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Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great - Volume 05

by Elbert Hubbard · English · Gutenberg #13619 · 426,601 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great - Volume 05

Author: Elbert Hubbard


        
Release date: October 8, 2004 [eBook #13619]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF THE GREAT, VOLUME 5

Little Journeys to the Homes of English Authors

by

ELBERT HUBBARD

New York

1916







CONTENTS

WILLIAM MORRIS
ROBERT BROWNING
ALFRED TENNYSON
ROBERT BURNS
JOHN MILTON
SAMUEL JOHNSON
THOMAS B. MACAULAY
LORD BYRON
JOSEPH ADDISON
ROBERT SOUTHEY
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE
BENJAMIN DISRAELI




WILLIAM MORRIS

               THE IDLE SINGER

    Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
    I can not ease the burden of your fears,
    Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
    Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
    Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
    Or hope again for aught that I can say,
    The idle singer of an empty day.

    But rather, when aweary of your mirth,
    From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
    And feeling kindly unto all the earth,
    Grudge every minute as it passes by,
    Made the more mindful that the sweet days die,--
    Remember me a little then, I pray,
    The idle singer of an empty day.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
    Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
    Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
    Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
    Telling a tale not too importunate
    To those who in the sleepy region stay,
    Lulled by the singer of an empty day.
                        --_From "The Earthly Paradise"_

[Illustration: WILLIAM MORRIS]


The parents of William Morris were well-to-do people who lived in the
village of Walthamstow, Essex. The father was a London bill-broker,
cool-headed, calculating, practical. In the home of his parents William
Morris received small impulse in the direction of art; he, however, was
taught how to make both ends meet, and there were drilled into his
character many good lessons of plain commonsense--a rather unusual
equipment for a poet, but still one that should not be waived or
considered lightly. At the village school William was neither precocious
nor dull, neither black nor white: his cosmos being simply a sort of
slaty-gray, a condition of being which attracted no special attention from
either his schoolfellows or his tutors. From the village school he went to
Marlborough Academy, where by patient grubbing he fitted himself for
Exeter College, Oxford.

Morris, the elder, proved his good sense by taking no very special
interest in the boy's education. Violence of direction in education falls
flat: man is a lonely creature, and has to work out his career in his own
way. To help the grub spin its cocoon is quite unnecessary, and to play
the part of Mrs. Gamp with the butterfly in its chrysalis stage is to
place a quietus upon its career.

The whole science of modern education is calculated to turn out a good,
fairish, commonplace article; but the formula for a genius remains a
secret with Deity. The great man becomes great in spite of teachers and
parents: and his near kinsmen, being color-blind, usually pooh-pooh the
idea that he is anything more than mediocre. At Oxford, William Morris
fell in with a young man of about his own age, by the name of Edward
Burne-Jones. Burne-Jones was studying theology. He was slender in stature,
dreamy, spiritual, poetic. Morris was a giant in strength, blunt in
speech, bold in manner, and had a shock of hair like a lion's mane. This
was in the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty-three--these young men being
nineteen years of age. The slender, yellow, dreamy student of theology and
the ruddy athlete became fast friends.

"Send your sons to college and the boys will educate them," said Emerson.
These boys read poetry together; and it seems the first author that
specially attracted them was Mrs. Browning; and she attracted them simply
because she had recently eloped with the man she loved. This fact proved
to Morris that she was a worthy woman and a discerning. She had the
courage of her convictions. To elope with a poor poet, leaving a rich
father and a luxurious home--what nobler ambition?

Burne-Jones, student of theology, considered her action proof of
depravity. Morris, in order to show his friend that Mrs. Browning was
really a rare and gentle soul, read aloud to Burne-Jones from her books.
Morris himself had never read much of Mrs. Browning's work, but in
championing her cause and interesting his friend in her, he grew
interested himself. Like lawyers, we undertake a cause first and look for
proof later. In teaching another, Morris taught himself. By explaining a
theme it becomes luminous to us.

In passing, it is well to note that this impulse in the heart of William
Morris to come to the defense of an accused person was ever very strong.
His defense of Mrs. Browning led straight to "The Defense of Guinevere,"
begun while at Oxford and printed in book form in his twenty-fourth year.
Not that the offenses of Guinevere and Elizabeth Barrett were parallel,
but Morris was by nature a defender of women. And it should further be
noted that Tennyson had not yet written his "Idylls of the King,"-at the
time Morris wrote his poetic brief.

Another author that these young men took up at this time was Ruskin. John
Ruskin was fifteen years older than Morris--an Oxford man, too; also, the
son of a merchant and rich by inheritance. Ruskin's natural independence,
his ability for original thinking and his action in embracing the cause of
Turner, the ridiculed, won the heart of Morris. In Ruskin he found a
writer who expressed the thoughts that he believed. He read Ruskin, and
insisted that Burne-Jones should. Together they read "The Nature of
Gothic," and then they went out upon the streets of Oxford and studied
examples at first hand. They compared the old with the new, and came to
the conclusion that the buildings erected two centuries before had various
points to recommend them which modern buildings have not. The modern
buildings were built by contractors, while the old ones were constructed
by men who had all the time there was, and so they worked out their
conceptions of the eternal fitness of things.

Then these young men, with several others, drew up a remonstrance against
"the desecration by officious restoration, and the tearing down of
time-mellowed structures to make room for the unsightly brick piles of
boarding-house keepers."

The remonstrance was sent in to the authorities, and by them duly
pigeonholed, with a passing remark that young fellows sent to Oxford to be
educated had better attend to their books and mind their own business.
Having espoused the cause of the Middle Ages in architecture, these young
men began to study the history of the people who lived in the olden time.
They read Spenser and Chaucer, and chance threw in their way a dog-eared
copy of Mallory's "Morte d' Arthur," and this was still more dog-eared
when they were through with it. Probably no book ever made more of an
impression on Morris than this one; and if he had written an article for
the "Ladies' Home Journal" on "Books That Influenced Me Most," he would
have placed Mallory's "Morte d' Arthur" first.

The influence of Burne-Jones on Morris was marked, and the influence of
Morris on Burne-Jones was profound. Morris discovered himself in
explaining things to Burne-Jones, and Burne-Jones, without knowing it,
adopted the opinions of Morris; and it was owing to Morris that he gave up
theology.

Having abandoned the object that led him to college, Burne-Jones lost
faith in Oxford, and went down to London to study art.

Morris hung on, secured his B.A., and articled himself to a local
architect with the firm intent of stopping the insane drift for modern
mediocrity, and bringing about a just regard for the stately dignity of
the Gothic.

A few months' experience, however, and he discovered that an apprentice to
an architect was not expected to furnish plans or even criticize those
already made: his business was to make detail drawings from completed
designs for the contractors to work from.

A year at architecture, with odd hours filled in at poetry and art, and
news came from Burne-Jones that he had painted a picture, and sold it for
ten pounds.

Now Morris had all the money he needed. His father's prosperity was at
flood, and he had but to hint for funds and they came; yet to make things
with your own hands and sell them was the true test of success.

He had written "Gertha's Lovers," "The Tale of the Hollow Land," and
various poems and essays for the college magazine; and his book, "The
Defense of Guinevere," had been issued at his own expense, and the edition
was on his hands--a weary weight.

Thoreau wrote to his friends, when the house burned and destroyed all
copies of his first book, "The edition is exhausted," but no such
happiness came to Morris. And so when glad tidings of an artistic success
came from Burne-Jones, he resolved to follow the lead and abandon
architecture for "pure art."

Arriving in London he placed himself under the tutorship of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, poet, dreamer and artist, six years his senior, whom he had
known for some time, and who had also instructed Burne-Jones.

While taking lessons in painting at the rather shabby house of Rossetti in
Portland Street, he was introduced to Rossetti's favorite model--a young
woman of rare grace and beauty. Rossetti had painted her picture as "The
Blessed Damozel," leaning over the bar of Heaven, while the stars in her
hair were seven. Morris, the impressionable, fell in love with the canvas
and then with the woman.

When they were married, tradition has it that Rossetti withheld his
blessing and sought to drown his sorrow in fomentation's, with dark, dank
hints in baritone to the effect that the Thames only could appreciate his
grief.

But grief is transient; and for many years Dante Rossetti and Burne-Jones
pictured the tall, willowy figure of Mrs. Morris as the dream-woman, on
tapestry and canvas; and as the "Blessed Virgin," her beautiful face and
form are shown in many sacred places.

Truth need not be distorted in a frantic attempt to make this an ideal
marriage--only a woman with the intellect of Minerva could have filled the
restless heart of William Morris. But the wife of Morris believed in her
lord, and never sought to hamper him; and if she failed at times to
comprehend his genius, it was only because she was human.

Whistler once remarked that without Mrs. Morris to supply stained-glass
attitudes and the lissome beauty of an angel, the Preraphaelites would
have long since gone down to dust and forgetfulness.

       *       *       *       *       *

The year which William Morris spent at architecture, he considered as
nearly a waste of time, but it was not so in fact. As a draftsman he had
developed a marvelous skill, and the grace and sureness of his lines were
a delight to Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Ford Madox Brown and
others of the little artistic circle in which he found himself.

Youth lays great plans; youth is always in revolt against the present
order; youth groups itself in bands and swears eternal fealty; and life,
which is change, dissipates the plans, subdues the revolt into conformity,
and the sworn friendships fade away into dull indifference. Always? Well,
no, not exactly.

In this instance the plans and dreams found form; the revolt was a
revolution that succeeded; and the brotherhood existed for near fifty
years, and then was severed only by death.

Without going into a history of the Preraphaelite Brotherhood, it will be
noted that the band of enthusiasts in art, literature and architecture had
been swung by the arguments and personality of William Morris into the
strong current of his own belief, and this was that Art and Life in the
Middle Ages were much lovelier things than they are now.

That being so, we should go back to medieval times for our patterns.

A study of the best household decorations of the Fifteenth Century showed
that all the furniture used then was made to fit a certain apartment, and
with a definite purpose in view.

Of course it was made by hand, and the loving marks of the tool were upon
it. It was made as good and strong and durable as it could be made. Floors
and walls were of mosaic or polished wood, and these were partly covered
by beautifully woven rugs, skins and tapestries. The ceilings were
sometimes ornamented with pictures painted in harmony with the use for
which the room was designed. Certainly there were no chromos and the
pictures were few and these of the best, for the age was essentially a
critical one.

A modest circular was issued in which the fact was made known that "a
company of historical artists will use their talents in home decoration."

Dealers into whose hands this circular fell, smiled in derision, and the
announcement made no splash in England's artistic waters. But the leaven
was at work which was bound to cause a revolution in the tastes of fifty
million people.

Most of our best moves are accidents, and every good thing begins as
something else. In the beginning there was no expectation of building up a
trade or making a financial success of the business. The idea was simply
that the eight young men who composed the band were to use their influence
in helping one another to secure commissions, and corroborate the views of
doubting patrons as to what was art and what not. In other words, they
were to stand by one another.

Ford Madox Brown, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Burne-Jones and Arthur Hughes
were painters; Philip Webb an architect; Peter Paul Marshall a
landscape-gardener and engineer; Charles Joseph Faulkner, an Oxford don,
was a designer, and William Morris was an all-round artist--ready to turn
his hand to anything.

These men undertook to furnish a home from garret to cellar in an artistic
way.

Work came, and each set himself to help all the others. From simply
supplying designs for furniture, rugs, carpets and wall-paper they began
to manufacture these things, simply because they could not buy or get
others to make the things they desired.

Morris undertook the entire executive charge of affairs, and mastered the
details of half a dozen trades in order that he might intelligently
conduct the business. The one motto of the firm was, "Not how cheap, but
how good." They insisted that housekeeping must be simplified, and that we
should have fewer things and have them better. To this end single pieces
of furniture were made, and all sets of furniture discarded. I have seen
several houses furnished entirely by William Morris, and the first thing
that impressed me was the sparsity of things. Instead of a dozen pictures
in a room, there were two or three--one on an easel and one or two on the
walls. Gilt frames were abandoned almost entirely, and dark-stained woods
were used instead. Wide fireplaces were introduced and mantels of solid
oak. For upholstery, leather covering was commonly used instead of cloth.
Carpets were laid in strips, not tacked down to stay, and rugs were laid
so as to show a goodly glimpse of hardwood floor; and in the dining-room a
large, round table was placed instead of a right-angled square one. This
table was not covered with a tablecloth; instead, mats and doilies were
used here and there. To cover a table entirely with a cloth or spread was
pretty good proof that the piece of furniture was cheap and shabby; so in
no William Morris library or dining-room would you find a table entirely
covered. The round dining-table is in very general use now, but few people
realize how its plainness was scouted when William Morris first introduced
it.

One piece of William Morris furniture has become decidedly popular in
America, and that is the "Morris Chair." The first chair of this pattern
was made entirely by the hands of the master. It was built by a man who
understood anatomy, unlike most chairs and all church pews. It was also
strong, durable, ornamental, and by a simple device the back could be
adjusted so as to fit a man's every mood.

There has been a sad degeneracy among William Morris chairs; still, good
ones can be obtained, nearly as excellent as the one in which I rested at
Kelmscott House--broad, deep, massive, upholstered with curled hair, and
covered with leather that would delight a bookbinder. Such a chair can be
used a generation and then passed on to the heirs.

Furnishing of churches and chapels led naturally to the making of
stained-glass windows, and hardly a large city of Christendom but has an
example of the Morris work.

Morris managed to hold that erratic genius, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, in
line and direct his efforts, which of itself was a feat worthy of record.
He made a fortune for Rossetti, who was a child in this world's affairs,
and he also made a fortune for himself and every man connected with the
concern.

Burne-Jones stood by the ship manfully, and proved his good sense by never
interfering with the master's plans, or asking foolish, quibbling
questions--showing faith on all occasions.

The Morris designs for wall-paper, tapestry, cretonnes and carpets are now
the property of the world, but to say just which is a William Morris
design and which a Burne-Jones is an impossibility, for these two strong
men worked together as one being with two heads and four hands. At one
time, I find the firm of Morris and Company had three thousand hands at
work in its various manufactories, the work in most instances being done
by hand after the manner of the olden time. William Morris was an avowed
socialist long before so many men began to grow fond of calling themselves
Christian Socialists. Morris was too practical not to know that the time
is not ripe for life on a communal basis, but in his heart was a high and
holy ideal that he has partially explained in his books, "A Dream of John
Ball" and "News From Nowhere," and more fully in many lectures. His
sympathy was ever with the workingman and those who grind fordone at the
wheel of labor. To better the condition of the toiler was his sincere
desire. But socialism to him was more of an emotion than a well-worked-out
plan of life. He believed that men should replace competition by
Co-operation. He used to say: "I'm going your way, so let us go hand in
hand. You help me and I'll help you. We shall not be here very long, for
soon, Death, the kind old nurse, will come and rock us all to sleep--let
us help one another while we may." And that is about the extent of the
socialism of William Morris.

There is one criticism that has been constantly brought against Morris,
and although he answered this criticism a thousand times during his life,
it still springs fresh--put forth by little men who congratulate
themselves on having scored a point.

They ask in orotund, "How could William Morris expect to benefit society
at large, when all of the products he manufactured were so high in price
that only the rich could buy them?"

Socialism, according to William Morris, does not consider it desirable to
supply cheap stuff to anybody. The socialist aims to make every
manufactured article of the best quality possible. It is not how cheap can
this be made, but how good. Make it as excellent as it can be made to
serve its end. Then sell it at a price that affords something more than a
bare subsistence to the workmen who put their lives into its making. In
this way you raise the status of the worker--you pay him for his labor and
give him an interest and pride in the product. Cheap products make cheap
men. The first thought of socialism is for the worker who makes the thing,
not the man who buys it.

Work is for the worker.

What becomes of the product of your work, and how the world receives it,
matters little. But how you do it is everything. We are what we are on
account of the thoughts we have thought and the things we have done. As a
muscle grows strong only through use, so does every attribute of the mind,
and every quality of the soul take on new strength through exercise. And
on the other hand, as a muscle not used atrophies and dies, so will the
faculties of the spirit die through disuse.

Thus we see why it is very necessary that we should exercise our highest
and best. We are making character, building soul-fiber; and no rotten
threads must be woven into this web of life. If you write a paper for a
learned society, you are the man who gets the benefit of that paper--the
society may. If you are a preacher and prepare your sermons with care, you
are the man who receives the uplift--and as to the congregation, it is all
very doubtful.

Work is for the worker.

We are all working out our own salvation. And thus do we see how it is
very plain that John Ruskin was right when he said that the man who makes
the thing is of far more importance than the man who buys it. Work is for
the worker.

Can you afford to do slipshod, evasive, hypocritical work? Can you afford
to shirk, or make-believe or practise pretense in any act of life? No, no;
for all the time you are molding yourself into a deformity, and drifting
away from the Divine. What the world does and says about you is really no
matter, but what you think and what you do are questions vital as Fate. No
one can harm you but yourself. Work is for the worker. And so I will
answer the questions of the critics as to how society has been benefited
by, say, a William Morris book:

1. The workmen who made it found a pride and satisfaction in their work.

2. They received a goodly reward in cash for their time and efforts.

3. The buyers were pleased with their purchase, and received a decided
satisfaction in its possession.

4. Readers of the book were gratified to see their author clothed in such
fitting and harmonious dress.

5. Reading the text has instructed some, and possibly inspired a few to
nobler thinking.

After "The Defense of Guinevere" was published, it was thirteen years
before Morris issued another volume. His days had been given to art and
the work of management. But now the business had gotten on to such a firm
basis that he turned the immediate supervision over to others, and took
two days of the week, Saturday and Sunday, for literature.

Taking up the active work of literature when thirty-nine years of age, he
followed it with the zest of youth for over twenty years--until death
claimed him. William Morris thought literature should be the product of
the ripened mind--the mind that knows the world of men and which has
grappled with earth's problems. He also considered that letters should not
be a profession in itself--to make a business of an art is to degrade it.
Literature should be the spontaneous output of the mind that has known and
felt. To work the mine of spirit as a business and sift its product for
hire, is to overwork the vein and palm off slag for sterling metal.
Shakespeare was a theater-manager, Milton a secretary, Bobby Burns a
farmer, Lamb a bookkeeper, Wordsworth a government employee, Emerson a
lecturer, Hawthorne a custom-house inspector, and Whitman a clerk. William
Morris was a workingman and a manufacturer, and would have been Poet
Laureate of England had he been willing to call himself a student of
sociology instead of a socialist. Socialism itself (whatever it may be) is
not offensive--the word is.

       *       *       *       *       *

The great American Apostle of Negation expressed, once upon a day, a
regret that he had not been consulted when the Universe was being planned,
otherwise he would have arranged to make good things catching instead of
bad.

The remark tokened a slight lesion in the logic of the Apostle, for good
things are now, and ever have been, infectious.

Once upon a day, I met a young man who told me that he was exposed at
Kelmscott House for a brief hour, and caught it, and ever after there were
in his mind, thoughts, feelings, emotions and ideals that had not been
there before. Possibly the psychologist would explain that the spores of
all these things were simply sleeping, awaiting the warmth and sunshine of
some peculiar presence to start them into being; but of that I can not
speak--this only I know, that the young man said to me, "Whereas I was
once blind, I now see."

William Morris was a giant in physical strength and a giant in intellect.
His nature was intensely masculine, in that he could plan and act without
thought of precedent. Never was a man more emancipated from the trammels
of convention and custom than William Morris.

Kelmscott House at Hammersmith is in an ebb-tide district where once
wealth and fashion held sway; but now the vicinity is given over to
factories, tenement-houses and all that train of evil and vice that
follows in the wake of faded gentility.

At Hammersmith you will see spacious old mansions used as warehouses;
others as boarding-houses; still others converted into dance-halls with
beer-gardens in the rear, where once bloomed and blossomed milady's
flowerbeds.

The broad stone steps and wide hallways and iron fences, with glimpses now
and then of ancient doorplates or more ancient knockers, tell of
generations lost in the maze of oblivion.

