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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5946fdd --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53524 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53524) diff --git a/old/53524-0.txt b/old/53524-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3b14f5c..0000000 --- a/old/53524-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3521 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's A Persian Pearl and Other Essays, by Clarence S. Darrow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: A Persian Pearl and Other Essays - -Author: Clarence S. Darrow - -Release Date: November 13, 2016 [EBook #53524] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PERSIAN PEARL AND OTHER ESSAYS *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - - A PERSIAN PEARL - AND OTHER ESSAYS - - BY - CLARENCE S. DARROW - -[Illustration] - - CHICAGO - C. L. RICKETTS - MDCCCCII - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Copyright - 1899 - Clarence S. Darrow - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS - - - 1 A Persian Pearl 9 - - 2 Walt Whitman 43 - - 3 Robert Burns 77 - - 4 Realism in Literature and Art 107 - - 5 The Skeleton in the Closet 139 - - - - - A · PERSIAN · PEARL - - -[Illustration] - - - - - A PERSIAN PEARL - - -The reader and observer is constantly reminded that “there is nothing -new under the sun.” We no sooner find some rare gem of thought or -expression than we discover that it is only an old diamond, polished -anew, perhaps, and offered as an original stone. Neither the reader nor -the writer is always aware that the gem is antique and the setting alone -is new. - -The rich mine where the treasure was first found was exhausted in a few -brief years, and then became like all the dust of all the worlds; but -the gem polished and worn by time and use, ever sparkles and shines, -regardless of the fact that the miner’s name is forgotten and his work -alone remains. Thus Nature, the great communist, provides that the -treasures of genius, like her own bountiful gifts of sunlight, rain and -air, shall remain the common property of all her children while any -dwell upon the earth. - -Current literature seems to point to the ascendancy of what is often -termed the “pessimistic school.” In one sense this philosophy uncrowns -man and places him in his proper relation to the great universe, of -which he is so small a part; but while it makes less of man, it expects -less from him, and covers his deeds with that cloak of charity, which is -the legitimate garment of the great Unknown. But these modern -reflections on life and its problems, its purposes and lessons, are far -from new. Without venturing a guess as to their origin or age, we take -up that old Persian Pearl,—the “Rubaiyat,” and find on its musty pages -the great thoughts and searching questions, which have ever returned to -man since the intellect was born, and which will still remain unanswered -when the last word shall have been spoken, and the race have run its -course. - -It is nearly eight hundred years since Omar Khayyam, the Persian -astronomer, philosopher, and poet, mused and wrote upon the uncertainty -of life, the eternity of time and the mutability of human things. Since -the rose bush was planted above his grave, the material world has been -almost made anew. Art and literature have given countless treasures to -the earth, and science has solved its mysteries without end. But the -riddles of existence—the problems of life, the deep heart of the -universe, the cause and purpose and end of all, are mysteries as dark -and inscrutable as they were eight centuries ago. To quote from the -Rubaiyat: - - There was the Door to which I found no Key; - There was the Veil thro’ which I could not see: - Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee - There was—and then no more of Thee and Me. - -As Egypt is the newest country visited by the traveler, so this old -book, burnished by the genius of FitzGerald, comes to us as the latest -and profoundest word upon the infinite mysteries which over-shadow human -life. It seems to be the last word, rather than one of the first, spoken -to the perplexed soul of man, calling him from the vain pursuit of -vanities, and asking what all of it is about. - -To an egoistic, boasting age and nation, this message, coming from a far -off time and a distant land, reminds us that all wisdom is garnered -neither now nor here. This Persian Pearl remained unpolished for more -than seven hundred years. It was left for Edward FitzGerald carefully -and patiently to burnish up the gem, and make it the thing of beauty -that we know. - -It may be that research and study would reveal much of the personal -traits and private life of the great Persian philosopher, whose fame has -so outlived his clay, but with these we can have no concern. It is not -important to know his parents, or whether he had a wife or children, or -cattle or lands. All of these are gone and only his work remains. True, -we cannot but reflect on the personality of the poet in whose brain -these great thoughts were born, but we can know the man only by knowing -his works. Some there are who stand at a distance and view the acts of -the imperfect beings, who at the best stumble and grope along the -uncertain path between the cradle and the grave. All the footsteps that -are straight and true are unnoticed as they pass by, but the irregular, -uncertain, shifting tracks stand out alone to mark the character of the -pilgrim, who bore his heavy load the best he could. These forget that -every son of man travels an unbeaten path—a road beset with dangers and -temptations that no other wanderer met; that his footsteps can be judged -only in the full knowledge of the strength and light he had, the burden -that he carried, the obstacles and temptations that he met, and a -thorough knowledge of every open and secret motive that impelled him -here or there. - -That Omar’s steps were often winding and devious, and like those of all -other mortal men, we gather from his words. No doubt his neighbors -delighted in gossiping about the great philosopher, and his reputation -was often tarnished by their idle words. These slanderers have been long -forgotten—they could not live upon the great name they sullied, and we -should not even know he was their prey except for lines like these: - - Indeed the Idols I have loved so long - Have done my credit in Men’s eyes much wrong; - Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup, - And sold my reputation for a Song. - -Eight hundred years ago, as to-day, the love of wine was one of the -chief weaknesses of the flesh. Doubtless the other frailties of human -nature are of substantially the same kind as eight centuries ago, for -while man may change the fashion of his garment or religion, nature is -ever consistent and persistent, and is the same yesterday, to-day and -forever. But our old human philosopher, like our modern human men, saw -the folly of his ways, and made many a brave resolve, but these good -intentions and solemn purposes melted in the sunshine then the same as -now. - - Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before - I swore—but was I sober when I swore? - And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand - My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. - -But Omar was greater than most of the weak and sinning children of -to-day. His own frailties taught him the rare lesson, that of all the -virtues, charity is the chiefest! And as we read the wondrous product of -his brain and understand the thoughts that stirred his being, we can -know the man better than his neighbors who judged a great soul by the -narrow vision of sordid minds. We know that his purpose was lofty, and -above all the mists and conflicting emotions and desires of his life he -rose majestic and supreme, unsullied by the specks that can only mar the -weak. Let us turn then to the philosophy and poetry of this great soul -to know the man, and as figs are not gathered of thistles, we may be -sure that broad thoughts, high aspirations, and tender charity are born -only of great minds and rare men. - -To Omar Khayyam, the so-called sins of men were not crimes, but -weaknesses inherent in their being and beyond their power to prevent or -overcome. He knew that man could not separate himself from all the rest -of nature; and that the rules and conditions of his being were as fixed -and absolute as the revolutions of the planets and the changing seasons -of the year. Above man and his works he saw the heavy hand of destiny, -ever guiding and controlling, ever moving its creature forward to the -inevitable fate that all the centuries had placed in store for the -helpless captive, marching shackled to the block. - -There have ever been two views of life. Both philosophies have been made -by man and mostly for him. One places him above all the rest of the -universe, whose infinite mysteries are constantly revolving and changing -before his hazy, wondering gaze. The portion of the world that comes -nearest to his eyes he cannot understand, and his own existence is a -riddle that all the ages have not solved. And yet, amidst it all, one -system teaches that man rules supreme,—and the fate of all the worlds, -or of all that may exist thereon, has no relation to his own. The other -peers into the thick darkness that hangs above, and can see no light, it -does not understand and will not guess; the endless mysteries are not -for mortal man to solve. Its devotees feel themselves part of a mighty -whole, and are powerless to separate their lives from all the rest, and -would not dare to undertake it if they could. They know that in the -great, unlimited universe they are less than the tiniest bubble in the -wildest, angriest sea. That in the words of the Rubaiyat: - - We are no other than a moving row - Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go - Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held - In Midnight by the Master of the Show. - -Omar Khayyam was probably not the first, certainly not the last, to feel -the impotence of man in the great power which animates the whole. He -could have no faith in the cruel religious tenets, which eight centuries -ago in Persia, as ever since in the Christian world, have taught the -responsibility of the helpless victim for the great, blind work in which -he had no part. He seemed to think that back of all the universe, some -intelligent