughts adown.
Where? (it may be asked), to please myself,
Well knowing that no bold aspiring flight
Is mine to rouse the wrathful critic's ire,
And bid my lay my humble pen aside.
So you, O friend, are happy in your way;
And I in mine, but with this difference,
You gain your end by painful care and toil,
I, mine, by mere compliance with the law
Of individual Taste, my willing guide,
But foe supreme to your Philosophy.
~~ End of the Letters ~~
I'd love to have you drop by!--Barbara