Just why William Morris, the poet and lover of harmony, should have
selected this locality for a home is quite beyond the average ken.
Certainly it mystified the fashionable literary world of London, with whom
he never kept goose-step, but that still kept track of him--for fashion
has a way of patronizing genius--and some of his old friends wrote him
asking where Hammersmith was, and others expressed doubts as to its
existence. I had no difficulty in taking the right train for Hammersmith,
but once there no one seemed to have ever heard of the Kelmscott Press.
When I inquired, grave misgivings seemed to arise as to whether the press
I referred to was a cider-press, a wine-press or a press for "cracklings."

Finally I discovered a man--a workingman--whose face beamed at the mention
of William Morris. Later I found that if a man knew William Morris, his
heart throbbed at the mention of his name, and he at once grew voluble and
confidential and friendly. It was the "Open Sesame," And if a person did
not know William Morris, he simply didn't, and that was all there was
about it.

But the man I met knew "Th' Ole Man," which was the affectionate title
used by all the hundreds and thousands who worked with William Morris. And
to prove that he knew him, when I asked that he should direct me to the
Upper Mall, he simply insisted on going with me. Moreover, he told a
needless lie and declared he was on the way there, although when we met he
was headed in the other direction. By a devious walk of half a mile we
reached the high iron fence of Kelmscott House. We arrived amid a florid
description of the Icelandic Sagas as told by my new-found friend and
interpreted by Th' Ole Man. My friend had not read the Sagas, but still he
did not hesitate to recommend them; and so we passed through the wide-open
gates and up the stone walk to the entrance of Kelmscott House. On the
threshold we met F.S. Ellis and Emery Walker, who addressed my companion
as "Tom." I knew Mr. Ellis slightly, and also had met Mr. Walker, who
works Rembrandt miracles with a camera.

Mr. Ellis was deep in seeing the famous "Chaucer" through the press, and
Mr. Walker had a print to show, so we turned aside, passed a great pile of
paper in crates that cluttered the hallway, and entered the library.
There, leaning over the long, oaken table, in shirt-sleeves, was the
master. Who could mistake that great, shaggy head, the tangled beard, and
frank, open-eyed look of boyish animation?

The man was sixty and more, but there was no appearance of age in eye,
complexion, form or gesture--only the whitened hair! He greeted me as if
we had always known each other, and Ellis and piles of Chaucer proof led
straight to old Professor Child of Harvard, whose work Ellis criticized
and Morris upheld. They fell into a hot argument, which was even continued
as we walked across the street to the Doves Bindery.

The Doves Bindery, as all good men know, is managed by Mr.
Cobden-Sanderson, who married one of the two daughters of Richard Cobden
of Corn-Law fame.

Just why Mr. Sanderson, the lawyer, should have borrowed his wife's maiden
name and made it legally a part of his own, I do not know. Anyway, I quite
like the idea of linking one's name with that of the woman one loves,
especially when it has been so honored by the possessor as the name of
Cobden.

Cobden-Sanderson caught the rage for beauty from William Morris, and began
to bind books for his own pleasure. Morris contended that any man who
could bind books as beautifully as Cobden-Sanderson should not waste his
time with law. Cobden-Sanderson talked it over with his wife, and she
being a most sensible woman, agreed with William Morris.

So Cobden-Sanderson, acting on Th' Ole Man's suggestion, rented the quaint
and curious mansion next door to the old house occupied by the Kelmscott
Press, and went to work binding books.

When we were once inside the Bindery, the Chaucerian argument between Mr.
Ellis and Th' Ole Man shifted off into a wrangle with Cobden-Sanderson. I
could not get the drift of it exactly--it seemed to be the continuation of
some former quarrel about an oak leaf or something. Anyway, Th' Ole Man
silenced his opponent by smothering his batteries--all of which will be
better understood when I explain that Th' Ole Man was large in stature,
bluff, bold and strong-voiced, whereas Cobden-Sanderson is small,
red-headed, meek, and wears bicycle-trousers.

The argument, however, was not quite so serious an affair as I at first
supposed, for it all ended in a laugh and easily ran off into a quiet
debate as to the value of Imperial Japan versus Whatman.

We walked through the various old parlors that now do duty as workrooms
for bright-eyed girls, then over through the Kelmscott Press, and from
this to another old mansion that had on its door a brass plate so polished
and repolished, like a machine-made sonnet too much gone over, that one
can scarcely make out its intent. Finally I managed to trace the legend,
"The Seasons." I was told it was here that Thomson, the poet, wrote his
book. Once back in the library of Kelmscott House, Mr. Ellis and Th' Ole
Man leaned over the great oaken table and renewed, in a gentler key, the
question as to whether Professor Child was justified in his construction
of the Third Canto of the "Canterbury Tales." Under cover of the smoke I
quietly disappeared with Mr. Cockerill, the Secretary, for a better view
of the Kelmscott Press.

This was my first interview with William Morris. By chance I met him
again, some days after, at the shop of Emery Walker in Clifford Court,
Strand. I had been told on divers occasions by various persons that
William Morris had no sympathy for American art and small respect for our
literature. I am sure this was not wholly true, for on this occasion he
told me he had read "Huckleberry Finn," and doted on "Uncle Remus." He
also spoke with affection and feeling of Walt Whitman, and told me that he
had read every printed word that Emerson had written. And further he
congratulated me on the success of my book, "Songs From Vagabondia."

       *       *       *       *       *

The housekeeping world seems to have been in thrall to six haircloth
chairs, a slippery sofa to match, and a very cold, marble-top center
table, from the beginning of this century down to comparatively recent
times. In all the best homes there was also a marble mantel to match the
center table; on one end of this mantel was a blue glass vase containing a
bouquet of paper roses, and on the other a plaster-of-Paris cat. Above the
mantel hung a wreath of wax flowers in a glass case. In such houses were
usually to be seen gaudy-colored carpets, imitation lace curtains, and a
what-not in the corner that seemed ready to go into dissolution through
the law of gravitation.

Early in the Seventies lithograph-presses began to make chromos that were
warranted just as good as oil-paintings, and these were distributed in
millions by enterprising newspapers as premiums for subscriptions. Looking
over an old file of the "Christian Union" for the year Eighteen Hundred
Seventy-one, I chanced upon an editorial wherein it was stated that the
end of painting pictures by hand had come, and the writer piously thanked
heaven for it--and added, "Art is now within the reach of all." Furniture,
carpets, curtains, pictures and books were being manufactured by
machinery, and to glue things together and give them a look of gentility
and get them into a house before they fell apart, was the seeming
desideratum of all manufacturers.

The editor of the "Christian Union" surely had a basis of truth for his
statement; art had received a sudden chill: palettes and brushes could be
bought for half-price, and many artists were making five-year contracts
with lithographers; while those too old to learn to draw on
lithograph-stones saw nothing left for them but to work designs with
worsted in perforated cardboard.

To the influence of William Morris does the civilized world owe its
salvation from the mad rage and rush for the tawdry and cheap in home
decoration. It will not do to say that if William Morris had not called a
halt some one else would, nor to cavil by declaring that the inanities of
the Plush-Covered Age followed the Era of the Hair-Cloth Sofa. These
things are frankly admitted, but the refreshing fact remains that fully
one-half the homes of England and America have been influenced by the good
taste and vivid personality of one strong, earnest man.

William Morris was the strongest all-round man the century has produced.
He was an Artist and a Poet in the broadest and best sense of these
much-bandied terms. William Morris could do more things, and do them well,
than any other man of either ancient or modern times whom we can name.
William Morris was master of six distinct trades. He was a weaver, a
blacksmith, a wood-carver, a painter, a dyer and a printer; and he was a
musical composer of no mean ability.

Better than all, he was an enthusiastic lover of his race: his heart
throbbed for humanity, and believing that society could be reformed only
from below, he cast his lot with the toilers, dressed as one of them, and
in the companionship of workingmen found a response to his holy zeal which
the society of an entailed aristocracy denied.

The man who could influence the entire housekeeping of half a world, and
give the kingdom of fashion a list to starboard; who could paint beautiful
pictures; compose music; speak four languages; write sublime verse;
address a public assemblage effectively; produce plays; resurrect the lost
art of making books, books such as were made only in the olden time as a
loving, religious service; who lived a clean, wholesome, manly
life--beloved by those who knew him best--shall we not call him Master?




ROBERT BROWNING

    So, take and use Thy work,
    Amend what flaws may lurk,
    What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim:
    My times be in Thy hand!
    Perfect the cup as planned!
    Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same.
                                        --_Rabbi Ben Ezra_

[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING]


If there ever lived a poet to whom the best minds pour out libations, it
is Robert Browning. We think of him as dwelling on high Olympus; we read
his lines by the light of dim candles; we quote him in sonorous monotone
at twilight when soft-sounding organ-chants come to us mellow and sweet.
Browning's poems form a lover's litany to that elect few who hold that the
true mating of a man and a woman is the marriage of the mind. And thrice
blest was Browning, in that Fate allowed him to live his philosophy--to
work his poetry up into life, and then again to transmute life and love
into art. Fate was kind: success came his way so slowly that he was never
subjected to the fierce, dazzling searchlight of publicity; his
recognition in youth was limited to a few obscure friends and neighbors.
And when distance divided him from these, they forgot him; so there seems
a hiatus in his history, when for a score of years literary England dimly
remembered some one by the name of Browning, but could not just place him.

About the year Eighteen Hundred Sixty-eight the author of "Sordello" was
induced to appear at an evening of "Uncut Leaves" at the house of a
nobleman at the West End, London. James Russell Lowell was present and
was congratulated by a lady, sitting next to him, on the fact that
Browning was an American.

"But only by adoption!" answered the gracious Lowell.

"Yes," said the lady; "I believe his father was an Englishman, so you
Americans can not have all the credit; but surely he shows the Negro or
Indian blood of his mother. Very clever, isn't he?--so very clever!"

Browning's swarthy complexion, and the fine poise of the man--the entire
absence of "nerves," as often shown in the savage--seemed to carry out the
idea that his was a peculiar pedigree. In his youth, when his hair was as
black as the raven's wing and coarse as a horse-tail, and his complexion
mahogany, the report that he was a Creole found ready credence. And so did
this gossip of mixed parentage follow him that Mrs. Sutherland Orr, in her
biography, takes an entire chapter to prove that in Robert Browning's
veins there flowed neither Indian nor Negro blood.

Doctor Furnivall, however, explains that Browning's grandmother on his
father's side came from the West Indies, that nothing is known of her
family history, and that she was a Creole.

And beyond this, the fact is stated that Robert Browning was quite pleased
when he used to be taken for a Jew--a conclusion made plausible by his
complexion, hair and features.

In its dead-serious, hero-worshiping attitude, the life of Robert
Browning by Mrs. Orr deserves to rank with Weems' "Life of Washington." It
is the brief of an attorney for the defense. "Little-Willie" anecdotes
appear on every page.

And thus do we behold the tendency to make Browning something more than a
man--and, therefore, something less.

Possibly women are given to this sort of thing more than men--I am not
sure. But this I know, every young woman regards her lover as a distinct
and peculiar personage, different from all others--as if this were a
virtue--the only one of his kind. Later, if Fate is kind, she learns that
her own experience is not unique. We all easily fit into a type, and each
is but a representative of his class.

Robert Browning sprang from a line of clerks and small merchants; but as
indemnity for the lack of a family 'scutcheon, we are told that his uncle,
Reuben Browning, was a sure-enough poet. For once in an idle hour he threw
off a little thing for an inscription to be placed on a presentation
ink-bottle, and Disraeli seeing it, declared, "Nothing like this has ever
before been written!"

Beyond doubt, Disraeli made the statement--it bears his earmark. It will
be remembered that the Earl of Beaconsfield had a stock form for
acknowledging receipt of the many books sent to him by aspiring authors.
It ran something like this: "The Earl of Beaconsfield begs to thank the
gifted author of----for a copy of his book, and gives the hearty assurance
that he will waste no time in reading the volume."

And further, the fact is set forth with unction that Robert Browning was
entrusted with a latchkey early in life, and that he always gave his
mother a good-night kiss. He gave her the good-night kiss willy-nilly. If
she had retired when he came home, he used the trusty latchkey and went to
her room to imprint on her lips the good-night kiss. He did this, the
biographer would have us believe, to convince the good mother that his
breath was what it should be; and he awakened her so she would know the
hour was seasonable.

In many manufactories there is an electric apparatus wherewith every
employee registers when he arrives, by turning a key or pushing a button.
Robert Browning always fearlessly registered as soon as he got home--this
according to Mrs. Orr.

Unfortunately, or otherwise, there is a little scattered information which
makes us believe that Robert Browning's mother was not so fearful of her
son's conduct, nor suspicious as to his breath, as to lie awake nights and
keep tab on his hours. The world has never denied that Robert Browning was
entrusted with a latchkey, and it cares little if occasionally, early in
life, he fumbled for the keyhole. And my conception of his character is
such that, when in the few instances Aurora, rosy goddess of the morn,
marked his homecoming with chrome-red in the eastern sky, he did not
search the sleeping-rooms for his mother to apprise her of the hour.

In one place Mrs. Orr avers, in a voice hushed with emotion, that Browning
carefully read all of Johnson's Dictionary "as a fit preparation for a
literary career." Without any attempt to deny that the perusal of a
dictionary is "fit preparation for a literary career," I yet fear me that
the learned biographer, in a warm anxiety to prove the man exceeding
studious and very virtuous, has tipped a bit to t' other side.

She has apotheosized her subject--and in an attempt to portray him as a
peculiar person, set apart, has well-nigh given us a being without hands,
feet, eyes, ears, organs, dimensions, passions.

But after a careful study of the data, various visits to the places where
he lived in England, trips to Casa Guidi, views from Casa Guidi windows, a
journey to Palazzo Rezzonico at Venice, where he died, and many a pious
pilgrimage to Poets' Corner, in Westminster Abbey, where he sleeps, I am
constrained to believe that Robert Browning was made from the same kind of
clay as the rest of us. He was human--he was splendidly human.

       *       *       *       *       *

Browning's father was a bank-clerk; and Robert Browning, the Third, author
of "Paracelsus," could have secured his father's place in the Bank of
England, if he had had ambitions. And the fact that he had not was a
source of silent sorrow to the father, even to the day of his death, in
Eighteen Hundred Sixty-six.

Robert Browning, the grandfather, entered the Bank as an errand-boy, and
rose by slow stages to Principal of the Stock-Room. He served the Bank
full half a century, and saved from his salary a goodly competence. This
money, tightly and rightly invested, passed to his son. The son never
secured the complete favor of his employers that the father had known, but
he added to his weekly stipend by what a writer terms, "legitimate
perquisites." This, being literally interpreted, means that he purchased
paper, pens and sealing-wax for the use of the Bank, and charged the goods
in at his own price, doubtless with the consent of his superior, with whom
he divided profits. He could have parodied the remark of Fletcher of
Saltoun and said, "Let me supply the perquisite-requisites and I care not
who makes the laws." So he grew rich--moderately rich--and lived simply
and comfortably up at Camberwell, with only one besetting dissipation: he
was a book-collector and had learned more Greek than Robert the Third was
to acquire. He searched bookstalls on the way to the City in the morning,
and lay in wait for First Editions on the way home at night. When he had
a holiday, he went in search of a book. He sneaked books into the house,
and declared to his admonishing wife the next week that he had always
owned 'em, or that they were presented to him. The funds his father had
left him, his salary and "the perquisites," made a goodly income, but he
always complained of poverty. He was secretly hoarding sums so as to
secure certain books.

The shelves grew until they reached the ceiling, and then bookcases
invaded the dining-room. The collector didn't trust his wife with the
household purchasing; no bank-clerk ever does--and all the pennies were
needed for books. The good wife, having nothing else to do, grew anemic,
had neuralgia and lapsed into a Shut-in, wearing a pale-blue wrapper and
reclining on a couch, around which were piled--mountain-high--books.

The pale invalid used to imagine that the great cases were swaying and
dancing a minuet, and she fully expected the tomes would all come
a-toppling down and smother her--and she didn't care much if they would;
but they never did. She was the mother of two children--the boy Robert,
born the year after her marriage; and in a little over another year a
daughter came, and this closed the family record.

The invalid mother was a woman of fine feeling and much poetic insight.
She didn't talk as much about books as her husband did, but I think she
knew the good ones better. The mother and son moused in books together,
and Mrs. Orr is surely right in her suggestion that this love of mother
and son took upon itself the nature of a passion.

The love of Robert Browning for Elizabeth Barrett was a revival and a
renewal, in many ways, of the condition of tenderness and sympathy that
existed between Browning and his mother. There certainly was a strange and
marked resemblance in the characters of Elizabeth Barrett and the mother
of Robert Browning; and to many this fully accounts for the instant
affection that Browning felt toward the occupant of the "darkened room,"
when first they met.

The book-collector took much pride in his boy, and used to take him on
book-hunting excursions, and sometimes to the Bank, on which occasions he
would tell the Beef-Eaters how this was Robert Browning, the Third, and
that all three of the R.B.'s were loyal servants of the Bank. And the
Beef-Eaters would rest their staves on the stone floor, and smile
Fifteenth-Century grimaces at the boy from under their cocked hats.

Robert the Third was a healthy, rollicking lad, with power plus, and a
deal of destructiveness in his nature. But destructiveness in a youngster
is only energy not yet properly directed, just as dirt is useful matter in
the wrong place.

To keep the boy out of mischief, he was sent to a sort of kindergarten,
kept by a spinster around the corner. The spinster devoted rather more
attention to the Browning boy than to her other pupils--she had to, to
keep him out of mischief--and soon the boy was quite the head scholar.

And they tell us that he was so much more clever than any of the other
scholars that, to appease the rising jealousy of the parents of the other
pupils, the diplomatic spinster requested that the boy be removed from her
school--all this according to the earnest biographer. The facts are that
the boy had so much energy and restless ambition; was so full of brimming
curiosity, mischief and imagination--introducing turtles, bats and mice on
various occasions--that he led the whole school a merry chase and wore the
nerves of the ancient maiden to a frazzle.

He had to go.

After this he studied at home with his mother. His father laid out a
schedule, and it was lived up to, for about a week.

Then a private tutor was tried, but soon this plan was abandoned, and a
system of reading, best described as "natural selection," was followed.

The boy was fourteen, and his sister was twelve, past. These are the ages
when children often experience a change of heart, as all "revivalists"
know. Robert Browning was swinging off towards atheism. He grew
melancholy, irritable and wrote stanzas of sentimental verse. He showed
this verse, high-sounding, stilted, bold and bilious, to his mother and
then to his father, and finally to Lizzie Flower.

A word about Lizzie Flower: She was nine years older than Robert Browning;
and she had a mind that was gracious and full of high aspiration. She
loved books, art, music, and all harmony made its appeal to her--and not
in vain. She wrote verses and, very sensibly, kept them locked in her
workbox; and then she painted in water-colors and worked in worsted. A
thoroughly good woman, she was far above the average in character, with a
half-minor key in her voice and a tinge of the heartbroken in her
composition, caused no one just knew how. Probably a certain young curate
at Saint Margaret's could have thrown light on this point; but he married,
took on a double chin, moved away to a fat living and never told.

No woman is ever wise or good until destiny has subdued her by grinding
her fondest hopes into the dust.

Lizzie Flower was wise and good.

She gave singing lessons to the Browning children. She taught Master
Robert Browning to draw.

She read to him some of her verses that were in the sewing-table drawer.
And her sister, Sarah Flower, two years older, afterwards Sarah Flower
Adams, read aloud to them a hymn she had just written, called, "Nearer, My
God, to Thee."

Then soon Master Robert showed the Flower girls some of the verses he had
written.

Robert liked Lizzie Flower first-rate, and told his mother so. A young
woman never cares anything for an unlicked cub, nine years younger than
herself, unless Fate has played pitch and toss with her heart's true love.
And then, the tendrils of the affections being ruthlessly lacerated and
uprooted, they cling to the first object that presents itself.

Lizzie Flower was a wallflower. That is to say, she had early in life rid
herself of the admiration of the many, by refusing to supply an unlimited
amount of small talk. In feature she was as plain as George Eliot. A boy
is plastic, and even a modest wallflower can woo him; but a man, for her,
inspires awe--with him she takes no liberties. And the wallflower woos the
youth unwittingly, thinking the while she is only using her influence the
better to instruct him.