power moved and controlled the world for some purpose -unknown to all except himself, but he could not think that man was in -any way accountable for the whole. To him, the great master sent us here -or there to suit his will, and it was left for us only to obey his -mighty power. The individual units of humanity were to him only: - - Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays - Upon this checker-board of Nights and Days; - Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, - And one by one back in the Closet lays. - -Even this does not sufficiently express his thought of man’s absolute -irresponsibility for his acts. - -We have all met the parallel drawn between man and the pottery fashioned -by the moulder from the clay. Perhaps there is no better illustration of -the helplessness of the human being in the hands of the power that -fashioned and shaped him, even ages before his birth,—the uncontrollable -force that determined the length of his body, the color of his hair, the -size and shape of his brain and the contour of his face. But the -comparison made in the beautiful stanza wrought by Omar, and retouched -and gilded by the magic of FitzGerald, is wondrously powerful and fine. -The poet ranges his poor pieces of pottery in line, each representing a -man; each imperfect in structure or form, like all the other creatures -ever made. These poor, imperfect vessels, fresh from the potter, each -pleads its cause and makes excuses for its faults. - - After a momentary silence spake - Some vessel of a more ungainly Make: - “They sneer at me for leaning all awry: - What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?” - -When will humanity be great enough and good enough to distinguish -between the fault of the potter and the fault of the pot! When can it -look over the myriads of human beings, each with his flaws and -limitations, and pity instead of blame! - -The history of the past is a record of man’s cruel inhumanity to man; of -one imperfect vessel accusing and shattering another for the faults of -both. In ancient times and amongst savage tribes, the old, the infirm, -and the diseased were led out and put to death; even later, the maniac -and imbecile were fettered, chained, beaten, and imprisoned because they -were different from other men. The world has grown a little wiser, and -perhaps humaner, as the centuries have passed away. We have learned to -build asylums, and treat the afflicted with tenderness and care. We have -learned not to blame the dwarf for his stature; the hunchback for his -load; the deaf because they cannot hear, and the blind because they -cannot see. We do not expect the midget to carry the giant’s load, or -the cripple to triumph in a contest of speed. We establish a regulation -size for policemen and soldiers, but we do not put a man to death -because his stature is below the standard fixed. We forgive the size of -the foot, the length of the arm, the shade of the hair, the color of the -eye, and even the form of the skull. But, while we do not blame a man -because he has an ill-shaped head, we punish him because the brain -within conforms to the bone which molds its form. The world has made -guns and swords, racks and dungeons, chains and whips, blocks and -gibbets, and to these have dragged an endless procession thro’ all the -past. It has penned and maimed, tortured and killed, because the -potter’s work was imperfect and the clay was weak. During all the ages -it has punished mental deformity as a crime, and without pity or regret -has crushed the imperfect vessels beneath its feet. Every jail, every -scaffold, every victim—is a monument to its cruelty and blind -unreasoning wrath. Whether it was a fire kindled to burn a heretic in -Geneva,—a gibbet erected to kill a witch in Salem,—or a scaffold made to -put to death an ordinary “criminal,” it has ever been the same,—the -punishment of the creature for the creator’s fault. There might be some -excuse if man could turn from the frail, cracked vessels, and bring to -trial the great potter for the imperfect work of his hand. - -But we live in the shadows; we can see only the causes and effects that -are the closest to our eyes. If the clouds would rise, and the sun shine -bright, and our vision reach out into time and space, we might find that -these cracked vessels serve as high a purpose in a great, broad scheme, -as the finest clay, wrought in the most beautiful and perfect form. The -following stanza was born of this philosophy and would inevitably come -from the broad, charitable brain that had studied the creeds that told -of the cruelty of the great Maker, but whose brain and conscience had -not been stunted and warped by their palsying dogmas: - - Then said a Second—“Ne’er a peevish Boy - Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; - And he that with his hand the Vessel made - Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.” - -The cruel religious dogmas, which in Omar’s land and Age, as in our own, -blackened both man and his Maker, had no terrors for a soul like his. He -could not believe in eternal punishment. The doctrine was a slander, -alike to God and man. He felt something of the greatness of a force that -could permeate and move the countless worlds, which make up the -limitless, unfathomed infinite we call the Universe. He saw in man one -of the smallest and most insignificant toys created by this power to -serve some unknown end; and he could not believe that the Master-Builder -would demand of his imperfect children more than he had furnished them -the strength to give. His faith in the justice of man’s case before the -great Judge is shown in the following stanza: - - Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin - Beset the Road I was to wander in, - Thou wilt not with Predestin’d Evil round - Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin! - -But even more strongly he presents the case of God against man, and man -against God, for all the crimes and miseries and sufferings of the -world. It would doubtless be difficult in all the literature of the -earth to find a juster, bolder statement of the old question of the -responsibility for sin. To some minds, this strong expression may seem -like blasphemy, but it is manly and courageous, logical and just. - - Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make - And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake; - For all the Sin wherewith the face of Man - Is blacken’d—Man’s forgiveness give—and take! - -This is not the cringing prayer of the coward, who asks God’s -forgiveness to appease his wrath, but the utterance of a noble soul, who -asks forgiveness for the shortcomings of his life, and at the same time -pardons his Maker for creating him as he did. The world has heard much -of man’s duty to God, of the responsibility which the unconsulted, -fragile children of a day owe to the power that is responsible for all. -It is time we heard more of the duty of God to man; the responsibility -of the Creator for making “conscious something” out of unthinking, -unfeeling clay. - - “Oh, many a cup of this forbidden Wine - Must drown the memory of that insolence!” - -The world has talked the same nonsense of the duty of children to -parents. It has taught this, because parents are larger, and have the -brute power to compel obedience to their demands. All the duties are -from parents to children,—from those who thoughtlessly, wantonly, to -satisfy their own desires, call into conscious being a human life,—send -another soul with all its responsibilities out on the great, wide sea, -to be tossed and buffeted and torn, until, mangled and dead, it is -thrown out upon the sands to bleach. - -But after all, whether it was wise or unwise, just or unjust, we have -been placed upon the earth as sentient beings and charged with the -responsibilities of life; and practical philosophy asks the question, -what does it mean, and how shall we take the journey which a higher -power has decreed that we shall make? - -The poet and the dreamer and the copy book have told us much of the -meaning of life. We often repeat these lessons to make ourselves believe -them true. When we feel a doubt casting its shadow across our path, we -read them once again to drive the doubt away; and yet, in spite of all, -we know absolutely nothing of the scheme, or whether there is any kind -of plan. We are only whistlers passing through a graveyard, with our -ears tied close and our eyes shut fast. It would surely be as well to -step boldly up and read the inscription on the marble tomb and then walk -round and look at the vacant, grinning space upon the other side, calmly -waiting to record our name. - -Measured by the philosophy of to-day, Omar Khayyam was a pessimist; he -was not gifted with second sight. He saw no spooks and ghosts, and he -would not look out into the midnight, and declare that his eyes -discerned a glorious rainbow, bright with fresh colors and unbounded -hopes. All the proud promises and brave assumptions and false theories -of the world were to him a mockery and a sham. The mysticisms of -religion and philosophy alike were hollow and bare. The “jarring sects” -and quibbling doctors, with their fine-spun webs, were worthy the -attention only of children and professors. This is the way he put them -down: - - Myself when young did eagerly frequent - Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument - About it and about; but evermore - Came out by the same door wherein I went. - -While it is true that in the common meaning Omar was a pessimist, still -this word, like many others, is rarely well defined. All men understand -the uncertainties of life, the disappointments and troubles of -existence, and the infinitesimal time that is reluctantly parceled out -to each mortal from the eternity that had no beginning and will have no -end. The pessimist looks at all the hurry and rush, the torment and -strife, the ambitions and disappointments that are the common lot, and -can see no prizes so tempting as rest and peace. He makes the most of -what he has, and looks contentedly forward to the long sleep that brings -relief at last. - -Omar Khayyam was not deceived by all the glitter and bustle of the -world. He saw the stage from behind the curtain, as well as from the -circle before the scenes. He looked on the great surging mass of men, -ever pulling and pushing, striving and trying, working and fighting, as -if all eternity was theirs in which to build, and all unmindful of the -silent bookkeeper, who could be deceived by no false entries, and ever -remembered to demand his dues. Of life he said: - - ‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest - A Sultan to the Realm of Death addrest; - The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash - Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest. - -In the presence of all that the world had to offer,—while honors and -glories fell fast upon his head, he still could not close his eyes to -the facts of existence, and the mortality of human things. It may be -that he mused too much upon the great fact that ever sternly faces -life,—the great being before whom all monarchs bow, and in whose -presence all crowns are shattered. To the boasting and forgetful, these -words may not be pleasant, but they still are true: - - Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d - Of the Two worlds so learnedly are thrust - Like foolish Prophets forth; their words to Scorn - Are scatter’d and their Mouths are stopt with Dust. - -Neither the great nor the good could avoid the common fate; the -unyielding messenger came alike to call the proud Sultan and the good -and kindly friend. - - For some we loved, the loveliest and the best - That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest, - Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, - And one by one crept silently to rest. - -Death is so common that we sometimes wonder why men make plans,—why they -ever toil or spin. But, of course, we can see only the leaves that fall -from other stalks. Rarely do we feel that all this has a personal -meaning, and that our turn soon must come. Omar looked at the stricken -friends around him, and thus mused: - - Whether at Naishapur or Babylon, - Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, - The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, - The leaves of Life keep falling one by one. - -It has never required the great or the learned to note the constant -falling of the leaves and the ceaseless running of the sands. It is -mainly from this that systems of religion have been evolved. Man has -ever sought to make himself believe that these things are not what they -seem; that, in reality, death is only birth, and the body but a prison -for the soul. This may be true, but the constant cries and pleadings of -the ages have brought back no answering sound to prove that death is -anything but death. - -Our old philosopher could not accept these pleasing creeds on faith. He -preferred to plant his feet upon the shifting doubtful sands, rather -than deceive himself by alluring and delusive hopes. Upon the old -question of immortality, he could answer only what he knew, and this is -what he said: - - Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who - Before us pass’d the door of Darkness through - Not one returns to tell us of the Road - Which to discover we must travel too. - -This stanza is perhaps gloomy and hopeless, but it is thoughtful, and -brave, and beautiful. We may seek to be children if we will, but -whatever our desires, we cannot strangle the questions that ever rise -before our minds and will not be put away. To our own souls we should be -just and true. Peace and comfort, when gained at the sacrifice of -courage and integrity, are purchased at too high a price. The truth -alone can make us free, and - - “One flash of it within the tavern caught - Better than in the Temple lost outright.” - -Yes, one flash of the true light is better than all the creeds and -dogmas. It is better, even though these hold out the fairest prospects -and the brightest dreams, and the flash of true light is only the -blackest midnight. - -Not only would Omar take away the hope of Heaven, but he leaves us with -little to boast while we live upon the earth. Our short, obscure -existence is not felt or noticed in the great sweep of time and the -resistless movement of the years. Along the pathway of the world we -leave scarce a footprint, and our loudest voice and bravest words are as -completely lost as if spoken in the presence of Niagara’s roar. - - And fear not lest Existence closing your - Account and mine, should know the like no more; - The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour’d - Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour. - -The weakness and littleness of man has been the subject of endless words -before and since, but never has poet put it more strongly than here. The -Eternal Saki—the great wine pourer, tips his pitcher and turns out -millions of bubbles, and still they come forever, and each of us is one. - -But however brave and stoical Omar seems to be, still he feels sad when -witnessing the flight of years and the ravages of time. It is, of -course, useless to fight the inevitable, and the strongest will must -bend and break before the weakening touch of age. Whether it is good or -bad, all cling to existence, and sadly and reluctantly let go the -tendrils that hold to pulsing life. The fading of Spring and youth, and -the coming of Autumn with its suggestions of the approaching end, is -most beautiful and touching in this marvelous book: - - Yet, Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! - That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close! - The Nightingale that in the branches sang, - Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows! - -This strain of sadness is sincere and true. To recognize the inevitable -and not pretend to deceive one’s self is one thing, but to think that -all is just and wise and best may be quite another. Omar felt that fate -was inexorable, relentless and hard. - - The moving Finger writes; and having writ, - Moves on; nor all your piety nor Wit - Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, - Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. - -He would have tempered her hardness with a little human love and tender -pity, and bade the great Recorder leave much untold. He recognized the -fact that the scheme could not be changed, and that even our brief -existence depended upon our subservience to the great will that would -neither break nor bend; but he still regretted that it was not better -and kinder and more forgiving than it is. There is almost a wail in the -strain of sadness in which he laments the rigor of unyielding fate. - - Would that some winged Angel ere too late - Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of fate, - And make the stern Recorder otherwise - Enregister, or quite obliterate! - - Ah Love! could you and I with him conspire - To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, - Would we not shatter it to bits—and then - Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire? - -It is impossible to live to a moderate age without forming some idea of -the conduct of life; this may be practical or theoretical, or both. But -either with or without consciousness we construct some plan of life and -its purpose, and our daily conduct conforms more or less closely to the -theory that we accept. The religionist teaches that the hope of future -rewards and punishments must be kept before the mind, or man would give -himself completely to indulgence, and the race would die. This theory -loses sight of the fact that Nature herself is constantly wiping out -those who defy her laws, and preserving longest those who conform to the -conditions she has imposed. Excesses of all kinds destroy and weaken -existence, and bring the natural penalty, which leaves only the more -rational and temperate to perpetuate life upon the earth. Of course -these observations apply, not to the fashions and forms and conventions -of man, except so far as these conform to the unbending laws of nature, -which must ever be supreme. - -From Omar Khayyam’s views of life, he could not but think that it was -the duty of every pilgrim to get the most he could in his journey -through the world. But, really, all accept this obvious fact. The -Religionist says merely that man should be less happy here,—that his -enjoyment may be the greater in the world to come. It is not in the -theory as to life’s purpose that men have differed, but as to the -conduct that really brings the greatest happiness when the last balance -has been struck, and the book is forever closed. Our poet could not see -the days and years go by and life’s sands swiftly running out, and still -postpone all enjoyment to some far off, misty time. He believed in the -reality of to-day, and that beyond the present all was but a vision and -a dream. In his day, as in ours, the priests held out the hope of heaven -and fear of hell, to keep the wanderer in the narrow path. But Omar was -a philosopher and astronomer. He peered into the infinite depths of -endless space, and could see only moving, whirling worlds like ours, and -could find no place for heaven or hell. What the mysteries of astronomy -could not reveal, the theories of life left equally in the dark. While -he refused to be moved by a literal heaven and hell, he yet felt a deep -meaning attached to these old religious views. The humane, progressive -thinkers of to-day have scarcely gone beyond this old seer, who lived -eight centuries ago and pondered the same problems over which our -theologians wrangle now. The following stanza gives an interpretation of -these religious dogmas, which for beauty and breadth and insight seems -to be the latest product of ethical, religious thought, instead of the -musty musings of an old pagan, who has been dust almost eight hundred -years: - - I sent my Soul through the Invisible, - Some letter of that After-Life to spell; - And by and by my Soul returned to me, - And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell.” - -If these places are but states of consciousness, it of course must -follow that we make our own heaven and hell, and it is, therefore, the -right and duty of each, not to wait for some dreamy mirage born of old -superstition, unmanly fear, and unfounded faith, but to take the -present, fleeting moment, and with it do the best we can. This stanza -may seem painfully sad and hopeless, but it contains the true philosophy -of life: - - Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, - Before we too into the Dust descend; - Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie, - Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End! - -Not only is the present the all important time, but the realities know -nothing except the present. There is no moment but the one that’s -here,—the past is gone, the