It is fortunate for a boy escaping adolescence to be educated and loved
(the words are synonymous) by a good woman. Indeed, the youngster who has
not violently loved a woman old enough to be his mother has dropped
something out of his life that he will have to go back and pick up in
another incarnation.

I said Robert liked Lizzie Flower first-rate; and she declared that he was
the brightest and most receptive pupil she had ever had.

He was seventeen--she was twenty-six. They read Shelley, Keats and Byron
aloud, and together passed through the "Byronic Period." They became
violently atheistic, and at the same time decidedly religious: things that
seem paradoxical, but are not. They adopted a vegetable diet and for two
years they eschewed meat. They worshiped in the woods, feeling that the
groves were God's first temples; and sitting at the gnarled roots of some
great oak, they would read aloud, by turn, from "Queen Mab."

On one such excursion out across Hampstead Heath they lost their copy of
"Shelley" in the leaves, and a wit has told us that it sprouted, and as a
result--the flower and fruit--we have Browning's poem of "Pauline." And
this must be so, for Robert and Miss Flower (he always called her "Miss
Flower," but she called him "Robert") made many an excursion, in search of
the book, yet they never found it.

Robert now being eighteen, a man grown--not large, but very strong and
wiry--his father made arrangements for him to take a minor clerkship in
the Bank. But the boy rebelled--he was going to be an artist, or a poet,
or something like that.

The father argued that a man could be a poet and still work in a bank--the
salary was handy; and there was no money in poetry. In fact, he himself
was a poet, as his father had been before him. To be a bank-clerk and at
the same time a poet--what nobler ambition!

The young man was still stubborn. He was feeling discontented with his
environment: he was cramped, cabined, cribbed, confined. He wanted to get
out of the world of petty plodding and away from the silly round of
conventions, out into the world of art--or else of barbarism--he didn't
care which.

The latter way opened first, and a bit of wordy warfare with his father on
the subject of idleness sent him off to a gipsy camp at Epsom Downs. How
long he lived with the vagabonds we do not know, but his swarthy skin, and
his skill as a boxer and wrestler, recommended him to the ragged gentry,
and they received him as a brother.

It is probable that a week of pure vagabondia cured him of the idea that
civilization is a disease, for he came back home, made a bonfire of his
attire, and after a vigorous tubbing, was clothed in his right mind.

Groggy studies in French under a private tutor followed, and then came a
term as special student in Greek at London University.

To be nearer the school, he took lodgings in Gower Street; but within a
week a slight rough-house incident occurred that crippled most of the
furniture in his room and deprived the stair-rail of its spindles. R.
Browning, the Second, bank-clerk, paid the damages, and R. Browning, the
Third, aged twenty, came back home, formally notifying all parties
concerned that he had chosen a career--it was Poetry. He would woo the
Divine Goddess, no matter who opposed. There, now!

His mother was delighted; his father gave reluctant consent, declaring
that any course in life was better than vacillation; and Miss Flower, who
probably had sown the dragon's teeth, assumed a look of surprise, but gave
it as her opinion that Robert Browning would yet be Poet Laureate of
England.

       *       *       *       *       *

Robert Browning awoke one morning with a start--it was the morning of his
thirtieth birthday. One's thirtieth birthday and one's seventieth are days
that press their message home with iron hand. With his seventieth
milestone past, a man feels that his work is done, and dim voices call to
him from across the Unseen. His work is done, and so illy, compared with
what he had wished and expected! But the impressions made upon his heart
by the day are no deeper than those his thirtieth birthday inspires. At
thirty, youth, with all it palliates and excuses, is gone forever. The
time for mere fooling is past; the young avoid you, or else look up to you
as a Nestor and tempt you to grow reminiscent. You are a man and must give
an account of yourself.

Out of the stillness came a Voice to Robert Browning saying, "What hast
thou done with the talent I gave thee?"

What had he done? It seemed to him at the moment as if he had done
nothing. He arose and looked into the mirror. A few gray hairs were mixed
in his beard; there were crow's feet on his forehead; and the first joyous
flush of youth had gone from his face forever. He was a bachelor, inwardly
at war with his environment, but making a bold front with his tuppence
worth of philosophy to conceal the unrest within.

A bachelor of thirty, strong in limb, clear in brain and yet a dependent!
No one but himself to support, and couldn't even do that! Gadzooks! Fie
upon all poetry and a plague upon this dumb, dense, shopkeeping,
beer-drinking nation upon which the sun never sets!

The father of Robert Browning had done everything a father could. He had
supplied board and books, and given his son an allowance of a pound a week
for ten years. He had sent him on a journey to Italy, and published
several volumes of the young man's verse at his own expense. And these
books were piled high in the garret, save a few that had been bought by
charitable friends or given away.

Robert Browning was not discouraged--oh no, not that!--only the world
seemed to stretch out in a dull, monotonous gray, where once it was green,
the color of hope, and all decked with flowers.

The little literary world of London knew Browning and respected him. He
was earnest and sincere and his personality carried weight. His face was
not handsome, but his manner was one of poise and purpose; and to come
within his aura and look into his calm eyes was to respect the man and
make obeisance to the intellect that you felt lay behind.

A few editors had gone out of their way to "discover" him to the world,
but their lavish reviews fell flat. Buyers would not buy--no one seemed to
want the wares of Robert Browning. He was hard to read, difficult,
obscure--or else there wasn't anything in it at all--they didn't know
which.

Fox, editor of the "Repository," had met Browning at the Flowers' and
liked him. He tried to make his verse go, but couldn't. Yet he did what he
could and insisted that Browning should go with him to the "Sunday
evenings" at Barry Cornwall's. There Browning met Leigh Hunt, Monckton
Milnes and Dickens. Then there were dinner-parties at Sergeant Talfourd's,
where he got acquainted with Wordsworth, Walter Savage Landor and
Macready.

Macready impressed him greatly and he impressed Macready. He gave the
actor a copy of "Paracelsus" (one of the pile in the garret) and Macready
suggested he write a play. "Strafford" was the result, and we know it was
stillborn, and caused a very frosty feeling to exist for many a year
between the author and the actor. When a play fails, the author blames the
actor and the actor damns the author. These men were human. Of course
Browning's kinsmen all considered him a failure, and when the father paid
over the weekly allowance he often rubbed it in a bit. Lizzie Flower had
modified her prophecy as to the Laureateship, but was still loyal. They
had tiffed occasionally, and broken off the friendship, and once I believe
returned letters. To marry was out of the question--he couldn't support
himself--and besides that, they were old, demnition old; he was past
thirty and she was forty--Gramercy!

They tiffed.

Then they made up.

In the meantime Browning had formed a friendship, very firm and frank, but
strictly Platonic, of course, for Fanny Haworth. Miss Haworth had seen
more of the world than Miss Flower--she was an artist, a writer, and moved
in the best society. Browning and Miss Haworth wrote letters to each other
for a while most every day, and he called on her every Wednesday and
Saturday evening.

Miss Haworth bought and gave away many copies of "Pauline," "Sordello" and
"Paracelsus"; and informed her friends that "Pippa Passes" and "Two in a
Gondola" were great quality.

About this time we find Edward Moxon, the publisher (who married the
adopted daughter of Charles and Mary Lamb), saying to Browning: "Your
verse is all right, Browning, but a book of it is too much: people are
appalled; they can not digest it. And when it goes into a magazine it is
lost in the mass. Now just let me get out your work in little monthly
instalments, in booklet form, and I think it will go."

Browning jumped at the idea.

The booklets were gotten out in paper covers and offered at a moderate
price.

They sold, and sold well. The literary elite bought them by the dozen to
give away.

People began to talk about Browning--he was getting a foothold. His
royalties now amounted to as much as the weekly allowance from his father,
and Pater was talking of cutting off the stipend entirely. Finances being
easy, Browning thought it a good time to take another look at Italy. Some
of the best things he had written had been inspired by Venice and
Asolo--he would go again. And so he engaged passage on a sailing-ship for
Naples.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after Browning's return to London, in Eighteen Hundred Forty-four,
he dined at Sergeant Talfourd's. After the dinner a well-dressed and
sprightly old gentleman introduced himself and begged that Browning would
inscribe a copy of "Bells and Pomegranates," that he had gotten specially
bound. There is an ancient myth about writers being harassed by
autograph-fiends and all that; but the simple fact is, nothing so warms
the cockles of an author's heart as to be asked for his autograph. Of
course Browning graciously complied with the gentleman's request, and in
order that he might insert the owner's name in the inscription, asked:

"What name, please?"

And the answer was, "John Kenyon."

Then Mr. Browning and Mr. Kenyon had a nice little visit, talking about
books and art. And Mr. Kenyon told Mr. Browning that Miss Elizabeth
Barrett, the poetess, was a cousin of his--he was a bit boastful of the
fact.

And Mr. Browning nodded and said he had often heard of her, and admired
her work.

Then Mr. Kenyon suggested that Mr. Browning write and tell her so--"You
see she has just gotten out a new book, and we are all a little nervous
about how it is going to take. Miss Barrett lives in a darkened room, you
know--sees no one--and a letter from a man like you would encourage her
greatly."

Mr. Kenyon wrote the address of Miss Barrett on a card and pushed it
across the table.

Mr. Browning took the card, put it in his pocketbook and promised to write
Miss Barrett, as Mr. Kenyon requested.

And he did.

Miss Barrett replied.

Mr. Browning answered, and soon several letters a week were going in each
direction.

Not quite so many missives were being received by Fanny Haworth; and as
for Lizzie Flower, I fear she was quite forgotten. She fell into a
decline, drooped and died in a year.

Mr. Browning asked for permission to call on Miss Barrett.

Miss Barrett explained that her father would not allow it, neither would
the doctor or nurse, and added: "There is nothing to see in me. I am a
weed fit for the ground and darkness."

But this repulse only made Mr. Browning want to see her the more. He
appealed to Mr. Kenyon, who was the only person allowed to call, besides
Miss Mitford--Mr. Kenyon was her cousin.

Mr. Kenyon arranged it--he was an expert at arranging anything of a
delicate nature. He timed the hour when Mr. Barrett was down town, and the
nurse and doctor safely out of the way, and they called on the invalid
prisoner in the darkened room.

They did not stay long, but when they went away Robert Browning trod on
air. The beautiful girl-like face, in its frame of dark curls, lying back
among the pillows, haunted him like a shadow. He was thirty-three, she was
thirty-five. She looked like a child, but the mind--the subtle,
appreciative, receptive mind! The mind that caught every allusion, that
knew his thought before he voiced it, that found nothing obscure in his
work, and that put a high and holy construction on his every sentence--it
was divine! divinity incarnated in a woman.

Robert Browning tramped the streets forgetful of meat, drink or rest.

He would give this woman freedom. He would devote himself to restoring her
to the air and sunshine. What nobler ambition! He was an idler, he had
never done anything for anybody. He was only a killer of time, a vagrant,
but now was his opportunity--he would do for this beautiful soul what no
one else on earth could do. She was slipping away as it was--the world
would soon lose her. Was there none to save?

Here was the finest intellect ever given to a woman--so sure, so vital, so
tender and yet so strong!

He would love her back to life and light!

And so Robert Browning told her all this shortly after, but before he
told, she had divined his thought. For solitude and loneliness and
heart-hunger had given her the power of an astral being; she was in
communication with all the finer forces that pervade our ether. He would
love her back to life and light--he told her so. She grew better.

And soon we find her getting up and throwing wide the shutters. It was no
longer the darkened room, for the sunlight came dancing through the
apartment, driving out all the dark shadows that lurked therein.

The doctor was indignant; the nurse resigned.

Of course, Mr. Barrett was not taken into confidence and no one asked his
consent. Why should they?--he was the man who could never understand.

So one fine day when the coast was clear, the couple went over to Saint
Marylebone Church and were married. The bride went home alone--could walk
all right now--and it was a week before her husband saw her, because he
would not be a hypocrite and go ring the doorbell and ask if Miss Barrett
was home; and of course if he had asked for Mrs. Robert Browning, no one
would have known whom he wanted to see.

But at the end of a week, the bride stole down the stairs, while the
family was at dinner, leading her dog Flush by a string, and all the time,
with throbbing heart, she prayed the dog not to bark. I have oft wondered
in the stilly night season what the effect on English Letters would have
been, had the dog really barked! But the dog did not bark; and Elizabeth
met her lover-husband there on the corner where the mail-box is. No one
missed the runaways until the next day, and then the bride and groom were
safely in France, writing letters back from Dieppe, asking forgiveness and
craving blessings.

       *       *       *       *       *

"She is the Genius and I am the Clever Person," Browning used to say. And
this I believe will be the world's final judgment.

Browning knew the world in its every phase--good and bad, high and low,
society and commerce, the shop and gypsy camp. He absorbed things,
assimilated them, compared and wrote it out.

Elizabeth Barrett had never traveled, her opportunities for meeting people
had been few, her experiences limited, and yet she evolved truth: she
secreted beauty from within.

For two years after their elopement they did not write--how could they?
goodness me! They were on their wedding-tour. They lived in Florence and
Rome and in various mountain villages in Italy.

Health came back, and joy and peace and perfect love were theirs. But it
was joy bought with a price--Elizabeth Barrett Browning had forfeited the
love of her father. Her letters written him came back unopened, books
inscribed to him were returned--he declared she was dead.

Her brothers, too, discarded her, and when her two sisters wrote, they did
so by stealth, and their letters, meant to be kind, were steel for her
heart. Then her father was rich; and she had always known every comfort
that money could buy. Now, she had taken up with a poor poet, and every
penny had to be counted--absolute economy was demanded.

And Robert Browning, with a certain sense of guilt upon him, for
depriving her of all the creature comforts she had known, sought by
tenderness and love to make her forget the insults her father heaped upon
her.

As for Browning, the bank-clerk, he was vexed that his son should show so
little caution as to load himself up with an invalid wife, and he cut off
the allowance, declaring that if a man was old enough to marry, he was
also old enough to care for himself. He did, however, make his son several
"loans"; and finally came to "bless the day that his son had sense enough
to marry the best and most talented woman on earth."

Browning's poems were selling slowly, and Mrs. Browning's books brought
her a little royalty, thanks to the loyal management of John Kenyon, and
so absolute want and biting poverty did not overtake the runaways.

After the birth of her son, in Eighteen Hundred Forty-nine, Mrs.
Browning's health seemed to have fully returned. She used to ride
horseback up and down the mountain passes, and wrote home to Miss Mitford
that love had turned the dial backward and the joyousness of girlhood had
come again to her.

When John Kenyon died and left them ten thousand pounds, all their own, it
placed them forever beyond the apprehension of want, and also enabled them
to do for others; for they pensioned old Walter Savage Landor, and
established him in comfortable quarters around the corner from Casa
Guidi.

I intimated a moment ago that their honeymoon continued for two years.
This was a mistake, for it continued for just fifteen years, when the
beautiful girl-like form, with her head of flowing curls upon her
husband's shoulder, ceased to breathe. Painlessly and without apprehension
or premonition, the spirit had taken its flight.

That letter of Miss Blagdon's, written some weeks after, telling of how
the stricken man paced the echoing hallways at night crying, "I want her!
I want her!" touches us like a great, strange sorrow that once pierced our
hearts.

But Robert Browning's nature was too strong to be subdued by grief. He
remembered that others, too, had buried their dead, and that sorrow had
been man's portion since the world began. He would live for his boy--for
Her child.

But Florence was no longer his Florence, and he made haste to settle up
his affairs and go back to England. He never returned to Florence, and
never saw the beautiful monument, designed by his lifelong friend,
Frederick Leighton.

When you visit the little English Cemetery at Florence, the slim little
girl that comes down the path, swinging the big bunch of keys, opens the
high iron gate and leads you, without word or question, straight to the
grave of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Browning was forty-nine when Mrs. Browning died.

And by the time he had reached his fiftieth meridian, England, harkening
to America's suggestion, was awakening to the fact that he was one of the
world's great poets.

Honors came slowly, but surely: Oxford with a degree; Saint Andrew's with
a Lord-Rectorship; publishers with advance payments. And when Smith and
Elder paid one hundred pounds for the poem of "Herve Riel," it seemed that
at last Browning's worth was being recognized. Not, of course, that money
is the infallible test, but even poetry has its Rialto, where the extent
of appreciation is shown by prices current.

Browning's best work was done after his wife's death; and in that love he
ever lived and breathed. In his seventy-fifth year, it filled his days and
dreams as though it were a thing of yesterday, singing in his heart a
perpetual eucharist.

"The Ring and the Book" must be regarded as Browning's crowning work.
Offhand critics have disposed of it, but the great minds go back to it
again and again. In the character of Pompilia the author sought to pay
tribute to the woman whose memory was ever in his mind; yet he was too
sensitive and shrinking to fully picture her. He sought to mask his
inspiration; but tender, loving recollections of "Ba" are interlaced and
interwoven through it all.

When Robert Browning died, in Eighteen Hundred Eighty-nine, the world of
literature and art uncovered in token of honor to one who had lived long
and well and had done a deathless work. And the doors of storied
Westminster opened wide to receive his dust.




ALFRED TENNYSON

    Not of the sunlight,
    Not of the moonlight,
    Nor of the starlight!
    O young Mariner,
    Down to the haven,
    Call your companions,
    Launch your vessel,
    And crowd your canvas,
    And ere it vanishes
    Over the margin,
    After it, follow it,
    Follow the Gleam.
                      --_Merlin_

[Illustration: ALFRED TENNYSON]


The grandfather of Tennyson had two sons, the elder boy, according to
Clement Scott, being "both wilful and commonplace." Now, of course, the
property and honors and titles, according to the law of England, would all
gravitate to the commonplace boy; and the second son, who was competent,
dutiful and worthy, would be out in the cold world--simply because he was
accidentally born second and not first. It was not his fault that he was
born second, and it was in no wise to the credit of the other that he was
born first.

So the father, seeing that the elder boy had small executive capacity, and
no appreciation of a Good Thing, disinherited him, giving him, however, a
generous allowance, but letting the titles go to the second boy, who was
bright and brave and withal a right manly fellow.

Personally, I'm glad the honors went to the best man. But Hallam Tennyson,
son of the poet, sees only rank injustice in the action of his ancestor,
who deliberately set his own opinion of right and justice against
precedent as embodied in English Law. As a matter of strictest justice, we
might argue that neither boy was entitled to anything which he had not
earned, and that, in dividing the property between them, instead of
allowing it all to drift into the hands of the one accidentally born
first, the father acted wisely and well.

But neither Alfred nor Hallam Tennyson thought so. How much their opinions
were biased by the fact that they were descendants of the firstborn son,
we can not say. Anyway, the descendants of the second son, the Honorable
Charles Tennyson d'Eyncourt, have made no protest of which I can learn,
about justice having been defeated.

Considering this subject of the Law of Entail one step further, we find
that Hallam, the present Lord Tennyson, is a Peer of the Realm simply
because his father was a great poet, and honors were given him on that
account by the Queen. These honors go to Hallam, who, as all men agree, is
in many ways singularly like his grandfather.

Genius is not hereditary, but titles are. Hallam is eminently pleased with
the English Law of Entail, save that he questions whether any father has
the divine right to divert his titles and wealth from the eldest son. Lord
Hallam's arguments are earnest and well expressed, but they seem to show
that he is lacking in what Herbert Spencer calls the "value sense"--in
other words, the sense of humor.

Hallam's lack of perspective is further demonstrated by his patient
efforts to explain who the various Tennysons were. In my boyhood days I
thought there was but one Tennyson. On reading Hallam's book, however,
one would think there were dozens of them. To keep these various men,
bearing one name, from being confused in the mind of the reader, is quite
a task; and to better identify one particular Tennyson, Hallam always
refers to him as "Father," or "My Father." In the course of a recent
interview with W.H. Seward, of Auburn, New York, I was impressed by his
dignified, respectful, and affectionate references to "Seward." "This
belonged to Seward," and "Seward told me"--as though there were but one.
In these pages I will speak of Tennyson--there has been but one--there
will never be another.