next one has not come, and he that misses -the present loses all there is. - - Some for the Glories of This World, and some - Sigh for the Prophet’s paradise to come; - Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, - Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! - -As to how the pleasures of life are to be found, men never have agreed -and never can. Our view of pleasure, like our feelings and emotions, -grows from the condition of our being, and is the result of causes that -we did not create and cannot control. Some there are who look at all the -strife and suffering of the world, and feel no kinship to the great, -surging mass that moves and feels and thinks. These walk silently along -the path alone, oblivious alike to the pleasures and the sufferings of -the world around. Others there are whose souls are so sensitive that -they feel the joys and sorrows of the world, and who cannot separate -their lives from all the sentient, moving things that teem and swarm -upon the earth. Both can and must feel those appetites and desires that -are ever incident to being. Without these, nature could neither bring -life upon the earth nor sustain it when it came. It is in the balancing -of these feelings that nature almost necessarily makes the imperfect -man. Unless the emotions and desires are sufficiently developed, the -creature is cold, impassive, pulseless clay. If too much developed, it -runs the risk of sacrificing the higher emotions and more lasting -enjoyments to the fleeting, sensual pleasures of the hour. Almost every -person must stand upon one side or the other of this shadowy line, which -no man can see, and which he would have no power to cross, even if he -knew where it ran. - -Perhaps the Rubaiyat shows too much leaning toward the sensual; too -great fondness for the vine. Some of the allusions were perhaps -symbolical, but still, Omar doubtless was very fond of wine and found in -its use one of the chief purposes of life. Philosophy and theology could -not satisfy his mind. These furnished only visionary, inconsistent -theories of existence, utterly barren and futile,—wholly purposeless and -wrong. After studying and wrangling and disputing, he threw them to the -winds and reached out for the realities,—however transitory and -unsatisfactory these realities seemed to be. His exchange of theories -and mysticisms for wine may be symbolical or not, but whether literal or -figurative, he could hardly be cheated by the trade. This is the way he -relates the story of his change of heart: - - You know, My Friends, with what a brave Carouse - I made a Second Marriage in my house; - Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, - And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse. - -After throwing the theoretical philosophy to the winds, he turned to the -vine to learn what life really meant. No doubt, the vessel here is -figuratively used. It might mean a wine cup, it might mean feeding a -beggar, it might mean a warm room and comfortable dress. It meant -something besides the intangible, barren theories, which have ever -furnished theologians and professors with the pleasing occupation of -splitting hairs and quibbling about the meaning of terms. - - Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn - I lean’d, the secret of my Life to learn; - And Lip to Lip it murmur’d—“While you live, - Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.” - -Neither would it do to postpone the pleasures of the wine,—time is -fleeting, and every hour may be the last. Life has no space for -resolutions or regrets. These only rob existence of a portion of the -poor prizes that she stingily scatters into the ring to be fought and -scrambled after by the crowd. - - Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring - Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling; - The Bird of Time has but a little way - To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing. - -It is not the dainty sipping of the wine that our poet commends for the -peace of the soul, but the giving up of self to the enjoyment of the -hour,—the complete abandonment that forgets time and space and eternity, -and knows only the moment that is. - - Perplext no more with Human or Divine, - To-morrow’s tangle to the winds resign, - And lose your fingers in the tresses of - The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine. - -This stanza may mean wine,—it may mean any strong purpose, or intense -emotion that takes possession of our life,—that makes us its devoted -slave, anxious to dare or suffer for the privilege of enlisting in a -cause. That Omar knew something of life’s pleasures and realities, -besides the wine he lauded, is apparent from his work. His insight was -so deep that he could not be deceived by the tinsel and glitter and -trappings that make up the vain show with which men deceive others, and -attempt to beguile themselves. In Persia eight hundred years ago, there -were probably no twenty-story buildings, no railroads, nor street cars, -nor telegraph wires; perhaps no chambers of commerce, nor banks; but no -doubt these old Mohammedans had much as useless and vain and artificial -as these inventions of a later day. There was then, as now, the master -with all the false luxury that idleness could create in that land and -time; there was also, as to-day, the hopeless slave, whose only purpose -on the earth was to minister to the parasite and knave; and both of -these, master and man alike, were helpless prisoners in the schemes and -devices, the machinery and inventions, the worthless appendages and -appliances that bound and enslaved them, and that have held the world -with ever increasing strength to the present day. - -But Omar knew that all of this was a delusion and a snare;—that it -failed of the purpose that it meant to serve. He turned from these -vanities to a simpler, saner life, and found the sweetest and most -lasting pleasures close to the heart of that great nature, to which man -must return from all his devious wanderings, like the lost child that -comes back to its mother’s breast. What simpler and higher happiness has -all the artificial civilization of the world been able to create than -this: - - A Book of Verses underneath the bough, - A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou - Beside me singing in the Wilderness— - Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow. - -It is these bright spots in life’s desert that make us long to stay. -These hours of friendship and close companionship of congenial souls -that seem the only pleasures that are real, and from which no regrets -can come. It is away from the bustle and glare of the world, above its -petty strifes, and its cruel taunts, in the quiet and trust of true -comradeship, that we forget the evil and fall in love with life. And our -old philosopher, with all his pessimism, with all his doubts and -disappointments, knew that here was the greatest peace and happiness -that weary, mortal man could know. In the presence of the friends he -loved, and the comradeship of congenial lives, he could not but regret -the march of time and the flight of years, which heralded the coming of -the end. Poor Omar was like all the rest that ever lived—he looked -forward into the dark, unknown sea, and shuddered as he felt the rising -water on his feet. - -All of us know how small and worthless are our lives when measured by -the infinite bubbles poured out by the great creative power. All know -that we shall quickly sink into the great dark sea and the waves will -close above us as if we had not been. And yet we do not really think of -the world as moving on the same when we have spoken our last lines and -retired behind the scenes. To the world we are little,—to ourselves we -are all. We almost hope that for a time at least we shall be -missed,—that some souls shall sorrow and some lives feel pain. We hope -that here and there some pilgrim will tell of a burden that we helped -him bear, or a road we tried to smooth. That sometime when the merry -feast is on, a former friend shall feel a momentary shadow rest upon his -heart at the thought of the face he used to know and the voice that now -is still. Thus Omar and FitzGerald mused and hoped and told in -beautiful, pathetic lines: - - Yon rising Moon that looks for us again— - How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; - How oft hereafter rising look for us - Through this same Garden—and for one in vain! - - And when like her, O Saki, you shall pass - Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass, - And in your blissful errand reach the spot - Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass! - - - - - WALT - WHITMAN - - -[Illustration] - - - - - WALT WHITMAN - - -The work of Whitman stands alone in the literature of the world. Both in -substance and construction he ignored all precedents and dared to be -himself. All the rules of form and taste must be unlearned before the -world can accept his style as true literary art. Still it may be that -Walt Whitman was a poet, and that sometime the world will look back and -marvel at the mechanical precision and glittering polish that confines -and emasculates for the sake of a purely artificial form. - -Measured by the common rules, Whitman’s work is neither poetry nor -prose; it is remotely allied to the wild chanting of the primitive -bards, who looked about at the fresh new marvels of earth and sky and -sea, and unhampered by forms and rules and customs, sang of the miracles -of the universe and the mysteries of life. Whitman seems one of those -old bards, fresh from the hand of nature, young with the first creation, -the newest handwork of the great Master, untaught in any schools, -unfettered by any of the myriad chords, which time is ever weaving about -the brains and hearts and consciences of men as the world grows gray; a -primitive bard of nature, born by some chance or accident in this old, -tired, worn-out world, dropped into this Nineteenth century with its -machines and conventions, its artificial life, its unnatural morals and -its fettered limbs. He alone in all the ages seems to have been -specially given to the world, still fresh with the imprint of the -Creator’s hand, and standing amid all our false conventions, natural, -simple, true, “naked and not ashamed.” To the world with its crowded -cities, its diseased bodies, its unnatural desires, its narrow religion, -and its false morals, he comes like a breeze of the morning, from the -mountains or the sea. Aye, like a breath of that great, creative life, -which touched the fresh world and brought forth the green grass, the -sparkling waters and the growing, beauteous, natural earth. - -No one ever fell in love with Whitman’s work for its literary art, but -his work must live or die because of his philosophy of life and the -material he chose from which to weave his songs. It is in his whole -point of view that Walt Whitman stands so much alone. No one else has -ever looked on the universe and life as this man did. If religion means -devotion to that great unseen power that is ever manifest in all of -nature’s works, then Walt Whitman was the most reverent soul that ever -lived. This man alone of all the world dared defend the Creator in every -part and parcel of his work. The high mountains, the deep valleys, the -broad plains and the wide seas; the feelings, the desires, and the -passions of man; all forms of life and being that exist upon the earth, -were to him but several manifestations of a great creative power that -formed them all alike, made each one needful to the whole, and every -portion sacred through its Master’s stamp. - - And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present and can be - none in the future, - And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn’d to - beautiful results, - And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death. - - And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are - compact, - And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as - profound as any. - I will not make poems with reference to parts. - But I will make poems, songs, thoughts, with reference to ensemble, - And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to all - days. - -Whitman’s philosophy knew no evil and no wrong. The fact of existence -proved the right of existence; in the great workshop of nature every -tool had its special use and its rightful place. - -The imperfections of the world come from the narrow visions of men. If -the perspective is right, the universe is right. From the narrow valley -the house may look old and worn, the fences decayed, the fields barren, -the woods scraggy and the cliff ragged and bare; but climb to the only -place where either life or landscape can be rightly seen, the mountain -top, and look once more. The hills, the valley, the stream, the woods, -and the farms have melted and blended into one harmonious whole, and -every imperfection has been swept away. The universe is filled with -myriad worlds as important as our own, each one a tiny floating speck in -an endless sea of space—each whirling, turning, moving on and on and on, -through the countless ages, past and yet to come. No one can tell the -purpose of their tireless, endless flight through space; but still we -know that each has an orbit of its own, and every world is related to -the rest, and every grain of sand and the weakest, feeblest spark of -power has its needful place in the balance of the whole. So all of good, -and all of bad, and all of life, and all of death, and all of all, has -the right to be and must needs be. Walt Whitman did not even know how to -divide the evil from the good, but he sang them both alike. - - I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of - wickedness also. - What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? - Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent. - -The universe can make no mistakes, every particle of energy that has -permeated the world since time began, has been working toward a -completer system and a more harmonious whole. There is a soul of truth -in error; there is a soul of good in evil. From the trials and sorrows -and disappointments of life, even from its bitterness and doubt and sin, -are often born the holiest desires, the sincerest endeavors and the most -righteous deeds. - - Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse - unreturn’d love, - But now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is certain one way - or another, - (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return’d, - Yet out of that I have written these songs.) - -This is the old, old philosophy, ever forgotten, yet ever present. It is -sure in the world of mechanics, it is equally true in the world of -morals and of life. Nothing is lost; the force that once was heat is -transformed to light; the flood that destroyed the grain, comes at last -to turn the miller’s wheel. What we call sin and evil make the -experiences of life and go to the upbuilding of character and the -development of man. We can know only what we have felt, and however much -we try to deceive others, we can tell only of the experiences we -ourselves have had. The poorest life is the one that has no tale to -tell. In the doubts and darkness of life, in the turbulence of mind and -the anguish of the soul, it is most consoling to feel that resignation -and confidence which comes from a realization that all is right and that -you are master of yourself and at peace with God and man. This calm, -optimistic, self-reliant philosophy is ever present with its consoling -power in all Walt Whitman’s work. - - I have said that the soul is not more than the body, - And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, - And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is, - And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral - drest in his shroud, - - And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth, - And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the - learning of all times, - And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d - universe, - And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed - before a million universes. - - And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, - For I who am curious about each, am not curious about God, - (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about - death). - - I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the - least, - Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. - - Why should I wish to see God better than this day? - I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four and each moment - then, - In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the - glass, - I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by - God’s name, - And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er I go, - Others will punctually come for ever and ever. - -This is not the boasting of the ignorant egotist who vaunts himself -above his fellow man, but the calm, conscious serenity of a great soul, -who has learned the patient philosophy of life. - -There is an egotism that is cheap and vulgar and born of ignorance -alone. There is an egotism that comes from the knowledge that after all -what we are depends not upon the estimate of the world, but upon the -integrity and character of ourselves. This consciousness of individual -worth brings that peace of soul, “which the world can neither give nor -take away.” - - I know I am august, - I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, - I see that the elementary laws never apologize, - (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after - all), - I exist as I am, that is enough, - If no other in the world be aware I sit content. - - One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself; - And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million - years, - I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. - - My foothold is tennon’d and mortis’d in granite, - I laugh at what you call dissolution, - And I know the amplitude of time. - -Happy is the man that has climbed to the height on which Walt Whitman -stood. Happy is he that has mastered the haste and impatience of youth, -and is content to bide his time. Happy is he that has so far solved the -problem of life as to know that reward is not received from others and -cannot be withheld by others, but can be given only by ourselves. Such a -man has struck the subtle harmony which unites his soul with the -universal life and he knows that no one but himself can cut the cord. - -To a great mass of men and women, Walt Whitman is known almost alone by -that portion of his work called “Children of Adam.” These poems have -called forth the fiercest opposition and the bitterest denunciation, and -if the common judgment is correct, they are obscene and vile. While this -portion of his book is by far the smallest part, still, before the court -of public opinion, he must stand or fall upon these lines. In one sense -public opinion is right, for unless these stanzas can be defended, his -point of view is wrong, and Walt Whitman’s work will die. We need not -accept all he did, or give unstinted praise to all his work, but his -scheme is consistent in every portion of his thought, and his point of -view will determine the place he shall fill in art and life. - -It is in this work that the courage and personality of Whitman towers so -high above every other man that ever wrote. It is easy for the essayist -to speak in general terms and glittering phrases in defense of Whitman’s -work. His defenders have been many, but he alone has had the courage to -speak. - -It is not difficult to insist that his “A Woman Waits for Me” is a -tremendous work, and as pure as nature’s generating power. Still perhaps -few would dare to read it aloud in an assembly of men and women. If -Whitman is right, the world is wrong. This poem, and others of its like, -in plain words deals of the deepest, strongest, most persistent feelings -that move the sentient world. In proportion as they are deeper and -stronger than any other, they should the more be the subject of thought -and art. And still ages of established convention have made the world -pretend ignorance until no one dares defend his right to life but this -brave and simple man. - -In both England and America, narrow interpretations of morality have -almost stifled art. As remarked by a leading novelist—“All our -literature is addressed to the young school girl.” If it will not pass -muster before her eyes, it has no right to live, and almost no English -or American author has been great enough to rise above these narrow -conventions and write the natural and true. The artists of continental -Europe have been less fettered and have taken us over a broader range -and a wider field. Still while these authors have told more of life, -they have treated these tremendous subjects by drawing the curtain only -a