       *       *       *       *       *

I think Clement Scott is a little severe in his estimate of the character
of Tennyson's father, although the main facts are doubtless as he states
them. The Reverend George Clayton Tennyson, Rector of Somersby and Wood
Enderby parishes, was a typical English parson. As a boy he was simply
big, fat and lazy. His health was so perfect that it overtopped all
ambition, and having no nerves to speak of, his sensibilities were very
slight.

When he was disinherited in favor of his younger brother, a keen, nervous,
forceful fellow, he accepted it as a matter of course. His career was
planned for him: he "took orders," married the young woman his folks
selected, and slipped easily into his proper niche--his adipose serving as
a buffer for his feelings. In his intellect there was no flash, and his
insight into the heart of things was small.

Being happily married to a discreet woman who managed him without ever
letting him be aware of it, and having a sure and sufficient income, and
never knowing that he had a stomach, he did his clerical work (with the
help of a curate), and lived out the measure of his days, no wiser at the
last than he was at thirty.

In passing, we may call attention to the fact that the average man is a
victim of Arrested Development, and that the fleeting years bring an
increase of knowledge only in very exceptional cases. Health and
prosperity are not pure blessings--a certain element of discontent is
necessary to spur men on to a higher life.

The Reverend George Clayton Tennyson had income enough to meet his wants,
but not enough to embarrass him with the responsibility of taking care of
it. Each quarterly stipend was spent before it arrived, and the family
lived on credit until another three months rolled around. They had roast
beef as often as they wanted it; in the cellar were puncheons, kegs and
barrels, and as there was no rent to pay nor landlords to appease, care
sat lightly on the Rector.

Elizabeth, this man's wife, is worthy of more than a passing note. She was
the daughter of the Reverend Stephen Fytche, vicar of Louth. Her family
was not so high in rank as the Tennysons, because the Tennysons belonged
to the gentry. But she was intelligent, amiable, fairly good-looking, and
being the daughter of a clergyman, had beyond doubt a knowledge of
clerical needs; so it was thought she would make a good wife for the newly
appointed incumbent of Somersby.

The parents arranged it, the young folks were willing, and so they were
married--and the bridegroom was happy ever afterward.

And why shouldn't he have been happy? Surely no man was ever blessed with
a better wife! He had made a reach into the matrimonial grab-bag and drawn
forth a jewel. This jewel was many-faceted. Without affectation or silly
pride, the clergyman's wife did the work that God sent her to do. The
sense of duty was strong upon her. Babies came, once each two years, and
in one case two in one year, and there was careful planning required to
make the income reach, and to keep the household in order. Then she
visited the poor and sick of the parish, and received the many visitors.
And with it all she found time to read. Her mind was open and alert for
all good things. I am not sure that she was so very happy, but no
complaints escaped her. In all she bore twelve children--eight sons and
four daughters. Ten of these children lived to be over seventy-five years
of age. The fourth child that came to her they named Alfred.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tennyson's education in early youth was very slight. His father laid down
rules and gave out lessons, but the strictness of discipline never lasted
more than two days at a time. The children ran wild and roamed the woods
of Lincolnshire in search of all the curious things that the woods hold in
store for boys. The father occasionally made stern efforts to "correct"
his sons. In the use of the birch he was ambidextrous. But I have noticed
that in households where a strap hangs behind the kitchen-door, for ready
use, it is not utilized so much for pure discipline as to ease the
feelings of the parent. They say that expression is a need of the human
heart; and I am also convinced that in many hearts there is a very strong
desire at times to "thrash" some one. Who it is makes little difference,
but children being helpless and the law giving us the right, we find
gratification by falling upon them with straps, birch-rods, slippers,
ferules, hairbrushes or apple-tree sprouts.

No student of pedagogics now believes that the free use of the rod ever
made a child "good"; but all agree that it has often served as a
safety-valve for a pent-up emotion in the parent or teacher.

The father of Alfred Tennyson applied the birch, and the boy took to the
woods, moody, resentful, solitary. There was good in this, for the lad
learned to live within himself, and to be self-sufficient: to love the
solitude, and feel a kinship with all the life that makes the groves and
fields melodious.

In Eighteen Hundred Twenty-eight, when nineteen years of age, Alfred was
sent to Trinity College, Cambridge. He remained there three years, but
left without a degree, and what was worse, with the ill-will of his
teachers, who seemed to regard his as a hopeless case. He wouldn't study
the books they wanted him to, and was never a candidate for academic
distinctions.

College life, however, has much to recommend it beside the curriculum. At
Cambridge, Tennyson made the acquaintance of a group of young men who
influenced his life profoundly. Kemble, Milnes, Brookfield and Spedding
remained his lifelong friends; and as all good is reciprocal, no man can
say how much these eminent men owe to the moody and melancholy Tennyson,
or how much he owes to them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tennyson began to write verse very young. His first line is said to have
been written at five, and he has told of going when thirteen years of age
to visit his grandfather, and of presenting him a poem. The old gentleman
gave him half a guinea with the remark, "This is the first money you ever
made by writing poetry, and take my word for it, it will be the last!"
When eighteen years of age, with his brother, Charles, he produced a thin
book of thin verses.

We have the opinion of Coleridge to the effect that the only lines which
have any merit in the book are those signed C.T. Charles became a
clergyman of marked ability, married rich, and changed his name from
Tennyson to Turner for economic and domestic reasons. Years afterward,
when Alfred had become Poet Laureate, rumor has it he thought of changing
the "Turner" back to "Tennyson," but was unable to bring it about.

The only honor captured by Alfred at Cambridge was a prize for his poem,
"Timbuctoo." The encouragement that this brought him, backed up by Arthur
Hallam's declaiming the piece in public--as a sort of defi to
detractors--caused him to fix his attention more assiduously on verse. He
could write--it was the only thing he could do--and so he wrote.

At Cambridge he was in the habit of reading his poetry to a little coterie
called "The Apostles," and he always premised his reading with the
statement that no criticism would be acceptable.

The year he was twenty-one he published a small book called, "Poems,
Chiefly Lyrical." The books went a-begging for many years; but times
change, for a copy of this edition was sold by Quaritch in Eighteen
Hundred Ninety-five for one hundred eighty pounds. The only piece in the
book that seems to show genuine merit is "Mariana."

Two years afterward a second edition, revised and enlarged, was brought
out. This book contains "The Lady of Shalott," "The May Queen," "A Dream
of Fair Women" and "The Lotus-Eaters."

Beyond a few fulsome reviews from personal friends and a little surly
mention from the tribe of Jeffrey, the volume attracted little or no
attention. This coldness on the part of the public shot an atrabilarian
tint through the ambition of our poet, and the fond hope of a success in
literature faded from his mind.

And then began what Stopford Brooke has called "the ten fallow years in
the life of Tennyson." But fallow years are not all fallow. The dark
brooding night is as necessary for our life as the garish day. Great crops
of wheat that feed the nations grow only where the winter's snow covers
all as with a garment. And ever behind the mystery of sleep, and beneath
the silence of the snow, Nature slumbers not nor sleeps.

The withholding of quick recognition gave the mind of Tennyson an
opportunity to ripen. Fate held him in leash that he might be saved for a
masterly work, and all the time that he lived in semi-solitude and read
and thought and tramped the fields, his soul was growing strong and his
spirit was taking on the silken self-sufficient strength that marked his
later days. This hiatus of ten years in the life of our poet is very
similar to the thirteen fallow years in the career of Browning. These men
crossed and recrossed each other's pathway, but did not meet for many
years. What a help they might have been to each other in those years of
doubt and seeming defeat! But each was to make his way alone.

Browning seemed to grow through society and travel, but solitude served
the needs of Tennyson.

"There must be a man behind every sentence," said Emerson. After ten years
of silence, when Tennyson issued his book, the literary world recognized
the man behind it. Tennyson had grown as a writer, but more as a man. And
after all, it is more to be a man than a poet. All who knew Tennyson, and
have written of him, especially during those early years, begin with a
description of his appearance. His looks did not belie the man. In
intellect and in stature he was a giant. The tall, athletic form, the
great shaggy head, the classic features, and the look of untried strength
were all thrown into fine relief by the modesty, the half-embarrassment,
of his manner.

To meet the poet was to acknowledge his power. No man can talk as wise as
he can look, and Tennyson never tried to. His words were few and simple.

Those who met him went away ready to back his lightest word. They felt
there was a man behind the sentence.

Carlyle, who was a hero-worshiper, but who usually limited his worship to
those well dead and long gone hence, wrote of Tennyson to Emerson: "One of
the finest-looking men in the world. A great shock of dusky hair; bright,
laughing, hazel eyes; massive aquiline face, most massive, yet most
delicate; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian-looking, clothes
cynically loose, free and easy, smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is
musical, metallic, fit for loud laughter and piercing wail, and all that
may lie between; speech and speculation free and plenteous; I do not meet
in these late decades such company over a pipe! We shall see what he will
grow to."

And then again, writing to his brother John: "Some weeks ago, one night,
the poet Tennyson and Matthew Arnold were discovered here sitting smoking
in the garden. Tennyson had been here before, but was still new to
Jane--who was alone for the first hour or two of it. A fine,
large-featured, dim-eyed, bronze-colored, shaggy-headed man is Alfred;
dusty, smoky, free and easy; who swims outwardly and inwardly, with great
composure, in an articulate element as of tranquil chaos and
tobacco-smoke; great now and then when he does emerge; a most restful,
brotherly, solid-hearted man."

The "English Idylls," put forth in Eighteen Hundred Forty-two, contained
all the poems, heretofore published, that Tennyson cared to retain. It
must be stated to the credit, or discredit, of America, that the only
complete editions of Tennyson were issued by New York and Boston
publishers. These men seized upon the immature early poems of Tennyson,
and combining them with his later books, issued the whole in a style that
tried men's eyes--very proud of the fact that "this is the only complete
edition," etc. Of course they paid the author no royalty, neither did they
heed his protests, and possibly all this prepared the way for frosty
receptions of daughters of quick machine-made American millionaires, who
journeyed to the Isle of Wight in after-days. Soon after the publication
of "English Idylls," Alfred Tennyson moved gracefully, like a ship that is
safely launched, into the first place among living poets. He was then
thirty-three years of age, with just half a century, lacking a few months,
yet to live. In all that half-century, with its many conflicting literary
judgments, his title to first place was never seriously questioned. Up to
Eighteen Hundred Forty-two, in his various letters, and through his close
friends, we learn that Tennyson was sore pressed for funds. He hadn't
money to buy books, and when he traveled it was through the munificence of
some kind kinsman. He even excuses himself from attending certain social
functions on account of his lack of suitable raiment--probably with a
certain satisfaction.

But when he tells of his poverty to Emily Sellwood, the woman of his
choice, there is anguish in his cry. In fact, her parents succeeded in
breaking off her relations with Tennyson for a time, on account of his
very uncertain prospects. His brothers, even those younger than he, had
slipped into snug positions--"but Alfred dreams on with nothing special in
sight." Poetry, in way of a financial return, is not to be commended.
Honors were coming Tennyson's way as early as Eighteen Hundred Forty-two,
but it was not until Eighteen Hundred Forty-five, when a pension of two
hundred pounds a year was granted him by the Government, that he began to
feel easy. Even then there were various old scores to liquidate.

The year Eighteen Hundred Fifty, when he was forty-one, has been called
his "golden year," for in it occurred the publication of "In Memoriam,"
his appointment to the post of Poet Laureate, and his marriage.

Emily Sellwood had waited for him all these years. She had been sought
after, and had refused several good offers from eligible widowers and
others who pitied her sad plight and looked upon her as an old maid
forlorn. But she was true to her love for Alfred. Possibly she had not
been courted quite so assiduously as Tennyson's mother had been. When that
dear old lady was past eighty she became very deaf, and the family often
ventured to carry on conversations in her presence which possibly would
have been modified had the old lady been in full possession of her
faculties. On a day as she sat knitting in the chimney-corner, one of her
daughters in a burst of confidence to a visitor, said, "Why, before Mamma
married Papa she had received twenty-three offers of marriage!"

"Twenty-four, my dear--twenty-four," corrected the old lady as she shifted
the needles.

No one has ever claimed that Tennyson was an ideal lover. Surely he never
could have been tempted to do what Browning did--break up the peace of a
household by an elopement. His love was a thing of the head, weighed
carefully in the scales of his judgment. His caution and good sense saved
him from all Byronic excesses, or foolish alliances such as took Shelley
captive. He believed in law and order, and early saw that his interests
lay in that direction. He belonged to the Church of England, and doubtless
thought as he pleased, but ever expressed himself with caution.

It is easy to accuse Tennyson of being insular--to say that he is merely
"the poet of England." Had he been more he would have been less.
World-poets have usually been revolutionists, and dangerous men who
exploded at an unknown extent of concussion. None of them has been a safe
man--none respectable. Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Hugo and Whitman were
outcasts.

Tennyson is always serene, sane and safe--his lines breathe purity and
excellence. He is the poet of religion, of the home and fireside, of
established order, of truth, justice and mercy as embodied in law.

Very early he became a close personal friend of Queen Victoria, and many
of his lines ministered to her personal consolation. For fifty years
Tennyson's life was one steady, triumphal march. He acquired wealth, such
as no other English poet before him had ever gained; his name was known in
every corner of the earth where white men journeyed, and at home he was
beloved and honored. He died October Sixth, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-two,
aged eighty-three, and for him the Nation mourned, and with deep sincerity
the Queen spoke of his demise as a poignant, personal sorrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was at Cambridge he met Arthur Hallam--Arthur Hallam, immortal and
remembered alone for being the comrade and friend of Tennyson.

Alfred took his friend Arthur to his home in Lincolnshire one vacation,
and we know how Arthur became enamored of Tennyson's sister Emily, and
they were betrothed. Together, Tennyson and Hallam made a trip through
France and the Pyrenees.

Carlyle and Milburn, the blind preacher, once sat smoking in the little
arbor back of the house in Cheyne Row. They had been talking of Tennyson,
and after a long silence Carlyle knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and
with a grunt said: "Ha! Death is a great blessing--the joyousest blessing
of all! Without death there would ha' been no 'In Memoriam,' no Hallam,
and like enough no Tennyson!" It is futile to figure what would have
occurred had this or that not happened, since every act of life is a
sequence. But that Carlyle and many others believed that the death of
Hallam was the making of Tennyson, there is no doubt. Possibly his soul
needed just this particular amount of bruising in order to make it burst
into undying song--who knows! When Charles Kingsley was asked for the
secret of his exquisite sympathy and fine imagination, he paused a space,
and then answered--"I had a friend." The desire for friendship is strong
in every human heart. We crave the companionship of those who can
understand. The nostalgia of life presses, we sigh for "home," and long
for the presence of one who sympathizes with our aspirations, comprehends
our hopes and is able to partake of our joys. A thought is not our own
until we impart it to another, and the confessional seems a crying need of
every human soul.

One can bear grief, but it takes two to be glad.

We reach the Divine through some one, and by dividing our joy with this
one we double it, and come in touch with the Universal. The sky is never
so blue, the birds never sing so blithely, our acquaintances are never so
gracious, as when we are filled with love for some one.

Being in harmony with one we are in harmony with all.

The lover idealizes and clothes the beloved with virtues that exist only
in his imagination. The beloved is consciously or unconsciously aware of
this, and endeavors to fulfil the high ideal; and in the contemplation of
the transcendent qualities that his mind has created, the lover is raised
to heights otherwise unattainable.

Should the beloved pass from the earth while this condition of exaltation
endures, the conception is indelibly impressed upon the soul, just as the
last earthly view is said to be photographed upon the retina of the dead.
The highest earthly relationship is, in its very essence, fleeting, for
men are fallible, and living in a world where material wants jostle, and
time and change play their ceaseless parts, gradual obliteration comes
and disillusion enters. But the memory of a sweet affinity once fully
possessed, and snapped by Fate at its supremest moment, can never die from
out the heart. All other troubles are swallowed up in this, and if the
individual is of too stern a fiber to be completely crushed into the dust,
time will come bearing healing, and the memory of that once ideal
condition will chant in the heart a perpetual eucharist.

And I hope the world has passed forever from the nightmare of pity for the
dead: they have ceased from their labors and are at rest.

But for the living, when death has entered and removed the best friend,
Fate has done her worst; the plummet has sounded the depths of grief, and
thereafter nothing can inspire terror. At one fell stroke all petty
annoyances and corroding cares are sunk into nothingness. The memory of a
great love lives enshrined in undying amber. It affords a ballast 'gainst
all the storms that blow, and although it lends an unutterable sadness, it
imparts an unspeakable peace. Where there is this haunting memory of a
great love lost, there are always forgiveness, charity and a sympathy that
makes the man brother to all who suffer and endure. The individual himself
is nothing: he has nothing to hope for, nothing to lose, nothing to win,
and this constant memory of the high and exalted friendship that once was
his is a nourishing source of strength; it constantly purifies the mind
and inspires the heart to nobler living and diviner thinking. The man is
in communication with Elemental Conditions.

To know an ideal friendship and to have it fade from your grasp and flee
as a shadow before it is touched with the sordid breath of selfishness, or
sullied by misunderstandings, is the highest good. And the constant
dwelling in sweet, sad recollection on the exalted virtues of the one that
has gone, tends to crystallize these very virtues in the heart of him who
meditates them. The beauty with which love adorns its object becomes at
last the possession of the one who loves.

At the hour when the strong and helpful, yet tender and sympathetic,
friendship of Alfred Tennyson and Arthur Hallam was at its height, there
came a brief and abrupt word from Vienna to the effect that Arthur was
dead.

    "In Vienna's fatal walls
    God's finger touched him and he slept!"

The shock of surprise, followed by dumb, bitter grief, made an impression
on the youthful mind of Tennyson that the sixty years which followed did
not obliterate.

At first a numbness and a deadness came over his spirit, but this
condition erelong gave way to a sweet contemplation of the beauties of
character that his friend possessed, and he tenderly reviewed the gracious
hours they had spent together.

"In Memoriam" is not one poem; it is made up of many "short
swallow-flights of song that dip their wings in tears and skim away."
There are one hundred thirty separate songs in all, held together by the
silken thread of love for the poet's lost friend.

Seventeen years were required for their evolution. Some people, misled by
the title, possibly, think of these poems as a wail of grief for the dead,
a vain cry of sorrow for the lost, or a proud parading of mourning
millinery. Such views could not be more wholly wrong.

To every soul that has loved and lost, to those who have stood by open
graves, to all who have beheld the sun go down on less worth in the world,
these songs are a victor's cry. They tell of love and life that rise
phoenix-like from the ashes of despair; of doubt turned to faith; of fear
which has become serenest peace.

All poems that endure must have this helpful, uplifting quality. Without
violence of direction they must be beacon-lights that gently guide
stricken men and women into safe harbors.

The "Invocation," written nearly a score of years after Hallam's death,
reveals Tennyson's personal conquest of pain. His thought has broadened
from the sense of loss into a stately march of conquest over death for the
whole human race. The sharpness of grief has wakened the soul to the
contemplation of sublime ideas--truth, justice, nobility, honor, and the
sense of beauty as shown in all created things. The man once loved a
person--now his heart goes out to the universe. The dread of death is
gone, and he calmly contemplates his own end and waits the summons without
either impatience or fear. He realizes that death itself is a
manifestation of life--that it is as natural and just as necessary.

    "Sunset and evening star
       And one clear call for me,
     And may there be no moaning of the bar
       When I put out to sea."

The desire for sympathy and the wish for friendship are in his heart, but
the fever of unrest and the spirit of revolt are gone. His heart, his
hope, his faith, his life, are freely laid on the altar of Eternal Love.




ROBERT BURNS

              TO JEANNIE

    Come, let me take thee to my breast,
      And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
    And I shall spurn, as vilest dust,
      The warld's wealth and grandeur.

    And do I hear my Jeannie own
      That equal transports move her?
    I ask for dearest life, alone,
      That I may live to love her.

    Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
      I clasp my countless treasure;
    I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share
      Than sic a moment's pleasure.

    And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
      I swear I'm thine for ever:
    And on thy lips I seal my vow,
      And break it shall I never.
                              --_Robert Burns_

[Illustration: ROBERT BURNS]


The business of Robert Burns was love-making.