little way aside, and giving us a curious, perverted, half stolen -look, as if they knew that the picture was unholy and therefore tempting -to the gaze. But Walt Whitman approached the human body and the -mysteries of life from an entirely different view. - - If anything is sacred, the human body is sacred, - And the glory and sweet of man is the token of manhood untainted, - And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful - than the most beautiful face. - -If Walt Whitman could have drawn the veil from the universe and shown us -the living God in all his majesty and power, he would have approached -his throne with no greater reverence than when he stripped the human -body and pointed to its every part fresh and sacred from its Maker’s -hand. - -No true system of life and morals will exist until the holiest feelings -and most potent and eternal power is openly recognized and discussed -with neither jest nor shame. - -Walt Whitman was the great bard of democracy and equality; not simply -the vulgar democracy of political rights and promiscuous familiarity, -but the deep, broad, fundamental democracy that looks at all of nature -and feels the unity and kinship that makes the universe a whole. - -To Walt Whitman there could be no thought of class or caste. Each one -held his certificate of birth from the same infinite power that, through -all the ages and all the false and criminal distinctions of man, has yet -decreed that all shall enter helpless and naked through the same gateway -of birth, and each alike must go back to the fundamental mother, shorn -of every distinction that man in his vain-glorious pride has sought to -make. Whitman placed the works of nature above the works of man. He had -no faith in those laws and institutions which the world has ever made to -defraud, and enslave, and deny the common brotherhood of all. He -believed that every child that came upon the earth was legitimate, and -had an equal right to land, and sea, and air, and all that nature made, -and all that nature gave. - - Each of us is inevitable, - Each of us limitless—each of us with his or her right upon the earth, - Each of us allow’d the eternal purports of the earth, - Each of us here as divinely as any is here. - -Let this stanza speak to our conscience face to face—is it true or -false? Can any but a blasphemer deny the divine right of every man upon -the earth? And yet if this simple stanza is true, every law book should -be burned and every court abolished and natural justice, unfettered and -undenied, should be enthroned above the forms and conventions and laws, -which, each and all, deny the integrity of the soul and the equal rights -of man. - -Through all the injustice and inequality of the world, the vision of -democracy has still prevailed and ever must prevail as long as nature -brings forth and takes back the master and the slave alike. But the -aspiration for democracy is not always high and noble. It is easy to -demand for ourselves the same rights enjoyed by our fellow men, but -Whitman’s democracy was on a higher plane. - - I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracys - By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of - on the same terms. - -These lines breathe the spirit of true humanity, the spirit that will -one day remove all barriers and restrictions, and liberate the high and -low alike. For nothing is truer in life or more inevitable in the -economy of nature than this sage thought: - - Whatever degrades another degrades me, - And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. - -It is a sad mistake to believe that injustice and wrong can injure only -the poor and the weak. Every mean word and narrow thought and selfish -act degrades the aggressor, leaves its mark upon his soul and its -penalty in his life. So, too, no good effort is really lost, however it -may seem to be. The kind word may be spoken to the deaf, the righteous -effort be wrongly directed, the alms unworthily bestowed, but the heart -that feels and the soul that tries has grown greater by the act. - - The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him, - The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him, - The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him, - The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him, - The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him, - The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him,—it cannot fail, - - The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress, - not to the audience, - And no man understands any greatness or goodness but his own, or the - indication of his own. - -Not alone in his theory of personal equality was Walt Whitman a democrat -in the highest meaning of the term, but he distrusted the ease and -effeminacy of modern life; he doubted and feared the polish and -super-sensitiveness that precedes decay; he had no faith in hot-house -plants, in pampered life, in luxury and repose. He believed in rugged, -primeval nature, in the rocks and hills, the rivers and the pines; he -loved the dumb and patient brute, and believed in stalwart men and -strong women; in sunlight, rain and air. - - I am enamour’d of growing out of doors, - Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, - Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and - mauls, and the drivers of horses, - I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. - I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and - self-contain’d, - I stand and look at them and long and long. - - They do not sweat and whine about their condition, - They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, - They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, - - Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning - things, - Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years - ago, - Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. - -Walt Whitman’s work is not of the old, time-worn sort. When he speaks of -love it is the love of life, the love of reality, the strong love of -men, the intense love of women, the honest love that nature made, the -love that is; not the unhealthy, immoral, false, impossible love told in -erotic prose and more erotic verse, and given to young girls and boys as -the truth, to poison and corrupt with its false and vicious views of -life. - -But he sings of the common things, the democracy of every day; for it is -the small affairs that make up life, and its true philosophy is to see -the beauty and greatness and relation of these little things and not to -pine for the seemingly momentous events, which can rarely come. The -Alexanders, the Cæsars and the Napoleons are scattered only here and -there in the great sea of human existence, and yet every life measured -by just standards may be as great as these; and the soul that is -conscious of its own integrity knows its own worth regardless of the -world. - - I do not call one greater and one smaller, - That which fills its period and place is equal to any. - -Walt Whitman felt the music of the hammer and the axe as he felt the -harmony of the symphonies of Beethoven, and he understood the art of the -plough-boy in the field as well as the glorious creations of Millet. - - The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well, - The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him - all day, - The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice, - In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen and - love them. - - The soldier camp’d or upon the march is mine, - On the night ere the pending battle may seek me, and I do not fail them, - On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me, - My face rubs to the hunter’s face when he lies down alone in his - blanket, - The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon, - The young mother and old mother comprehend me, - The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they - are, - They and all would resume what I have told them. - -Walt Whitman’s democracy did not end with sex. Man is not always a -logical animal. Most of the practical democracy of the world has stopped -with men, and generally with white men at that. The political equality -of woman has only barely been considered; the still more important -question, her economic independence, is yet a far-off dream. But Walt -Whitman knew no limit to equality. With him equality meant equality. It -could mean nothing else. - - I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, - And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, - And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. - -Probably Walt Whitman would not have raised his hat to a woman on the -street, nor given her his seat in the car, simply because she was a -woman. Both these may be well enough, but they grow from false ideas of -women and of course through these false ideas women lose the most. -Injustice and oppression can never be made up by chivalry and pretended -courtesy. And the evil always is and must be the false relation which -these create. Men expect to pay women for their political and economic -freedom in theater tickets and by taking off their hats in public, and -in the end women become willing to receive this paltry and debasing -bribe. - -“The Open Road,” one of Whitman’s masterpieces, is full of wholesome -inclusive democracy. - - Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, - Healthy, free, the world before me, - The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. - - Henceforth I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune, - Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing - Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, - Strong and content I travel the open road. - - The earth, that is sufficient, - I do not want the constellations any nearer, - I know they are very well where they are, - I know they suffice for those who belong to them. - - Here the profound lessons of reception, nor preference nor denial, - The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate - person, are not denied; - The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the - drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, - The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping - couple, - The early market men, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, - the return back from the town, - They pass, I also pass, anything passes, none can be interdicted, - None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me. - -But