All love is good, but some kinds of love are better than others. Through
Burns' penchant for falling in love we have his songs. A Burns
bibliography is simply a record of his love-affairs, and the spasms of
repentance that followed his lapses are made manifest in religious verse.

Poetry is the very earliest form of literature, and is the natural
expression of a person in love; and I suppose we might as well admit the
fact at once that without love there would be no poetry.

Poetry is the bill and coo of sex. All poets are lovers, and all lovers,
either actual or potential, are poets. Potential poets are the people who
read poetry; and so without lovers the poet would never have a market for
his wares.

If you have ceased to be moved by religious emotion; if your spirit is no
longer exalted by music, and you do not linger over certain lines of
poetry, it is because the love-instinct in your heart has withered to
ashes of roses. It is idle to imagine Bobby Burns as a staid member of the
Kirk; had he been so, there would now be no Bobby Burns. The literary
ebullition of Robert Burns (he himself has told us) began shortly after he
had reached the age of indiscretion; and the occasion was his being
paired in the hayfield, according to the Scottish custom, with a bonnie
lassie. This custom of pairing still endures, and is what the students of
sociology call an expeditious move. The Scotch are great economists--the
greatest in the world. Adam Smith, the father of the science of economics,
was a Scotchman; and Draper, author of "A History of Civilization," flatly
declares that Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations" has influenced the people
of Earth for good more than any other book ever written--save none.

The Scotch are great conservators of energy.

The practise of pairing men and women in the hayfield gets the work done.
One man and one woman going down the grass-grown path afield might linger
and dally by the way. They would never make hay, but a company of a dozen
or more men and women would not only reach the field, but do a lot of
work. In Scotland the hay-harvest is short--when the grass is in bloom,
just right to make the best hay, it must be cut. And so the men and women,
the girls and boys, sally forth. It is a jolly picnic-time, looked forward
to with fond anticipation, and after recalled with sweet, sad memories, or
otherwise, as the case may be.

But they all make hay while the sun shines, and count it joy. Liberties
are allowed during haying-time that otherwise would be declared
scandalous; during haying-time the Kirk waives her censor's right, and
priest and people mingle joyously. Wives are not jealous during
hay-harvest, and husbands never faultfinding, because they each get even
by allowing a mutual license. In Scotland during haying-time every married
man works alongside of some other man's wife. To the psychologist it is
somewhat curious how the desire for propriety is overridden by a stronger
desire--the desire for the shilling. The Scotch farmer says, "Anything to
get the hay in"--and by loosening a bit the strict bands of social custom,
the hay is harvested.

In the hay-harvest the law of natural selection holds; partners are often
arranged for weeks in advance; and trysts continue year after year. Old
lovers meet, touch hands in friendly scuffle for a fork, drink from the
same jug, recline at noon and eat lunch in the shade of a friendly stack,
and talk to heart's content, sweetening the labor of the long summer day.

Of course this joyousness of the haying-time is not wholly monopolized by
the Scotch. Haven't you seen the jolly haying parties in Southern Germany,
France, Switzerland and the Tyrol? How the bright costumes of the men and
the jaunty attire of the women gleam in the glad sunshine!

But the practise of pairing is carried to a degree of perfection in
Scotland that I have not noticed elsewhere. Surely it is a great economic
scheme! It is like that invention of a Connecticut man, which utilizes the
ebb and flow of the ocean-tides to turn a gristmill.

And it seems queer that no one has ever attempted to utilize the waste of
dynamic force involved in the maintenance of the Company Sofa.

In Ayrshire, I have started out with a haying party of twenty--ten men and
ten women--at six o'clock in the morning and worked until six at night. I
never worked so hard, nor did so much. All day long there was a fire of
jokes and jolly gibes, interspersed with song, while beneath all ran a
gentle hum of confidential interchange of thought. The man who owned the
field was there to direct our efforts and urge us on in well-doing by
merry raillery, threat, and joyous rivalry.

The point I make is this--we did the work. Take heed, ye Captains of
Industry, and note this truth, that where men and women work together
under right influences, much good is accomplished, and the work is
pleasurable. Of course there are vinegar-faced philosophers who say that
the Scotch custom of pairing young men and maidens in the hayfield is not
without its effect on esoterics, also on vital statistics; and I'm willing
to admit there may be danger in the scheme. But life is a dangerous
business anyway--few indeed get out of it alive!

       *       *       *       *       *

Burns succeeded in his love-making and succeeded in poetry, but at
everything else he was a failure. He failed as a farmer, a father, a
friend, in society, as a husband, and in business.

From his twenty-third year his days were passed in sinning and repenting.

Poetry and love-making should be carried on with caution: they form a
terrific tax on life's forces. Most poets die young, not because the gods
especially love them, but because life is a bank-account, and to wipe out
your balance is to have your checks protested. The excesses of youth are
drafts payable at maturity. Chatterton dead at eighteen, Keats at
twenty-six, Shelley at thirty-three, Byron at thirty-six, Poe at forty,
and Burns at thirty-seven, are the rule. When drafts made by the men
mentioned became due, there was no balance to their credit and Charon
beckoned.

Most life-insurance companies now ask the applicant this question, "Do you
write poetry to excess?" Shakespeare, to be sure, clung to life until he
was fifty-three, but this seems to be the limit. Dickens and Thackeray,
their candles well burned out, also died under sixty. Of course, I know
that Browning, Tennyson, Morris and Bryant lived to a fair old age, but
this was on borrowed time, for in the early life of each there was a
hiatus of from ten to eighteen years, when the men never wrote a line, nor
touched a drop of anything, bravely eschewing all honey from Hymettus.
Then the four men last named were all happily married, and married life is
favorable to longevity, but not to poetry. As a rule only single men, or
those unhappily mated, make love and write poetry. Men happily married
make money, cultivate content, and evolve an aldermanic front; but love
and poetry are symptoms of unrest. Thus is Emerson's proposition partially
proven, that in life all things are bought and must be paid for with a
price--even success and happiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Burns once explained to Doctor Moore that the first fine, careless rapture
of his song was awakened into being when he was sixteen years old, by "a
bonnie sweet sonsie lass" whom we now know as "Handsome Nell." Her other
name to us is vapor, and history is silent as to her life-pilgrimage.
Whether she lived to realize that she had first given voice to one of the
great singers of earth--of this we are also ignorant. She was one year
younger than Burns, and little more than a child when she and Bobby lagged
behind the troop of tired haymakers, and walked home, hand in hand, in the
gloaming. Here is one of the stanzas addressed to "Handsome Nell":

    "She dresses all so clean and neat,
    Both decent and genteel,
    And then there's something in her gait
    Makes any dress look weel."

And how could Nell then ever guess why her cheeks burned scarlet, and why
she was so sorry when haying-time was over? She was sweet, innocent,
artless, and their love was very natural, tender, innocent. It's a pity
that all loves can not remain in just that idyllic, milkmaid stage, where
the girls and boys awaken in the early morning with the birds, and hasten
forth barefoot across the dewy fields to find the cows. But love never
tarries. Love is progressive; it can not stand still. I have heard of the
"passiveness" of woman's love, but the passive woman is only one who does
not love--she merely consents to have affection lavished upon her. When I
hear of a passive woman, I always think of the befuddled sailor who once
saw one of those dummy dress-frames, all duly clothed in flaming bombazine
(I think it was bombazine) in front of a clothing establishment. The
sailor, mistaking the dummy for a near and dear lady friend, embraced the
wire apparatus and imprinted a resounding smack on the chaste
plaster-of-Paris cheek. Meeting the sure-enough lady shortly after, he
upbraided her for her cold passivity on the occasion named.

A passive woman--one who consents to be loved--should seek occupation
among those worthy firms who warrant a fit in ready-made gowns, or money
refunded.

Love is progressive--it hastens onward like the brook hurrying to the sea.
They say that love is blind: love may be short-sighted, or inclined to
strabismus, or may see things out of their true proportion, magnifying
pleasant little ways into seraphic virtues, but love is not really
blind--the bandage is never so tight but that it can peep. The only kind
of love that is really blind and deaf is Platonic love. Platonic love
hasn't the slightest idea where it is going, and so there are surprises
and shocks in store for it. The other kind, with eyes wide open, is
better. I know a man who has tried both. Love is progressive. All things
that live should progress. To stand still is to retreat, and to retreat
is death. Love dies, of course. All things die, or become something else.
And often they become something else by dying. Behold the eternal Paradox!
The love that evolves into a higher form is the better kind. Nature is
intent on evolution, yet of the myriads of spores that cover earth, most
of them are doomed to death; and of the countless rays sent out by the
sun, the number that fall athwart this planet are infinitesimal. Edward
Carpenter calls attention to the fact that disappointed love--that is,
love that is "lost"--often affects the individual for the highest good.
But the real fact is, nothing is ever lost. Love in its essence is a
spiritual emotion, and its office seems to be an interchange of thought
and feeling; but often thwarted in its object, it becomes general,
transforms itself into sympathy, and embracing a world, goes out to and
blesses all mankind.

Very, very rare is the couple that has the sense and poise to allow
passion just enough mulberry-leaves, so it will spin a beautiful silken
thread, out of which a Jacob's ladder can be constructed, reaching to the
Infinite. Most lovers in the end wear love to a fringe, and there remains
no ladder with angels ascending and descending--not even a dream of a
ladder. Instead of the silken ladder on which one can mount to Heaven,
there is usually a dark, dank road to Nowhere, over which is thrown a
package of letters and trinkets, all fastened round with a white ribbon,
tied in a lover's knot. The many loves of Robert Burns all ended in a
black jumping-off place, and before he had reached high noon, he tossed
over the last bundle of white-ribboned missives and tumbled in after them.
The life of Burns is a tragedy, through which are interspersed sparkling
scenes of gaiety, as if to retrieve the depth of bitterness that would
otherwise be unbearable. Go ask Mary Morison, Highland Mary, Agnes
McLehose, Betty Alison, and Jean Armour!

       *       *       *       *       *

The poems of Robert Burns fall easily into four divisions.

First, those written while he was warmly wooing the object of his
affection.

Second, those written after he had won her.

Third, those written when he had failed to win her.

Fourth, those written when he felt it his duty to write, and really had
nothing to say.

The first-named were written because he could not help it, and are, for
the most part, rarely excellent. They are joyous, rapturous, sprightly,
dancing, and filled with references to sky, clouds, trees, fruit, grain,
birds and flowers. Birds and flowers, by the way, are peculiarly lovers'
properties. The song and the plumage of birds, and the color and perfume
of flowers are all distinctly sex manifestations. Robert Burns sang his
songs just as the bird wings and sings, and for the same reason. Sex holds
first place in the thought of Nature; and sex in the minds of men and
women holds a much larger place than most of us are willing to admit. All
religious emotion and all art are born of the sex instinct.

Burns' poems of the second variety, written after he had won her, are
touched with religious emotion, or filled with vain regret and deep
remorse, as the case may be, all owing to the quality and kind of success
achieved, and the influence of the Dog-Star.

Burns wrote several deeply religious poems. Now, men are very seldom
really religious and contrite, except after an excess. Following a
debauch a man signs the pledge, vows chastity, writes fervently of
asceticism and the need of living in the spirit and not in the senses.
Good pictures show best on a dark back-ground. Men talk most about things
they do not possess.

"The Cotter's Saturday Night," perhaps the most quoted of any of Burns'
poems, is plainly the result of a terrible tip to t' other side. Bobby had
gone so far in the direction of Venusburg that he resolved on getting
back, and living thereafter a staid and proper life.

In order to reform you must have an ideal, and the ideal of Burns, on the
occasion of having exhausted all capacity for sin, is embodied in the
"Saturday Night." It is all a beautiful dream. The real Scottish cotter is
quite another kind of person. The religion of the live cotter is well
seasoned with fear, malevolence and absurd dogmatism. The amount of love,
patience, excellence and priggishness shown in "The Cotter's Saturday
Night" never existed, except in a poet's imagination. In stanza Number Ten
of that particular poem is a bit of unconscious autobiography that might
as well ha' been omitted; but in letting it stand, Burns was loyal to the
thought that surged through his brain.

People who are not scientific in their speech often speak of the birds as
being happy. My opinion is that birds are not any more happy than
men--probably not as much so. Many birds, like the English sparrow and the
blue jay, quarrel all day long. Come to think of it, I believe that man
is happier than the birds. He has a sense of remorse, and this suggests
reformation, and from the idea of reformation comes the picturing of an
ideal. This exercise of the imagination is pleasure, for indeed there is a
certain satisfaction in every form of exercise of the faculties. There is
a certain pleasure in pain: for pain is never all pain. And sin surely is
not wholly bad, if through it we pass into a higher life--the life of the
spirit.

Anything is better than the Dead Sea of neutral nothingness, wherein a man
merely avoids sin by doing nothing and being nothing. The stirring of the
imagination by sorrow for sin, sometimes causes the soul to wing a
far-reaching upward flight.

Asceticism is often only a form of sensuality: the man finds satisfaction
in overcoming the flesh. And wherever you find asceticism you find
potential passion--a smoldering volcano held in check by a devotion to
duty; and a gratification is oft found in fidelity.

The moral and religious poems of Burns were written in a desire to work
off a fit of depression, and make amends for folly. They are sincere and
often very excellent. Great preachers have often been great sinners, and
the sermons that have moved men most are often a direct recoil from sin on
the part of the preacher. Remorse finds play in preaching repentance. When
a man talks much about a virtue, be sure that he is clutching for it.
Temperance fanatics are men with a taste for strong drink, trying hard to
keep sober. The moral and religious poems of Robert Burns are not equal to
his love-songs. The love-songs are free, natural, untrammeled and
unrestrained; while his religious poems have a vein of rotten warp running
through them in the way of affectation and pretense. From this I infer
that sin is natural, and remorse partially so. In Burns' moral poems the
author tries to win back the favor of respectable people, which he had
forfeited. In them there is a violence of direction; and all violence of
direction--all endeavors to please and placate certain people--is fatal to
an artist. You must work to please only yourself.

Work to please yourself and you develop and strengthen the artistic
conscience. Cling to that and it shall be your mentor in times of doubt:
you need no other. There are writers who would scorn to write a muddy
line, and would hate themselves for a year and a day should they dilute
their honest thought with the platitudes of the fear-ridden. Be yourself
and speak your mind today, though it contradict all you have said before.
And above all, in art, work to please yourself--that Other Self that
stands over and behind you, looking over your shoulder, watching your
every act, word and deed--knowing your every thought. Michelangelo would
not paint a picture on order. "I have a critic who is more exacting than
you," said Meissonier--"it is my Other Self."

Rosa Bonheur painted pictures just to please her Other Self, and never
gave a thought to any one else, nor wanted to think of any one else, and
having painted to please herself, she made her appeal to the great Common
Heart of humanity--the tender, the noble, the receptive, the earnest, the
sympathetic, the lovable. That is why Rosa Bonheur stands first among
women artists of all time: she worked to please her Other Self.

That is the reason Rembrandt, who lived at the same time Shakespeare
lived, is today without a rival in portraiture. He had the courage to make
an enemy. When at work he never thought of any one but his Other Self, and
so he infused soul into every canvas. The limpid eyes look down into yours
from the walls and tell of love, pity, earnestness and deep sincerity.
Man, like Deity, creates in his own image, and when he portrays some one
else, he pictures himself, too--this provided his work is Art. If it is
but an imitation of something seen somewhere, or done by some one else, to
please a patron with money, no breath of life has been breathed into its
nostrils, and it is nothing, save possibly dead perfection--no more.

Is it easy to please your Other Self? Try it for a day. Begin tomorrow
morning and say: "This day I will live as becomes a man. I will be filled
with good-cheer and courage. I will do what is right; I will work for the
highest; I will put soul into every hand-grasp, every smile, every
expression--into all my work. I will live to satisfy my Other Self."

Do you think it is easy? Try it for a day.

Robert Burns wrote some deathless lines--lines written out of the
freshness of his heart, simply to please himself, with no furtive eye on
Dumfries, Edinburgh, the Kirk, or the Unco Guid of Ayrshire; and these are
the lines that have given him his place in the world of letters.

The other day I was made glad by finding that John Burroughs, Poet and
Prophet, says that the male thrush sings to please himself, out of pure
delight; and pleasing himself, he pleases his mate. "The female," says
Burroughs, "is always pleased with a male that is pleased with himself."

The various controversial poems (granting for argument's sake that
controversy is poetic) were written when Burns was smarting under the
sense of defeat. These show a sharp insight into the heart of things, and
a lively wit, but are not sufficient foundation on which to build a
reputation. Ali Baba can do as well. Considering the fact that twice as
many people make pilgrimages to the grave of Burns as visit the dust of
Shakespeare, and that his poems are on the shelves of every library, his
name now needs no defense. The ores are very seldom found pure, and if
even the work of Deity is composite, why should we be surprised that man,
His creature, should express himself in a varying scale of excellence!

       *       *       *       *       *

There was nothing of Jack Falstaff about Francis Schlatter, whose whitened
bones were found amid the alkali dust of the desert, a few years ago--dead
in an endeavor to do without meat and drink for forty days.

Schlatter purported, and believed, that he was the reincarnation of the
Messiah. Letters were sent to him, addressed simply, "Jesus Christ,
Denver, Colorado," and he walked up to the General-Delivery window and
asked for them with a confidence, we are told, that relieved the
postmaster of a grave responsibility.

Schlatter was no mere ordinary pretender, working on the superstitions of
shallow-pated people. He lived up to his belief--took no money, avoided
notoriety when he could; and the proof of his sincerity lies in the fact
that he died a victim to it.

Herbert Spencer has said all about the Messianic Instinct that there is to
say, save this--the Messianic Instinct first had its germ in the heart of
a woman. Every woman dreams of the coming of the Ideal Man--the man who
will give her protection, even to giving up his life for her, and
vouchsafe peace to her soul. I am told by a noted Bishop of the Catholic
Church that many women who become nuns are prompted to take their vows
solely through the occasion of an unrequited love. They become the bride
of the Church and find their highest joy in following the will of Christ.
He is their only Spouse and Master.

The terms of endearment one hears at prayer-meetings, "Blessed Jesus,"
"Dear Jesus," "Loving Jesus," "Elder Brother," "Patient, gentle Jesus,"
etc., were first used by women in an ecstasy of religious transport. And
the thought of Jesus as a loving, "personal Savior," would die from the
face of the earth did not women keep it alive. The religious nature and
the sex nature are closely akin: no psychologist can tell where the one
ends and the other begins.

There may be wooden women in the world, and of these I will not speak, but
every strong, pulsing, feeling, thinking woman goes through life, seeking
the Ideal Man. Whether she is married or single, rich or poor, old or
young, every new man she meets is interesting to her, because she feels in
some mysterious way that possibly he is the One.

Of course, I know that every good man, too, seeks the Ideal Woman--but
that deserves another chapter.

The only woman in whose heart there is not the live, warm, Messianic
Instinct is the wooden woman, and the one who believes she has already
found him. But this latter is holding an illusion that soon vanishes with
possession.

That pale, low-voiced, gentle and insane man, Francis Schlatter, was
followed at times by troops of women. These women believed in him and
loved him--in different ways, of course, and with passion varying
according to temperament and the domestic environment already existing.
To love deeply is a matter of propinquity and opportunity.

One woman, whom "The Healer" had cured of a lingering disease, loved this
man with a wild, mad, absorbing passion. Chance gave her the opportunity.
He came to her house, cold, hungry, homeless, sick. She fed him, warmed
him, looked into his liquid eyes, sat at his feet and listened to his
voice. She loved him--and partook of his every mental delusion.

This woman now waits and watches in her mountain home for his return. She
knows the coyotes and buzzards picked the scant flesh from his starved
frame, but she says: "He promised he would come back to me, and he will. I
am waiting for him here."

This woman writes me long letters from her solitude, telling me of her
hopes and plans. Just why all the cranks in the United States should write
me letters, I do not know, but they do--perhaps there is a sort o'
fellow-feeling. This woman may write letters to others, just as she does
to me. Of this I do not know, but surely I would not thus make public the
heart-tragedy told me in a private letter, were it not that the woman
herself has printed a pamphlet, setting forth her faith and veiling only
those things into which it is not our right to pry.