Walt Whitman’s democracy was more inclusive still. It is almost -becoming the fad to forgive the evil in others and to insist that, after -all, their good qualities give them the right to kinship with ourselves, -but this is only one side of true democracy. The felon is my brother, -not alone because he has every element of good that I so well recognize -in myself, but because I have every element of evil that I see in him. -Walt Whitman was wise enough to see the feelings and passions that make -others sin, and he was just enough and great enough to recognize all -these feelings in himself. - - You felons on trial in courts, - You convicts in prison-cells, you sentenced assassins chain’d and - handcuff’d with iron, - Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison? - Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain’d with - iron, or my ankles with iron? - - You prostitutes flaunting over the pavements or obscene in your rooms, - Who am I that I should call you more obscene than myself? - O culpable! I acknowledge—I expose! - (O admirers, praise not me—compliment not me—you make me wince, - I see what you do not—I know what you do not.) - Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch’d and choked, - Beneath this face that appears so impassive hell’s tides continually - run, - - - Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me, - I walk with delinquents with passionate love, - I feel I am of them—I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself, - And henceforth I will not deny them—for how can I deny myself? - -These lines are not a burst of poetic feeling, they are the sincere -utterances of a brave philosopher and poet, who tells the truth about -himself and about you and me. Let us be honest about sin. How do you and -I differ from the murderer on the gallows, the prostitute in the street -or the burglar in the jail? How wide a breach is there between coveting -the house or home or seal skin coat of your neighbor and taking it if -you can? How great a difference between making a sharp trade with your -neighbor, getting more from him than you give to him, and taking -outright what he has? Yet one is business, the other larceny. What is -the distance between hating your neighbor, and wishing him dead: how -great a chasm between feeling relief at his death, and killing him -yourself? So far as the man is concerned, it is not the act that is -evil, but the heart that is evil. There is no difference between the -committed and the uncommitted crime. Every feeling that makes every sort -of crime is in the heart of each and every one. Nature has made the -blood of some of us a little cooler, and has developed caution a little -more, or fate has made the temptation a trifle less, and thus we have -escaped,—that is, managed to conceal the real passion that boils and -surges in our hearts. Until this is dead, evil is in our souls. Away -with all this talk of superiority and differences. It is cant—pure, -simple cant. - - I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my - companions? - O you shunn’d persons, I at least do not shun you, - I come forthwith in your midst, I will be your poet, - I will be more to you than to any of the rest. - -Has man the right to be less kind than nature is? Have we the right by -word or deed to pass judgment on our fellow man? Can we not learn of -love and charity and hope from the sun, the rain, the generous earth, -and the pulsing, growing spring? Hear Walt Whitman’s word to a common -prostitute: - - Be composed—be at ease with me—I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty as - Nature, - Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you, - Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle - for you do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you. - -Neither was it the magnanimous soul of Whitman that was charitable and -kind, but it was the truthful, honest man who saw his own goodness in -the woman; and her sin, which after all was only an excess of kindness, -in himself. - -The regenerated world will be built upon the democracy Walt Whitman -taught. It will know neither rich nor poor; neither high nor low; -neither good nor bad; neither right nor wrong; but - - I will establish *** in every city of these states inland and seaboard, - In the fields and woods, and above every keel, little or large, that - dents the water, - Without edifices or rules or trustees or any argument, - The institution of the dear love of comrades. - -Walt Whitman was always and at all times an optimist. He never struck a -despairing note or voiced a doubting strain. His hope was not anchored -in blind faith or narrow creed. His optimism was not that of the -cowardly fanatic who stubbornly shuts his eyes to avoid an unpleasant -view. He looked abroad at all the world and called it good. - -Optimism and pessimism in their last analysis are questions of -temperament. They depend upon the eye that looks out, not upon the -object that it sees. The pessimist points to the sunset, casting its -lengthening shadows on the earth, and tells of the night that is coming -on; the optimist shows us the rosy dawn, the golden promise of a -glorious day. The pessimist tells of winter, whose icy breath chills and -deadens all the world; the optimist points to springtime with its ever -recurring miracle of light and life. Is the pessimist right or is the -optimist right—does the night precede the day, or the day precede the -night? After all, are our calendars wrong—does the winter with its white -shroud and cold face mark the ending of the year, or does the springtime -with its budding life and its resurrecting power awaken the dead earth -to joyous, pulsing life again? - -Above the view of the optimist, who sees the morning and the spring, and -the pessimist, who sees the evening and the closing year, stand a few -serene souls, who look on both with clear eye and tranquil mind, and -declare that all is good. The morning is right and the evening is right. -It is beautiful to pass through the joyous gates of birth; it is good to -be clasped in the peaceful arms of death. Rare Walt Whitman at -thirty-seven, full of health and vigor and strength, with the world -before him, and conscious of his genius and his power, sings in a burst -of optimism: - - I celebrate myself, and sing myself, - And what I assume you shall assume, - For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. - - I loafe and invite my soul, - I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. - - My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air, - Born of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the - same, - I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, - Hoping to cease not till death. - -Again at seventy, looking back on a life well spent, conscious that the -last few sands are running out, a confirmed invalid with palsied limbs -and failing strength, looking death squarely in the face and just before -him; with the same sweet smile, the same lovely nature, the same -all-embracing philosophy, sings once again his optimistic song: - - Not from successful love alone, - Nor wealth, nor honor’d middle age, nor victories of politics or war; - But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, - As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, - As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier - air, - - As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really - finish’d and indolent-ripe on the tree, - Then for the teeming, quietest, happiest days of all! - The brooding, blissful halcyon days! - -It must be that somewhere is a serene height where life triumphs over -death. It must be that nature does not jar, and that the close of a -lovely life is really as peaceful and as beautiful as the decline of a -perfect day; that each day rightly lived and every year well spent, must -bring the pilgrim more in harmony with his journey drawing to a close. - -The world has ever shuddered at death—has stubbornly closed its eyes and -refused to look at the great fact that nature places all about our path; -has never tried to look in its face, to take its hand, to think of its -peaceful, forgiving, soothing touch; has ever called it enemy and never -thought to caress it as a friend. Walt Whitman was wiser than the rest. -His philosophy made him know that death was equally good, whether the -opening gateway to a freer, fuller life, or a restful couch for a weary -soul. - -Whitman had solved the eternal riddle; he had conquered death; he looked -at her pale form and saluted her as he would welcome a new birth. No -bard ever sang a more glorious hymn than Walt Whitman sang to death. - - Come, lovely and soothing Death, - Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, - In the day, in the night, to all, to each, - Sooner or later, delicate Death, - Praised be the fathomless universe - For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, - And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise - For the sure enwinding arms of cool, enfolding Death. - Dark Mother, always gliding near with soft feet, - Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? - Then I chant for thee, I glorify thee above all, - I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly, - Approach, strong deliveress, - When it is so, when thou hast taken them - I joyously sing the dead, - Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, - Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. - From me to thee glad serenades, - Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for - thee, - And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are - fitting, - And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night, - The night in silence under many a star, - The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, - And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well veil’d Death, - And the body gratefully nestling close to thee, - - Over the tree tops I float thee a song, - Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the - prairies wide, - Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves, and ways, - I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death. - -Whitman in his wheel chair, physically shattered and broken, but with a -mind strong and serene, and at peace with all the world, waiting for the -sun to set, is a lesson in optimism better than all the sermons ever -preached. Without faith in any form of religion that the world has