This Mary Magdalene believes her lover was the Chosen Son of God, and that
the Father will reclothe the Son in a new garment of flesh and send him
back to his beloved. So she watches and waits, and dresses herself to
receive him, and at night places a lighted lantern in the window to guide
the way.

She watches and waits.

Other women wait for footsteps that will never come, and listen for a
voice that will never be heard. All round the world there is a sisterhood
of such. Some, being wise, lose themselves in loving service to others--in
useful work. But this woman, out in the wilds of New Mexico, hugs her
sorrow to her heart, and feeds her passion by recounting it, and watches
away the leaden hours, crying aloud to all who will listen: "He is not
dead--he is not dead! he will come back to me! He promised it--he will
come back to me! This long, dreary waiting is only a test of my loyalty
and love! I will be patient, for he will come back to me! He will come
back to me!"

This world would be a sorry place if most men conducted their lives on the
Robert Burns plan. Burns was affectionate, tender, generous and kind; but
he was not wise. He never saw the future, nor did he know that life is a
sequence, and that if you do this, it is pretty sure to lead to that. His
loves were largely of the earth.

Excess was a part of his wayward, undisciplined nature; and that constant
tendency to put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brains, bound him
at last, hand and foot. His old age could never have been frosty, but
kindly--it would have been babbling, irritable, senile, sickening. Death
was kind and reaped him young. Sex was the rock on which Robert Burns
split. He seemed to regard pleasure-seeking as the prime end of life, and
in this he was not so very far removed from the prevalent "civilized"
society notion of marriage. But it is a phantasmal idea, and makes a mock
of marriage, serving the satirist his excuse.

To a great degree the race is yet barbaric, and as a people we fail
utterly to touch the hem of the garment of Divinity. We have been mired in
the superstition that sex is unclean, and therefore honesty and free
expression in love matters have been tabued.

But the day will yet dawn when we will see that it takes two to generate
thought; that there is the male man and the female man, and only where
these two walk together hand in hand is there a perfect sanity and a
perfect physical, moral and spiritual health.

We reach infinity through the love of one, and loving this one, we are in
love with all. And this condition of mutual sympathy, trust, reverence,
forbearance and gentleness that can exist between a man and a woman, gives
the only hint of Heaven that mortals ever know. From the love of man for
woman we guess the love of God, just as the scientist from a single bone
constructs the skeleton--aye! and then clothes it with a complete garment.

In their love-affairs women are seldom wise, or men just. How should we
expect them to be when but yesterday woman was a chattel and man a
slave-owner? Woman won by diplomacy--that is to say, by trickery and
untruth, and man had his way through force, and neither is quite willing
to disarm. An amalgamated personality is the rare exception, because
neither Church, State nor Society yet fully recognizes the fact that
spiritual comradeship and the marriage of the mind constitute the only
Divine mating. Doctor Blacklock once said that Robert Burns had eyes like
the Christ. Women who looked into those wide-open, generous orbs lost
their hearts in the liquid depths.

In the natures of Robert Burns and Francis Schlatter there was little in
common; but their experiences were alike in this: they were beloved by
women. Behind him Burns left a train of weeping women--a trail of broken
hearts. And I can never think of him except as a mere youth--"Bobby
Burns"--one who never came into man's estate. In all his love-making he
never seemed really to benefit any woman, nor did he avail himself of the
many mental and spiritual excellencies of woman's nature, absorbing them
into his own. He only played a devil's tattoo upon her emotions.

If Burns knew anything of the beauty and inspiration of a high and holy
friendship between a thinking man and a thinking woman, with mutual aims,
ideals and ambitions, he never disclosed it. The love of a man for a maid,
or a maid for a man, can never last, unless these two mutually love a
third something. Then, as they are traveling the same way, they may move
forward hand in hand, mutually sustained. The marriage of the mind is the
only compact that endures. I love you because you love the things that I
love. That man alone is great who utilizes the blessings that God
provides; and of these blessings no gift equals the gentle, trusting
companionship of a good woman.

So, having written thus far, I find that already I have reached the limit
of my allotted space.

In closing, it may not be amiss for me to state that Robert Burns was an
Irish poet whose parents happened to be Scotch. He was born in Ayrshire in
Seventeen Hundred Fifty-nine. He died in Seventeen Hundred Ninety-six, and
was buried at Dumfries by the "gentleman volunteers," in spite of his last
solemn words--"Don't let the Awkward Squad fire over my grave!"

His mother survived him thirty-eight years, passing out in Eighteen
Hundred Thirty-four. Burns left four sons, each of whom was often pointed
out as the son of his father--but none of them was.

This is all I think of, at present, concerning Robert Burns.

For further facts I must refer the Gentle Reader to the "Encyclopedia
Britannica," a compilation that I cheerfully recommend, it having been
vouched for to me by a dear friend, a clergyman of East Aurora, who, the
past year, perused the entire work, from A to Z, reading five hours a day:
and therefore is competent to speak.




JOHN MILTON

          Thus with the year
    Seasons return; but not to me returns
    Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
    Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
    Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
    But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
    Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men
    Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
    Presented with a universal blank
    Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased,
    And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
    So much the rather thou, Celestial Light,
    Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
    Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence
    Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
    Of things invisible to mortal sight.
                                      --_Paradise Lost: Book III_

[Illustration: JOHN MILTON]


Shakespeare and Milton lived at the same time, though the difference in
their ages was such that we may not speak of them as contemporaries. John
Milton was eight years old when William Shakespeare died. The Miltons
lived in Bread Street, and out of the back garret-window of their house
could catch a glimpse of the Globe Theater.

The father of John Milton might have known Shakespeare--might have dined
with him at the "Mermaid," played skittles with him on Hampstead Heath,
fished with him from the same boat in the river at Richmond; and then John
Milton, the lawyer, might have discreetly schemed for passes to the
"Globe" and gone with his boy John, Junior, to see "As You Like It"
played, with the Master himself in the role of old Adam.

Bread Street was just off Cheapside, where the Mermaid Tavern stood, and
where Beaumont, Fletcher, Ben Jonson and other roysterers often lingered
and made the midnight echo with their mirth. In all probability, John
Milton, Senior, father of John Milton, Junior, knew Shakespeare well. But
the Miltons owned their home; were rich, influential, eminently
respectable; attended Saint Giles' Church, and really didn't care to
cultivate the society of play-actors who kept bad hours, slept in the
theater, and had meal-tickets at half a dozen taverns.

There were six children born into the Milton family, three of whom died in
infancy. Of the survivors, the eldest was Anne, the second John, the third
Christopher.

Anne was strong, robust and hearty; John was slender, pale, with dreamy,
dark gray eyes and a head too big for his body; Christopher was so-so.
And, in passing, it is well to explain, once for all, that Christopher
made his way straight to the front in life, taking up his father's
business and being appointed a Court Officer. Thence he was promoted to
the Woolsack, became rich, cultivated a double chin, was knighted, and
passed out full of honors. The chief worriment and source of shame in the
life of Sir Christopher Milton came from the unseemly conduct of his
brother John, who was much given to producing political and theological
pamphlets. And once in desperation Sir Christopher Milton requested John
Milton to change his family name, that the tribe of Milton might be saved
the disgrace of having in it "a traducer of the State, an enemy of the
King, and a falsifier of Truth." Sir Christopher Milton was an excellent
and worthy man, and I must apologize for not giving him more attention at
this time; but lack of space forbids.

Sickly boys who are wise beyond their years are ever the pets of big
sisters, and the object of loving, jealous, zealous care on the part of
their mothers. John Milton talked like an oracle while yet a child, and
one biographer records that even as a babe he sometimes mildly reproved
his parents for levity.

He was a precocious child, and have we not been told that precocity does
not fulfill its promises? But this boy was an exception. He was incarnated
into a family that prized music, poetry, philosophy, and yet held fast to
the Christian faith. His father set psalms to music, his sister wrote
madrigals, and his mother played sweet strains on a harp to waken him at
morningtide. The entire household united in a devotion to poetry and art.
Possibly this atmosphere of high thinking was too rarefied for real
comfort--the gravity of the situation being sustained only by a stern
effort.

But no matter--father, mother and sister joined hands to make the pale,
handsome boy a prodigy of learning: one that would surprise the world and
leave his impress on the time.

And they succeeded.

Of the three Milton children that passed away in childhood, I can not but
think that they succumbed to overtraining, being crammed quite after the
German custom of stuffing geese so as to produce that delicious diseased
tidbit known to gourmets as pate de foies gras. John Milton stood the
cramming process like a true hero. His parents set him apart for the
Church--therefore he must be learned in books, familiar with languages,
versed in theories. They desired that he should have knowledge, which
they did not know is quite a different thing from wisdom.

So the boy had a private tutor in Greek and Latin at nine years of age,
and even then began to write verse. At ten years of age his father had the
lad's portrait painted by that rare and thrifty Dutchman, Cornelius
Jansen. We have this picture now, and it reveals the pale, grave, winsome
face with the flowing curls that we so easily recognize.

No expense or pains were spared in the boy's education. The time was
divided up for him as the hours are for a soldier. One tutor after another
took him in hand during the day; but the change of study and a glad
respite of an hour in the morning and the same in the afternoon, for
music, bore him up.

He was the pride of his parents, the delight of his tutors.

Three years were spent at Saint Paul's School; then he was sent to
Cambridge. From there he wrote to his mother, "I am penetrating into the
inmost recesses of the Muses; climbing high Olympus, visiting the green
pastures of Parnassus, and drinking deep from Pierian Springs."

This is terrible language for a child of fourteen. A boy who should talk
like that now would be regarded with anxious concern by his loving
parents. The present age is incredulous of the Infant Phenomenon. And no
fond parent must for a moment imagine that by following the system laid
out for the education of John Milton can a John Milton be produced. The
Miltonian curriculum, if used today, would be sufficient ground for action
on the part of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.

But John Milton, though but a weak-eyed boy with a chronic headache, had a
deal of whipcord fiber in his make-up. He stood the test and grubbed at
his books every night until the clock tolled twelve. He was born at a
peculiar time, being a child of the Reformation married to the
Renaissance. The toughness and grimness of Calvin were united in him with
the tenderness of Erasmus. From out of the Universal Energy, of which we
are particles, he had called into his being qualities so diverse that they
seemed never to have been before or since united in one person.

He remained at Cambridge seven years. The beauty of his countenance had
increased so that he was as one set apart. His finely chiseled features,
framed in their flowing curls, challenged the admiration of every person
he met. A writer of the time described him as "a grave and sober person,
but one not wholly ignorant of his own parts."

There is a sly touch in this sentence that sheds light upon "The Lady of
Christ's." John Milton was a bit of a poseur, as Schopenhauer declares all
great men are and ever have been. With the masterly mind goes a touch of
the fakir or charlatan. Milton knew his power--he gloried in this bright
blade of the intellect. He was handsome--and he knew it. And yet we will
not cavil at his velvet coats, or laces, or the golden chain that adorned
his slender, shapely person. These things were only the transient,
springtime adornments that passion puts forth.

And yet I see that one writer mentions the chaste and ascetic quality of
Milton's early life as proof of a cold and measured nature. Seemingly the
writer does not know that intense feeling often finds a gratification in
asceticism, and that vows of chastity are proof of passion. There are many
ways of working off one's surplus energy--Milton was married to his work.
He traversed the vast fields of Classic Literature, read in the original
from Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, French, Spanish, Latin and Italian. He delved
into abstruse mathematics, studied music as a science, and labored at
theology. In fact, he came to know so much of all religions that he had
faith in none. He seemed to view religion in the cold, calculating light
of a syllogistic problem--not as a warm, pulsing motive in life. His real
religion was music, a fact he once frankly acknowledged.

On the pinions of music he was carried out and away beyond the boundaries
of time and space, and there he found that rest for his soul, without
which he would have sunk to earth and been covered by the kindly, drifting
leaves of oblivion.

For some, the secrets of music, the wonder of love, and the misty,
undefined prayers of the soul constitute true religion. When you place a
creed in a crucible and afterward study the particles on a slide encased
in balsam, you are apt to get a residuum or something--a something that
does not satisfy the heart.

Milton got well acquainted with theology. It was interesting, but not what
he had supposed. He came to regard the Church as a useful part of the
Government--divine, of course, as all good things are divine. But to
become a priest and play a part--he would not do it. He was
honest--stubbornly honest.

Seven years he had been at Cambridge, and now that he was just ready to
step into a "living"--right in the line of promotion of which his beauty
and intellect tokened a sure presage--he balked.

It was a great blow to his parents. His mother pleaded; his father
threatened; but they soon perceived that this son they had brought forth
had a will stronger than theirs. Their fond dreams of his preferment--the
handsome face of their boy above an oaken pulpit, with thousands feeding
on his words, the public honors, and all that--faded away into tears and
misty nothingness. But parenthood is doomed to disappointment--it does not
endure long enough to see the end. Youth is so headstrong and wilful: it
will not learn from the experience of others.

And all these years of preparation and expense! Better had he died and
been laid to rest with the three now in the churchyard.

Before Milton had served his seven years' apprenticeship at Cambridge, his
parents moved to the village of Horton--twenty miles out of London,
Windsor way.

The village of Horton has not changed much with the years, and a tramp
across the fields from Eton by way of Burnham Beeches and Stoke Pogis,
where Gray wrote "The Elegy," is quite worth while. It is a land of lazy
woods, and winding streams and hedgerows melodious with birds. One treads
on storied ground, and if you wish you can recline beneath gnarled old
oaks where Milton mused and scribbled, and wrote the first draft of "L'
Allegro" and "Il Penseroso."

Milton loitered here at Horton for six years, and in that time produced
just six poems.

He was thirty-two years of age, and had never earned a sixpence. But what
booted it! His father and mother's home was his: they gladly supplied his
every want; and his mother, especially, was ever his kindly critic and
most intimate friend. His days were spent in study, dreams, lonely walks
across green fields, and homecomings when, with his mother's hand in his,
he would talk or recite to her in order to clarify the thought that
pressed upon him. Very calm, very peaceful and very beautiful were those
days. "The pensive attitude of mind brings the best result--not the
active," he used to say. It was then he wrote to his old friend, Diodati:
"You asked what I am about--what I am thinking of? Why, with God's help, I
am thinking of immortality. Forgive the word, it is for your ear alone--I
am pluming my wings for flight."

The good mother had misty, prophetic visions of what this flight might be,
and had ceased to counsel her son against the sin of idleness. But she did
not live to see her prophecies confirmed, for in this time of peace and
love, when the vibrant air was filled with hope, she passed Beyond.

Long years after, John Milton exclaimed, "Oh! Why could she not have lived
to know!" And the poignant grief of this son, then a man in years (with
his thirtieth birthday well behind), turned on the thought that he had
disappointed Her--the mother who had loved him into being.

       *       *       *       *       *

Milton's woes began with his marriage--they have given rise to nearly as
much discussion as his poetry. In his "Defensio Secunda," he tells, with a
touch of pride, of the absolute innocency that continued until his
thirty-fifth year. When we consider how his combined innocence and
ignorance plunged him into a sudden marriage with a bit of pink-and-white
protoplasm, aged seventeen, we can not but regret that he had not devoted
a little of his valuable time to a study of femininity. And in some way we
think of Thackeray, when he was being shown the marvelous works of a
certain amateur artist. "Look at that! look at that!" cried the zealous
guide, "and he never had a lesson in art in his life!"

Thackeray adjusted his glasses, looked at the picture carefully, sighed
and said, "What a pity he didn't have just a little good instruction!"

Milton the student, versed in abstractions and full of learned lore, went
up the Thames seeking a little needed rest. Five miles from Oxford lived
an ebb-tide aristocratic family by the name of Powell. Milton had long
known this family, and, it seems, decided to tarry with them a day or so.
Just why he sought their company no one ever knew, and Milton was too
proud to tell. The brown thrush, rival of the lark and mockingbird, seldom
seeks the society of the blue jay. But it did this time. The Powells were
a roaring, riotous, roystering, fox-hunting, genteel, but reduced family,
on the eve of bankruptcy, with marriageable daughters.

The executive functions of love-making are best carried on by shallow
people; so mediocre women often show rare skill in courtship, and
sometimes succeed in bagging big game. But surely Mary Powell had no
conception of the greatness of Milton's intellect--she only knew that he
was handsome, and her parents said he was rich.

There was feasting and mirth when Milton arrived back in town accompanied
by his bride and various of her kinsmen. In all marriage festivals there
is something pathetically absurd, and I never see a sidewalk awning spread
without thinking of the one erected for John Milton and Mary Powell, who
were led through it by an Erebus that was not only blind, but stone-deaf.

John Milton was an ascetic, and lived in a realm of reverie and dreams;
his wife had a strong bias toward the voluptuous, reveling in a world of
sense, and demanding attention as her right. Milton began diving into his
theories and books, and forgot the poor child who had no abstract world
into which to withdraw. Suddenly bereft of the gay companionship that her
father's house supplied, she felt herself aggrieved, alone; and tears of
vexation and homesickness began to stream down her pretty cheeks.

When summoned into her husband's presence she had nothing to say, and
Milton, the theorist, discovered that what he had mistaken for the natural
reticence and bashfulness of maidenhood was mere inanity and lack of
ideas. But the loneliness of the poor country girl, shut up in a student's
den, is a deal more touching than the scholar's wail about "the silent and
insensate" wife. The girl was being deprived of the rollicking freedom to
which she had been used, but the great man was waking the echoes with his
wail for a companionship he had never known.

Yet the girl was shrewd. All women are shrewd, I am told, and some are
wise and some are not; and many women there be who consider finesse an
improvement on frankness. At the end of a month, Milton's wife contrived
to have her parents send for her to return home on a visit that was to
last only until come Michaelmas. But Michaelmas arrived and the young
bride refused to return, sending back saucy answers to the great author of
"Il Penseroso."

In the meantime Milton wrote pamphlets urging that divorce should be
granted on the grounds of incompatibility, and pronouncing as inhuman the
laws that gave freedom from marital woes on no less ignoble grounds than
that a man should violate his honor.

There is pretty good evidence that a part of Milton's argument on the
subject of divorce was written out while his wife was under his roof. This
reveals a slight lack of delicacy as well as the author's habit to make
copy out of his private griefs; but it must be granted that Milton goes to
the very bottom of the subject, even to stating the fact that those
happily married have neither pity nor patience with those mismated. "If
you want sympathy," he says, "you must go to those who are regarded as not
respectable," Any man who writes on philosophy can find his every cue in
Plato, and he who discusses divorce from a radical standpoint can find
himself anticipated by Milton in the Seventeenth Century. Every view is
taken, even down to the suggestion of a probationary marriage, which
Milton thought might come about when civilization had ceased to crawl and
begun to walk.

One seeks in vain to learn if the unhappy wife of Milton ever read her
husband's bitter tracts. It is probable she never did, and would not have
comprehended their import if she had; and it is still more likely that she
never came to realize that she was wedded to the greatest man of the age.
A truce was patched up, on the bankruptcy of her father, and she came back
penitent, and was taken into favor. Not only did she come back, but she
brought her family; and the ravenous Royalists consumed the substance of
the spiritual and ascetic Puritan.

Had Milton then died, it is probable that the gladsome widow would have
been consoled and married again very shortly, just as did the widows of
Van Dyck and Rubens--not knowing that to have been the wife of a king was
honor enough for one woman.

But after fifteen years of domestic "neglect," during which she doubtless
benefited her husband by stirring in him a noble discontent, she passed
from earth; and it was left for John Milton to repeat twice more his
marital venture, with a similar result. And in this, Fate sends back a
fact that leers like Mephistopheles, by way of answer to Milton's
pamphlets on divorce: Why should the State grant a divorce, when great men
refuse to learn by experience, and, given the opportunity, only repeat the
blunders they have already made?

       *       *       *       *       *

God in His goodness has in certain instances sent great men angels of
light for assistants--mates who could comprehend and sympathize with their
ideals. But it is expecting too much to suppose that Nature can look out
for such a trifle as that the right man should marry the right woman.
Nature possibly never considered a time-contract, and she is a careless
jade, anyway. She moves blindly along with never a thought for the
individual.

Audubon the naturalist records that one-third of all birds hatched tumble
out of the nest before they can fly, and once on the ground the parent
birds are unable either to warm, feed or protect them.

Read the lives of the Great Men who have lived during the past three
thousand years, and listen closely, and you will hear the wild wail of
neglected and unappreciated wives. A woman can forgive a beating, but to
be forgotten--never. She hates, by instinct, an austere and self-contained
character. Dignity and pride repel her; preoccupation keeps her aloof;
concentration on an idea is unforgivable.

The wife of Tolstoy seeking to have her husband adjudged insane is not a
rare instance in the lives of thinkers. To think thoughts that are
different from the thoughts one's neighbors think is surely good reason
why the man should be looked after. Recently we have had evidence that the
wife of Victor Hugo regarded the author of "Les Miserables" with
suspicion, and at one time actually made preparations to let him enjoy
his exile alone--she would go back to Paris and enjoy life as every one
should. At Guernsey there was no society!

When Isaac Newton called upon his ladylove and in a fit of abstraction,
looking about for a utensil to push the tobacco down in his pipe, chanced
upon the lady's little finger, the law of gravitation was abrogated at
once, and Newton and his pipe were sent, like nebulæ whirling into space.

When the Great Inventor, absorbed in a problem as to Electricity (that
thing which to us is only a name and of which we know nothing), forgets
home, wife, child, supper; and midnight finds him in his laboratory, where
he has been since sunrise--just imagine, if you please, the shrill
greeting that is in cold storage for him when he stumbles home, haggard
and worn, at dawn. How can he explain why he did this thing and answer the
questions as to who was there, and what good it all did anyway!

Thought is a torture, and requires such a concentration of energy that
there is nothing left for the soft courtesies of marriage. The day is
fleeting, and the night cometh when no man can work. The hot impulse to
grasp and materialize the dream ere it fades, is strong upon the man.

Of course he is selfish--he sacrifices everything, as Palissy did when
fuel was short and the clay just at the turning-point. Yes, the artist is
selfish: he sacrifices his wife and society, and himself, too, to get the
work done. Four-o'clocks, mealtime, bedtime, and all the household system
as to pink teas, calls and etiquette, stand for naught. And down the
corridors of Time comes to us the shrill wail of neglected wives, and the
crash of broken hearts echoes like the sound of a painter falling through
a skylight. All this is the price of achievement.

       *       *       *       *       *

Making a little look backward into Milton's life, we find that until his
thirty-third year he had not tasted of practical life at all. About that
time his father, in a sort of desperation, packed him off to the
Continent, in charge of a trusty attendant, who acted in the dual capacity
of servant and friend. The letters he carried to influential men in Paris,
Florence, Venice and Rome secured him the Speaker's eye, and his beauty
and learning did the rest. His march was that of a conquering hero. In
Paris he surprised the savants by addressing them in their own tongue, and
reciting from their chief writers. This was repeated in Italy; and at
Florence, as a sort of half-challenge for permission to occupy the highest
seat, he was invited to read from his own compositions, which he did with
such grace and power that thereafter all doors flew open at his touch.

Returning to England after an absence of fifteen months, he found his
father's household broken up, and through bad investments, the family
fortune sadly depleted. But travel had added cubits to his stature: the
mixture with men had put him into possession of his own, and he now felt
well able to cope with the world. He secured modest lodgings in Saint
Bride's Churchyard, and set to work to make a living and a name by
authorship. His head teemed with subjects for poems, but cash advances
were not forthcoming from publishers, and, to bridge over, he tried
tutoring.

It was at this time that "Paradise Lost," the one matchless epic of
English literature, was conceived. Rough jottings were made as to
divisions and heads, and a few stanzas were written of the immortal poem
that was not to be completed for a score of years.

The first volume of Milton's poems was issued in Sixteen Hundred
Forty-five, when he was thirty-seven years of age. But before this he was
known as the author of some pamphlets which had made political London
reel. The writer was at once seen to be a man of remarkable learning and
marvelous intellect, and the work secured Milton a few friends and divers
enemies.

From a man of leisure Milton had suddenly become a worker, whose every
daylight hour was crammed with duties. His skill as a teacher brought him
all the pupils he cared for, and he moved into better quarters in
Aldersgate. He was immersed in his work, was making valuable acquaintances
among literary people, was revered by his pupils, and the happiness was
his of knowing that he was influential and independent. A fine
intoxication comes to every brain-worker when the world acknowledges with
tangible remittances that the product of his mind has a value on the
Rialto. Such was Milton's joy in Sixteen Hundred Forty-three.

The "Comus," "Il Penseroso," "L'Allegro" and "Lycidas" had established his
place as a poet; and the power of his pen had been proven in sundry
religious and political controversies.

In his household were two sons of his sister and several other pupils who
had sought his tutorship. He was contented in his work, pleased and happy
with the young friends who sat at his board, and in an hour or two
snatched each day from toil, for music and reverie.

       *       *       *       *       *

Seize upon the moments as they fly, O John Milton, and hug them to your
heart! Those were days of gold when your mother was your patient listener
and friend. Her love enveloped you as an aura; and her voice, soft and
low, upheld you when courage faltered. But these, too, are glorious
days--days full of work, and health, and hope, and high endeavor. But
these days of peace and freedom are the last you shall ever know. Even now
they flee as a shadow and fade into mist! Gross stupidity, silent and
insensate, sits waiting for you at the door; calumny is near; taunting
hate comes riding fast!

The sympathy for which you yearn shall be yours only in dreams, and you
shall be cheated of all the tenderness for which your heart prays. The
love and gentleness which you associate with your mother, you ascribe in
innocence and ignorance to all women; but Fate shall undeceive you, O John
Milton, and make mock of all your high ideals. You dote on liberty, but
liberty is not for you. You shall see the funeral of the Republic; the
defamation of your honor; the proscription of all the sacred things you
prize. Your companions shall not be of your own choosing, but shall be
those who neither know nor value the sweet, subtle mintage of the mind.
Around you mad riot shall surge, a hatred for liberty shall prevail--an
enthusiasm for slavery. The glorious leaders of your Puritan faith shall
be condemned and executed, hanged, cut down from the gallows alive, and
quartered amid the hoarse insults of the people they sought to serve; and
you yourself shall be hunted like a wild beast. You shall see the prisons
filled to overflowing with men and women whose only crime was their love
for truth. And a libertine shall sit on the throne of the England that you
love. These things you shall see with those mild, dark eyes, and then
night, eternal night, shall settle down upon you; and for those idle orbs
no day shall dawn nor starry night appear, nor face of man nor child shall
be reflected there. Your sightlessness shall give those who owe you
gratitude and love, opportunity to filch your gold; and, lastly, fire
shall rob you of your books, and well-nigh all your treasures.

Like another Lear, your daughters shall neither esteem nor respect you,
and the lines you dictate shall be to them but the idle vaporings of a
mind diseased. Your acute ears shall hear these daughters express the wish
that you were dead; and then in your blindness you will give yourself into
the keeping of a woman as dull, inane and unfeeling as the foolish child
you first chose as wife. But with it all your obstinacy shall constitute
your power; and that beauty which was yours in youth shall be with you to
the last. You shall feel all the torments of the damned and become inured
to the scorching flames of hell! But, as recompense, the splendors of the
Celestial Kingdom shall open upon your inward vision, and your soul shall
behold that which the eyes of earth have lost. Something great and proud
shall go out from your presence to all the discerning ones who shall
approach you; and your end shall be like the setting of the sun, bright,
calm, poised and resplendent.




SAMUEL JOHNSON

    * * * Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I waited in
    your outward rooms and was repulsed from your door; during which
    time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties of which
    it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the
    verge of publication without one act of assistance, one word of
    encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not
    expect, for I never had a patron before.

    The shepherd in Vergil grew at last acquainted with Love, and
    found him a native of the rocks.

    Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man
    struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached the
    ground encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been
    pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind;
    but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and can not enjoy
    it; till I am a solitary, and can not impart it; till I am known,
    and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to
    confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be
    unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a
    patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

    Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to
    any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I
    should conclude it, should less be possible, with less; for I
    have been long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once
    boasted myself with so much exultation, my Lord.

    Your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant,
                                             --_Sam Johnson_

[Illustration: SAMUEL JOHNSON]


The critics, I believe, have made a distinction between large men and
great men.

Samuel Johnson was both. He was massive in intellect, colossal in culture,
prodigious in memory, weighed nigh three hundred pounds, and had
prejudices to match. He was possessed of a giant's strength, and
occasionally used it like a giant--for instance, when he felled an
offending bookseller with a folio.

Johnson was most unfortunate in his biographer. In picturing the great
writer, Boswell writes more entertainingly than Johnson ever did, and
thereby overtops his subject. And when in reply to the intimation that
Boswell was going to write his life, Johnson answered, "If I really
thought he was, I would take his," he spoke a jest in earnest.

Walking along Market Street in the city of Saint Louis, with a friend, not
long ago, my comrade suddenly stopped and excitedly pointed out a man
across the way--"Look quick--there he goes!" exclaimed my friend, "that
man with the derby and duster--see? That's the husband of Mrs. Lease of
Kansas!" And all I could say was, "God help him!"

Not but that Mrs. Lease is a most excellent and amiable lady; but the
idea of a man, made in the image of his Maker, being reduced to the social
state of a drone-bee is most depressing.

Among that worthy class of people referred to somewhat ironically as "the
reading public," Boswell is read, but Johnson never. And so sternly true
is the fact that many critics, set on a hair-trigger, aver that were it
not for Boswell no one would now know that a writer by the name of Johnson
ever lived. Yet the fact is, Boswell ruined the literary reputation of
Johnson by intimating that Johnson wrote Johnsonese; but that is a
mistake.

Johnson never wrote Johnsonese. The piling up of reasons, the cumulation
of argument--setting off epigram against epigram--that mark Johnson's
literary style are its distinguishing features. He is profound, but always
lucid. And lucidity is just what modern Johnsonese lacks. The word was
coined by a man who had neither the patience to read Johnson nor the
ability to comprehend him. Only sophomores, and private secretaries who
write speeches for able Congressmen, write Johnsonese.

Quibblers possibly may arise and present Johnson's definition of
network--"anything reticulated or decussated at equal distances with
interstices between the intersections"--but with the quibbler we have no
time to dally. Some people insist on having their literature illustrated,
just as others refuse to attend lectures that are not reinforced by a
stereopticon.

Johnson had a style that is stately, dignified, splendid. It moves from
point to point with absolute precision, and in it there is seldom anything
ambiguous, muddy, confused or uncertain. Get down a volume of "Lives of
the Poets," and prove my point for yourself, by opening at any page. It
was Boswell who set his own light, chatty and amusing gossip over against
the wise, stately diction of Johnson, and allowed Goldsmith to say, "Dear
Doctor, if you were to write a story about little fishes, you would make
them talk like whales," and the mud ball has stuck. The average man is
much more willing to take the wily Boswell's word for it than to read
Johnson for himself.

The balanced power of Johnson's English can not fail to delight the
student of letters who cares to interest himself in the matter of
sentence-building. Johnson handles a thought with such ease! He makes you
think of the circus "strong man" who tosses the cannon-ball, marked
"weight 250 lbs." What if the balls are sometimes only wood painted black!
Have we not been entertained? Read this specimen paragraph:

"Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at very
small expense. The power of invention has been conferred by Nature upon
few, and the labor of learning those sciences which may by continuous
effort be obtained is too great to be willingly endured; but every man can
exert such judgment as he has upon the works of others; and he whom
Nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his
vanity by the name of 'critic,'"

But the greatest literary light of his day has been thrown into the shadow
by a man whom no one suspected of being able to write entertainingly. In
the world of letters the great Cham exists only as a lesser luminary; just
as the once-noted novelist, George Henry Lewes, is now known only as the
husband of George Eliot.

And yet no one is so rash as to say that the name of Boswell would now be
known were it not for Johnson. And conversely (or otherwise), if it were
the proper place, I could show that were it not for George Henry Lewes we
should never have had "Adam Bede" or "The Mill on the Floss."

Boswell wrote the best "Life" ever written. Nothing like it was ever
written before; nothing to equal it has been written since. It has had
hundreds of imitators, but no competitors. Matthew Arnold said that no man
ever had so good a subject, but Arnold for the moment seemed to forget
that Hawkins, a professional literary man, published his "Life of Johnson"
long before Boswell's was sent to the printer--and who reads Hawkins?

Surely Boswell had a great subject, and he rises to the level of his theme
and makes the most of it. At times I have wondered if Boswell were not
really a genius so great and profound that he was willing to play the
fool, as Edgar in "Lear" plays the maniac, and allow himself to be snubbed
(in print) in order to make his telling point! Millionaires can well
afford to wear ragged coats. Second-rate man Boswell may have been, as he
himself so oft admits, yet as a biographer he stands first in the front
rank. But suppose his extreme ignorance was only the domino disguising a
cleverness so subtle that it was not discovered until after his death! And
what if he smiles now, as from out of Elysium he looks and beholds how, as
a writer, he has eclipsed old Ursa Major, and thus clipped the claws that
were ready for any chance Scot who might pass that way!

John Hay has suggested that possibly the insight, piquancy and calm wisdom
of Omar Khayyam are two-thirds essence of FitzGerald. If so, the joke is
on Omar, not on FitzGerald.

A dozen of Johnson's contemporaries wrote about him, and all make him out
a profound scholar, a deep philosopher, a facile writer. Boswell by his
innocent quoting and recounting makes his conversation outstrip all of his
other accomplishments. He reveals the man by the most skilful indirection,
and by leaving his guard down, often allows the reader to score a point.
And of all devices of writing folk, none is finer than to please the
reader by allowing him to pat himself on the back.

If a writer is too clever he repels. Shakespeare avoids the difficulty,
and proves himself the master by keeping out of sight; Renan wins by a
great show of modesty and deferential fairness; Boswell assumes an
artlessness and ignorance that were really not parts of his nature. Every
man who reads Boswell considers himself the superior of Boswell, and
therefore is perfectly at home. It is not pleasant to be in the society of
those who are much your superiors. Any man who sits in the company of
Samuel Pepys for a half-hour feels a sort of half-patronizing pity for
him, and therefore is happy, for to patronize is bliss.

If Boswell has reinforced fact with fiction, and given us art for truth,
then his character of Samuel Johnson is the most vividly conceived and
deeply etched in all the realm of books. But if he gives merely the simple
facts, then Boswell is no less a genius, for he has omitted the irrelevant
and inconsequential, and by playing off the excellent against the absurd,
he has placed his subject among the few great wits who have ever lived--a
man who wrote remarkably well, but talked infinitely better.

       *       *       *       *       *

Montaigne advises young men that if they will fall in love, why, to fall
in love with women older than themselves. His argument is that a young and
pretty woman makes such a demand on a man's time and attention that she is
sure, eventually, to wear love to the warp. So the wise old Gascon
suggests that it is the part of wisdom to give your affection to one who
is both plain and elderly--one who is not suffering from a surfeit of
love, and one whose head has not been turned by flattery. "Young women,"
says the philosopher, "demand attention as their right and often flout the
giver; whereas old women are very grateful."

Whether Samuel Johnson, of Lichfield, ever read Montaigne or not is a
question; but this we know, that when he was twenty-six he married the
Widow Porter, aged forty-nine.

Assuming that Johnson had read Montaigne and was mindful of his advice,
there were other excellent reasons why he did not link his fortunes with
those of a young and pretty woman.

Johnson in his youth, as well as throughout life, was a Grind of the pure
type. The Grind is a fixture, a few being found at every University, even
unto this day. The present writer, once in a book of fiction, founded on
fact, took occasion to refer to the genus Grind, with Samuel Johnson in
mind, as follows: He is poor in purse, but great in frontal development.

He goes to school because he wishes to (no one ever "sent" a Grind to
college). He has a sallow skin, a watery eye, a shambling gait, but he has
the facts. His clothes are outgrown, his coat shiny, his linen a dull
ecru, his hands clammy. He reads a book as he walks, and when he bumps
into you, he always exculpates himself in Attic Greek.

This absent-mindedness and habit of reading on the street affords the
Sport (another college type) great opportunity for the playing of pranks.
It is very funny to walk along in front of a Grind who is reading as he
walks, and then suddenly stop and stoop, and let the Grind fall over you;
for the innocent Grind, thinking he has been at fault, is ever profuse in
apologies.

Many years ago there was a Grind. A party of Sports saw him approaching,
deeply immersed in his book. "Look you," quoth the chief of the
Sports--"look you and observe him fall over me."

And they looked.

Onward blindly trudged the Grind, reading as he came. The Sport stepped
ahead of him, stooped, and ---- one big foot of the Grind shot out and
kicked him into the gutter. Then the Grind continued his walk and his
reading without saying a word.

This incident is here recorded for the betterment of the Young, to show
them that things are not always what they seem.

Samuel Johnson, I have said, was a Grind of the pure type. He was so
nearsighted that he fell over chairs in drawing-rooms, and so awkward that
his long arms occasionally brushed the bric-a-brac from mantels. No lady's
train was safe if he was in the room. At gatherings of young people, if
Johnson appeared, his presence was at once the signal for mirth, of which
he was, of course, the unconscious object.

Johnson's face was scarred by the King's Evil, which even the touch of
Queen Anne had failed to cure. While a youth he talked aloud to himself--a
privilege that should be granted only to those advanced in years. He would
grunt out prayers and expletives at uncertain times, keep up a clucking
sound with his tongue, sway his big body from side to side, and drum a
tattoo upon his knee. Now and again would come a suppressed whistle, and
then a low humming sound, backed up by a vacant non-compos-mentis smile.

Another odd whim of Johnson's was, that he would never pass a lamp-post
without touching it, and would go back miles upon his way to repair an
omission. Surely great wit to madness is near allied.

This most strange young man was a boarder in the home of Mrs. Porter, when
her husband was alive, and the husband and boarder had been fast
friends--drawn together by a bookish bias.

Very naturally, when the husband passed away, the boarder sought to
console the bereaved landlady, and the result was as usual. And when, long
years after, Johnson would solemnly explain that it was a pure love-match
on both sides, the statement never failed to excite much needless and
ill-suppressed merriment on the part of the listeners. In mimicking the
endearments of Johnson and his "pretty creature"--so the admiring husband
called her--Garrick many years later added to his artistic reputation.

Unlike most literary men, Johnson was domestic, and his marriage was one
of the most happy events of his career. But to show that the philosophy of
Montaigne is not infallible, and that all signs fail in dry weather, it
may be stated that the bride proved by her conduct on her wedding-day that
she had some relish of the saltness of time in her cosmos, despite her
fifty summers and as many hard winters.

Said Johnson to Boswell, referring to the horseback-ride home after the
wedding-ceremony: "Sir, she had read the old romances, and had got into
her head the fantastical notion that a woman of spirit should use her
lover like a dog. So, sir, at first she told me that I rode too fast, and
she could not keep up with me; and when I rode a little slower, she passed
me, and complained that I lagged behind. I was not to be made the slave of
caprice; and I resolved to begin as I meant to end. I therefore pushed on
briskly, till I was fairly out of sight. The road lay between two hedges,
so I was sure she could not miss it; and I contrived that she should soon
come up with me. When she did I observed her to be in tears."

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after his marriage, Johnson opened a private school for boys. To
operate a private school successfully implies a certain amount of skill in
the management of parents; but Johnson's uncouth manners and needlessly
blunt speech were appalling to those who had children who might possibly
be given to imitation.

Only three pupils were secured, and but one of these received any benefit
from the tutor; and this benefit came, according to the scholar, from the
master's supplying an excellent object for ridicule.

This pupil's name was David Garrick.

The meeting with David Garrick was a pivotal point in the life of Johnson.
Johnson's mental and spiritual existence flowed on, separate and apart
from that of his wife. There was no meeting of the waters. His affection
for her was most tender and constant, but in quality it seemed to differ
but slightly from the sentiment he entertained toward "Hodge," his cat.

Hodge was fed on oysters that his owner could ill afford; and after
Johnson had spent the little fortune that belonged to his wife, the lady
was regaled on the best and choicest that his income, or credit, could
secure. But if one of those lightning-flashes of wit ever escaped him in
her direction, we do not know it. Garrick evidently was the first flint
that tried his steel. The distinctions of teacher and scholar were soon
lost between these two, and the lessons took the turn of a fusillade of
wit. They made comments on the authors they read, and comments on the
people they met, and criticized each other with encaustic remarks that
tested friendship to its extremest limit. And this continual skirmish that
would have made sworn foes of common men in a day revealed to each that
the other had the element of unexpectedness in his nature and was worth
loving.

Humor and melancholy go hand in hand; both are born of an extreme
sensitiveness, and the man who smiles at the trivial misfits of life
realizes also that all men who tread the earth are living under a sentence
of death, and that Fate has merely allowed them an indefinite, but
limited, reprieve.

At the outset of Johnson's career, one can not but see that the
companionship and nimble wit of Garrick saved his ponderous and melancholy
mind from going into bankruptcy.

And now we find them: one twenty-eight, big, nearsighted, theoretical,
blundering; and the other twenty-one, slight, active, graceful, practical.
They were alike in this: they both loved books and were possessed of the
eager, earnest, receptive mind. To possess the hospitable mind! For what
greater blessing can one pray?

And then they were alike in other respects--they were desperately poor;
neither had an income; neither had a profession; both were ambitious.
Johnson had written a tragedy--"Irene"--and he had read it to Garrick
several times, and Garrick said it was good and should make a hit. But
Garrick didn't know much about tragedies--law was his bent--he had read
law for two years, off and on. They would go to London and seize fortune
by the scalp-lock. In London good lawyers were needed, and London was the
only place for a playwright.

They scraped together their pennies, borrowed a few more, got a single
letter of introduction between them to some person of unknown influence,
and started away, with the lacrimose blessings of the elderly bride, and
of Davy's mother.

They must have been a queer sight when the stage let them down at the
Strand--dusty, dirty, tired and scared by the babel of sounds and sights!
And no doubt Johnson's enormous size saved them from sundry insults and
divers taunts that otherwise might have come their way.

Those first few weeks in London were given to staring into shop-windows
and wandering, open-mouthed, up and down. No one wanted the tragedy--the
managers all sniffed at it. Little then did Davy dream, as they made their
way from the office of one theater-manager to that of another, that he
himself would some day own a theater and give the discarded play its first
setting. And little did he think that he would yet be the foremost actor
of his time, and his awkward mate the literary dictator of London. Oh!
this game of life is a great play! The blissful uncertainty of it all!
The ambitions, plans, strivings, heartaches, mad desires and vain reaching
out of empty arms! The tears, the bitter disappointments, the sleepless
nights, the echoes of prayers unheard, and the hollow hopelessness of love
turned to hate!

And then mayhap we do as Emerson did--go out into the woods, and all the
trees say, "Why so hot, my little man?"

Garrick, disappointed and undone at the thought of defeat in his chosen
profession, turned to commercial life and then to the theater. At his
first stage appearance he trembled with diffidence and all but fled in
fright. He persevered, for he could do nothing else. He arose step by
step, and honors, wealth and fame were his. Love came to him: he wedded
the woman of his choice. And after his death she survived for forty-three
years. She lived one hundred years, lacking two. Garrick was born in
Seventeen Hundred Sixteen; and his wife died in Eighteen Hundred
Twenty-two, which seems to bring the times of Johnson pretty close home to
us. Throughout her long life, she lived in the memory of the love that had
been hers; cherishing and protecting, idolizing, as did Mary Shelley, the
one name and that alone.

Johnson and Garrick thoroughly respected and admired each other, yet they
often quarreled--they quarreled to the last. But when Davy had lain him
down in his last sleep, aged sixty-three, it was Johnson, aged seventy,
who wrote his epitaph, introducing into it the deathless sentence * * *
"by that stroke of death which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and
impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three months in London and Johnson succeeded in getting a place on the
editorial staff of "The Gentleman's Magazine." Prosperity smiled, not
exactly a broad grin; but the expression was something better than a
stony, forbidding stare.

He made haste to go back to Lichfield after his "Letty," which name, by
the way, is an improvement on Betty, Betsy or Tetsy--being baby-talk for
Elizabeth.

They took modest lodgings in a third floor back, off Fleet Street, and
Johnson began that life of struggle against debt, ridicule and unkind
condition that was to continue for forty-seven years; never out of debt,
never free from attacks of enemies; a life of wordy warfare and inky
broadsides against cant, affectation and untruth--with the weapons of his
dialectics always kept well burnished by constant use; hated and loved;
jeered and praised; feared and idolized.

Coming out of his burrow one dark night, he encountered an old
beggar-woman who importuned him for alms. He was brushing past her, when
one of her exclamations caught his ear.

"Sir," said the woman, "I am an old struggler!"

"Madam," replied Johnson, "so am I!" And he gave her his last sixpence.

But life in London was cheap in those days--it is now if you know how to
do it, or else have to. Johnson used to maintain that for thirty pounds a
year one could live like a gentleman, and as proof would quote an
imaginary acquaintance who argued that ten pounds a year for clothes would
keep a man in good appearance; a garret could be hired for eighteen pence
a week, and if any one asked your address you could reply, "I am to be
found in such a place," Threepence laid out at a coffeehouse would enable
one to pass some hours a day in good company; dinner might be had for
sixpence, and supper you could do without. On clean-shirt day you could go
abroad and call on your lady friends. Among Johnson's first literary tasks
in London was the work of reporting the debates in Parliament. In order
that the best possible results might be obtained, he resorted to the
rather unique, but not entirely original, method of not attending
Parliament at all. Two or three young men would be sent to listen to the
debates; they would make notes giving the general drift of the argument,
and Johnson would write out the speech. His style was exactly suited to
this kind of work, being eminently rhetorical. And as at the time no
public record of proceedings was kept and Parliament did not allow the
press the liberty it now possesses--all being as it were clouded in
mysterious awe--these reports of debates were eagerly sought after. To
evade the law, a fictitious name was given the speaker, or his initials
used in such a way that the individual could be easily recognized by the
reading public.

Some of Johnson's best work was done at this time, and in several
instances the speaker, not slow to appreciate a good thing, allowed the
matter to be reissued as his own. Long years after, a certain man was once
praising the speeches of Lord Chesterfield and was led on to make
explanations. He did so, naming two speeches, one of which he zealously
declared had the style of Cicero; the other that of Demosthenes. Johnson
becalmed the speaker by agreeing with him as to the excellence of the
speeches, and then adding, "I wrote them both."

The gruffness of Ursa Major should never be likened to that of the Sage of
Chelsea. Carlyle vented his spleen on the nearest object, as irate
gentlemen sometimes kick at the cat; but Johnson merely sparred for
points. When Miss Monckton undertook to refute his statements as to the
shallowness of Sterne by declaring that "Tristram Shandy" affected her to
tears, Johnson rolled himself into contortions, made an exasperating
grimace, and replied, "Why, dearest, that is because you are a dunce!"
Afterward, when reproached for the remark, he replied, "Madam, if I had
thought so, I surely would not have said it."

Once, at the house of Garrick, to the terror of every one, Burke
contradicted Johnson flatly, but Johnson's good sense revealed itself by
his making no show of resentment. Burke's experience was, it must be said,
exceptional. An equally exciting, but harmless occasion, was the only time
that the author of "Rasselas" met the man who wrote the "Wealth of
Nations," Johnson called Adam Smith a liar, and Smith promptly handed back
an epithet not in the Dictionary. Nevertheless, old Ursa spoke in an
affectionate praise of "Adam," as he called him thereafter, thus
recognizing the right of the other man to be frank if he cared to be.
Johnson wanted no privilege that he was not willing to grant to
others--except perhaps that of dictator of opinions.

When Blair asked Johnson if he thought any modern man could have written
"Ossian," Johnson replied, "Yes, sir--many men, many women, and many
children." And if Blair took umbrage at the remark, so much the worse for
Blair.

We have recently heard of the Boston lady who died and went to Heaven, and
on being questioned by an archangel as to how she liked it, replied
languidly, "Very, very beautiful it all is!" And then sighed and added,
"But it is not Boston!" This story seems to illustrate that all tales have
their prototype, for Boswell tells of taking Doctor Johnson out to
Greenwich Park, and saying, "Now, now, isn't this fine!" But Johnson would
not enthuse; he only grunted, "All very fine--but it's not Fleet Street."

On another occasion when a Scotchman was dilating on the noble prospects
to be enjoyed among the hills of Scotland, Johnson called a halt by
saying, "Sir, let me tell you that the noblest prospect a Scotchman ever
sees is the highroad that leads him to England."

This seems to evince a strong prejudice toward Scotland, and several
Scots, with their usual plentiful lack of wit, have so solemnly written it
down. But the more sensible way is to conclude that the situation simply
afforded opportunity for a little harmless banter.

Another equally indisputable proof of prejudice is shown when Boswell
tells Johnson of the wonderful preaching of a Quaker woman. Johnson
listened in grim, cold silence and then exclaimed: "Sir, a woman's
preaching is like a dog's walking on its hind legs. It is not done well;
but you are surprised to find it done at all."

One of the leading encyclopedias, I see, says, "Doctor Johnson was one of
the greatest conversationalists of all time." The writer evidently does
not distinguish between talk, conversation and harangue. Johnson could
talk and he often harangued; but he was not a conversationalist. Neither
could he address a public assembly, and I do not find that he ever
attempted it. Good talkers are seldom orators. One reads with amusement
tinged with pity, of Carlyle's sleepless nights and cold, terror-fraught
anticipations of his Lord Rector's speech. In deliberative gatherings a
very small man could apply the snuffers to the great Dictator of Letters.

"Sir," said Doctor Johnson to a talkative politician, at a dinner-party,
"I perceive you are a vile Whig," and then he proceeded to demolish him.
Yet Johnson himself was a Whig, although he never knew it; just as he was
a liberal in religion, and yet was boastful of being a stanch Churchman.

Johnson's irritability never vented itself against the helpless. His
charity knew no limit--not even the bottom of his purse. When he had no
money to give, he borrowed it. And when his pension was three hundred
pounds a year, the Thrales could not figure out that he spent more than
seventy or eighty on himself. The rest went to his dependents. In his
latter days his home was a regular museum of waifs and strays. There was
Miss Williams, the ancient aristocratic spinster who came to London to
have an operation performed on one of her eyes. She came to Johnson's home
and remained ten years, because she had been a friend of his wife. This
claim was enough, and she slid into the head place in Johnson's household.
Her peevishness used to drive the old man, at times, into the street; but
that tongue of his, with its crushing retorts, was ever silent and tender
towards her. The poor creature became blind, and used to shock the finicky
Boswell by testing the fulness of the teacups with her finger.

Then there was a Mrs. Desmoulins and her daughter, who drifted down from
Lichfield and came to Johnson, because forty years before, he, too, had
lived in Lichfield. He gave them house-room, treated them as guests, and
each week left a half-guinea on the mantel of their room.

Then there was the broken-down Levett, and Francis Barber, who, coming as
a servant, remained as one of the family, because he was too old to work.
A Miss Carmichael, in green spectacles and bombazine, carrying a cane,
completed what the Doctor called his "seraglio." Writing to Mrs. Thrale in
playful mood, telling of his household troubles, he says, "Williams hates
everybody; Levett hates Desmoulins, and does not love Williams; Desmoulins
hates them both; Poll loves none of them." And he, the great, gruff and
mighty Ursa Major, listened to all their woes, caring for them in
sickness, wiping the death-dew from their foreheads, wearing crape upon
his sleeve for them when dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

This man tasted all the fame that is one man's due; he had all the money
he needed, or knew how to use; the coveted LL.D. came from his Alma Mater;
and the patronage from Lord Chesterfield, for which he craved, only that
he might fling it back. He was the friend and confidant of the great and
proud, deferred to by the King and sought out by those who prized the
far-reaching mind and subtle imagination--the things that link us with the
Infinite. The fear of hell and dread of death that haunted him in youth
and middle age, finally gave way to faith and trust. When partial
paralysis came to him at midnight, his sanity did not fail him, and
knowing the worst, he yet hesitated to disturb the other members of the
household, but went to sleep, philosophizing on the phenomena of the
case--alert for more knowledge, as was his wont. Morning came and being
speechless, he wrote on his ever-ready pad of paper and handing the sheet
to his servant, watched with amused glances the perplexity and terror of
the man. He next wrote to his friend, Mrs. Thrale, that letter, a classic
of wit and resignation, wherein he explains his condition and excuses
himself for not calling upon her and explaining the matter by word of
mouth.

Such willingness to accept the inevitable is curative. He grew better and
recovered his speech. But old age is a disease that has no cure save
death. Johnson accepted the issue as a brave man should--thankful for the
gift of conscious life that had been his. When the last hour was nigh he
sent loving messages to his nearest friends, repeating their names over
one by one. His last recorded words were directed to a young woman who
called upon him, "God bless you, my dear."

And so he passed painlessly and quietly into the sleep that knows no
waking; pleased at last to know that his dust would rest in Westminster
Abbey.

Thus ended, as the day dies out of the western sky, this life, seemingly
so full of tempest and contradiction. The autumn of his life was full of
enjoyment, and no day passed but that some one, weak, weary and worn,
arose and called him blessed. Most of his wild imprecations and blustering
contradictions were reserved for those who fattened on such things, and
who came to be tossed and gored. In his spirit Socrates and Falstaff
joined hands. In his life there was a deal of gladness--far, far more than
of misery and unrest; which fact I believe is true of every life.

The Universe seems planned for good.

A world made up of such men as Samuel Johnson would be a wild chaos of
tasks undone. But since Nature has never sent but one such man, and more
than a century has passed since his death and we know not yet with whom to
compare him, we need have no fears. The world is held in place through the
opposition of forces: and the body of every healthy man is the
battle-ground of animal organisms that match strength against strength.
So, too, a healthy society always has these active and sturdy organisms,
which set in play other forces that hold in check their seeming excess.
That the Divine Energy should incarnate itself and find expression in the
form of a man, and that this man should inspire others to think and write,
to do and dare, is a subject the contemplation of which should make us
stand uncovered. The companionship of Johnson inspired Reynolds to better
painting, Garrick to stronger acting, Burke to more profound thinking--and
hundreds of others, too, quenched their thirst at the rock which he smote
whenever he discoursed or wrote.

Sympathy is the first essential to insight. So with sympathy, I pray,
behold this blundering giant, and you will see that the basis of his
character was a great Sincerity. He was honest--doggedly honest--and saw
with flashing vision the thing that was; and thither he followed,
crowding, pushing, knocking down whatsoever opinion or prejudice was in
the way. And so he ever struggled forward. But hate him not, for he is thy
brother--yea! he is brother to all who strive and reach forward toward the
Ideal. Shining through dust and disorder, now victorious, now eclipsed in
deepest gloom, in him is the light of genius; and this is never base, but
at the worst is admirable, lovable with pity. There was pride in his
heart, but no vanity; and he should be loved for this if for no other
reason: he had the courage to make an enemy. In his great heart were wild
burstings of affection, and a hunger for love that only the grave
requited. There, too, were fierce flashes of wrath, smothered in an hour
by the soft dew of pity. His faults and follies were manifold, as he often
lamented with tears; but the soul of the man was sublime in its
qualities--worldwide in its influence.




THOMAS B. MACAULAY

    The perfect historian is he in whose work the character and
    spirit of the age is exhibited in miniature. He relates no fact,
    he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not
    authenticated by sufficient testimony. But by judicious
    selection, rejection and arrangement, he gives to truth those
    attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In his narrative
    a due subordination is observed: some transactions are prominent;
    others retire. But the scale on which he represents them is
    increased or diminished, not according to the dignity of the
    persons concerned in them, but according to the degree in which
    they elucidate the condition of society and the nature of man.
                                                --_Essay on History_

[Illustration: THOMAS MACAULAY]


Success is in the blood.

There are men whom Fate can never keep down--they march jauntily forward,
and take by divine right the best of everything that earth affords. But
their success is not attained by the Doctor Samuel Smiles Connecticut
policy. They do not lie in wait, nor scheme, nor fawn, nor seek to adapt
their sails to catch the breeze of popular favor. Still, they are ever
alert and alive to any good that may come their way, and when it comes
they simply appropriate it, and tarrying not, move steadily forward.

Good health! Whenever you go out of doors, draw the chin in, carry the
crown of your head high, and fill the lungs to the utmost; drink in
sunshine; greet your friends with a smile, and put soul into every
hand-clasp. Do not fear being misunderstood and never waste a minute
thinking about your enemies. Try to fix firmly in your mind what you would
like to do, and then without violence of direction you will move straight
to the goal.

Fear is the rock on which we split, and hate is the shoal on which many a
bark is stranded. When we are fearful, the judgment is as unreliable as
the compass of a ship whose hold is full of iron ore; when we hate, we
have unshipped the rudder; and if we stop to meditate on what the gossips
say, we have allowed a hawser to befoul the screw.

Keep your mind on the great and splendid thing you would like to do; and
then, as the days go gliding by, you will find yourself unconsciously
seizing upon the opportunities that are required for the fulfilment of
your desire, just as the coral-insect takes from the running tide the
elements that it needs. Picture in your mind the able, earnest, useful
person you desire to be, and the thought you hold is hourly transforming
you into that particular individual. Thought is supreme, and to think is
often better than to do.

Preserve a right mental attitude--the attitude of courage, frankness and
good-cheer.

To think rightly is to create.

Darwin and Spencer have told us that this is the method of Creation. Each
animal has evolved the parts it needed and desired. The horse is fleet
because it wishes to be; the bird flies because it desires to; the duck
has a web-foot because it wants to swim. All things come through desire,
and every sincere prayer is answered. Many people know this, but they do
not believe it thoroughly enough so that it shapes their lives.

We want friends, so we scheme and chase 'cross lots after strong people,
and lie in wait for good folks--or alleged good folks--hoping to attach
ourselves to them. The only way to secure friends is to be one.

And before you are fit for friendship you must be able to do without it.
That is to say, you must have sufficient self-reliance to take care of
yourself, and then out of the surplus of your energy you can do for
others. The man who craves friendship, and yet desires a self-centered
spirit more, will never lack for friends.

If you would have friends, cultivate solitude instead of society. Drink in
the ozone; bathe in the sunshine; and out in the silent night, under the
stars, say to yourself again and yet again, "I am a part of all my eyes
behold!" And the feeling will surely come to you that you are no mere
interloper between earth and sky; but that you are a necessary particle of
the Whole. No harm can come to you that does not come to all, and if you
shall go down, it can only be amid a wreck of worlds.

Thus by laying hold on the forces of the Universe, you are strong with
them. And when you realize this, all else is easy, for in your arteries
course red corpuscles, and in your heart there is the will to do and be.
Carry your chin in, and the crown of your head high. We are gods in the
chrysalis.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thomas B. Macauley was small in stature; but he always carried his chin
well in and the crown of his head high.

It was said of Rubens that throughout his lifetime he kept success tied to
the leg of his easel with a blue ribbon. If ever a writing man had success
tied to the leg of his easy chair, that man was Macaulay. In the
characters and careers of Rubens and Macaulay there is a marked
resemblance.

When Macaulay was twenty-two he was at Cambridge, and the tidings arrived
that a dire financial storm had wrecked the family fortune. The young man
had ever been led to suppose that his father was rich--rich beyond all
danger from loss--and that he himself would never have a concern beyond
amusing himself, and the cultivation of his intellect. And so in practical
affairs his education had been sadly neglected. But when the news of
calamity came, instead of being depressed, he was elated to think that now
he could make himself positively useful.

Responsibility gravitates to the man who can shoulder it. Strong men who
can wisely direct the efforts of others are always needed--they were
needed in Eighteen Hundred Twenty-two, when Tom Macaulay received word of
his father's trouble--they are needed today more than then--men who meet
calamity with a smile and are pleased at sight of obstacles, knowing they
can overcome them. Augustine Birrell has written, "Macaulay always went
his sublime way rejoicing like a strong man to run a race, knowing full
well that he could give anybody five 

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