ever -known, he had brought his life so in harmony with nature that he felt -every beat of the great, universal heart, and with the confidence of -certain knowledge he looked upon the fading earth and caroled a song as -he sailed forth on that great unknown sea, which is hidden in perpetual -night, from all but the few great souls, whose wisdom and insight have -given them the confidence and trust of a little child. - - Joy, shipmates, joy! - (Pleas’d to my soul at death I cry,) - Our life is closed, our life begins, - The long, long anchorage we leave, - The ship is clear at last, she leaps! - She swiftly courses from the shore, - Joy, shipmates, joy. - -Conscious of the integrity of his purpose, and the inherent -righteousness of his life, moved and upheld by his broad philosophy and -his patient, trustful soul, with no false modesty and with the same -manly egoism that made him what he was—the kindest, gentlest, justest, -broadest, manliest man—Walt Whitman asked the reward his life had -earned. - - Give me the pay I have served for, - Give me to sing the song of the great Idea, take all the rest, - I have loved the earth, sun, animals, I have despised riches, - I have given alms to every one that ask’d, stood up for the stupid and - crazy, devoted my income and labor to others, - Hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence - toward people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, - Gone freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young, and - with the mothers of families, - Read these leaves to myself in the open air, tried them by trees, stars, - rivers, - Dismiss’d whatever insulted my own soul or defiled my body, - Claim’d nothing to myself which I have not carefully claim’d for others - on the same terms, - Sped to the camps, and comrades found and accepted from every State, - (Upon this breast has many a dying soldier lean’d to breathe his last, - This arm, this hand, this voice, have nourish’d, rais’d, restor’d, - To life recalling many a prostrate form;) - I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of - myself, - Rejecting none, permitting all. - -When man has grown simpler and saner and truer—when the fever of -civilization has been subdued and the pestilence been cured; when man -shall no longer deny and revile the universal mother who gave him birth, -then Walt Whitman’s day will come. In the clear light of that -regenerated time, when the world looks back to the doubt and mist and -confusion of to-day, Walt Whitman will stand alone, the greatest, -truest, noblest prophet of the age, a man untainted by artificial life -and unmoved by the false standards of his time. In a sodden, commercial, -money-getting age, he enjoyed all the beauty of the earth without the -vulgar lust to own. In a world of privilege and caste, he felt and -taught the brotherhood of man and the kinship of all living things. In -an age of false modesty and perverted thought, he sang the sanctity of -the body with the divinity of the soul. Against the agnostic and the -Christian too, he defended every part and portion of the faultless work -of the creative power. Above the doleful, doubting voice of men, through -the dreariest day and darkest night, in the raging of the storm and the -madness of the waves, his strong, optimistic, reassuring note was ever -heard above the rest, proclaiming to the universe that all is well. He -saw that in a wise economy and a great broad way, that the false was -true, the evil good, the wrong was right, and that over all the -universe, pervading all its teeming life, a power omnipotent, beneficent -and wise, was working to uplift, conserve and purify the whole. The -poor, the weak, the suffering, the outcast, the felon, all knew him for -their comrade and their friend. His great, inclusive, universal heart -left no soul outside, but all alike he knew, the life of all he felt, -and one and all he loved. In his vocabulary were no words of bitterness -and hate, and in his philosophy no right to censure or to blame. In his -every deed and thought he seemed to say: - - “So I be written in the book of love, - I have no care about that book above, - Erase my name, or write it as you please, - So I be written in the book of love.” - -As the shadows lengthen and the daylight wanes—as the hair whitens and -the passions cool, more and more do we learn that love is the true -philosophy of life; more and more do we revise the sterner judgments of -our earlier years; more and more do we see that pity should take the -place of blame, forgiveness of punishment, charity of justice, and -hatred be replaced by love. When old familiar faces awake the memories -of bygone days, often and often again do we fear that our judgments were -cruel and unjust, but every deed of mercy and every act of charity and -every thought of pity is like the balm of Gilead to our souls. We may -none of us be wise or great, fortune may elude us and fame may never -come; but however poor or weak or humble, we yet may inscribe our names -in the fairest, brightest book,—the book of love, and on its sacred -pages, earned by the glorious truths he taught, by his infinite, ever -present love of all, upon the foremost line will be inscribed Walt -Whitman’s name. - - - - - ROBERT · BURNS - - -[Illustration] - - - - - ROBERT BURNS. - - -It is difficult to account for a genius like Robert Burns. His life and -work seem to defy the laws of heredity and environment alike. The beasts -of the field were scarcely bound closer to the soil than were the -ancestors from which he sprang; and from his early infancy he was forced -to follow the stony path his father trod before. As a mere child, he -learned how hard it is to sustain life in the face of an unfriendly -nature and a cruel, bitter world. He was early bred to toil; not the -work that gives strength and health, but the hard, constant, manual -labor that degrades and embitters, deforms and twists and stunts the -body and the soul alike. Burns was denied even the brief years of -childhood—those few, short years upon which most of us look back from -our disappointments and cares as the one bright spot in a gray and level -plain. - -It is not alone by the works he has left us that Robert Burns is to be -truly judged. Fortune endowed him with a wondrous brain and a still -rarer and greater gift—a tender, loving, universal heart; but as if she -grudged him these and sought to destroy or stunt their power, she cast -his lot in a social and religious environment as hard and forbidding as -the cold and sterile soil of his native land; and from these -surroundings alone he was obliged to draw the warmth and color and -sunshine that should have come from loving hearts, generous bounties, -and bright, blue southern skies. In measuring the power and character of -Robert Burns, we must remember the hard and cruel conditions of his -life, and judge of his great achievements in the light of these. - -The ways of destiny have ever been beyond the ken of man; now and then, -at rare, long intervals, she descends upon the earth, and in her arms -she bears disguised a precious gift, which she lavished upon a blind, -unwilling world. She passes by the gorgeous palaces and beautiful abodes -of men, and drops the treasure in a manger or a hut; she comes again to -take it back from a world that knew it not and cast it out; and again, -she seeks it not among the strong and great, but in the hovel of the -poor, the prison pen, or perhaps upon the scaffold or the block. - -Measured by the standards of our day and generation, the life of Robert -Burns was a failure and mistake. He went back to the great common Mother -as naked of all the gilded trappings and baubles, which men call wealth, -as when she first placed the struggling infant on its mother’s breast. - -Robert Burns was not a “business man”; he was not one of Dumfries’ -“first citizens”—in the measure of that day and this; he was one of its -last if not its worst. He had no stock in a corporation and no interest -in a syndicate or trust. He had neither a bank nor bank account. He -never endowed a library, a museum, or a university. He was a singer of -songs,—a dreamer of dreams. He was poor, improvident, intemperate, and -according to the Scottish creed, immoral and irreligious. In spite of -his great intellect he was doubted, neglected and despised. He died in -destitution and despair; but the great light of his genius, which his -neighbors could not see or comprehend, has grown brighter and clearer as -the years have rolled away. A beautiful mausoleum now holds his once -neglected ashes; monuments have been reared to his memory wherever worth -is known and fame preserved; while millions of men and women, the -greatest and the humblest of the world alike, have felt their own -heartstrings moved and stirred in unison with the music of this immortal -bard, whose song was the breath of Nature,—the sweetest, tenderest -melody that ever came from that rarest instrument—the devoted poet’s -soul. - -The great masterpieces of his genius were not created in the pleasant -study of a home of refinement, luxury, and ease, but were born in the -fields, the farm yard, the stable; while the “monarch peasant” was -bending above the humblest tasks that men pursue for bread. Only the -most ordinary education was within the reach of this child of toil, and -the world’s great storehouses of learning, literature, and art were -sealed forever from his sight; and yet, with only the rude peasants, -with whom his life was spent, the narrow setting of bleak fields and -grey hills, which was the small stage on which he moved, and the sterile -Scotch dialect with which to paint, he stirred the hearts of men with -the sweetest, highest, purest melody that has ever moved the human soul. - -Olive Schreiner tells of an artist whose pictures shone with the -richest, brightest glow. His admirers gazed upon the canvas and wondered -where he found the colors—so much rarer than any they had ever seen -before. Other artists searched the earth, but could find no tints like -his; he died with the secret in his breast. And when they undressed him -to put his grave-clothes on, they found an old wound, hard and jagged -above his heart; and still they wondered where he found the coloring for -his work. Robert Burns, perhaps more than any other man who ever lived, -taught the great truth that poets are not made but born; that the -richest literature, the brightest gems of art, even the most pleasing -earthly prospects are less than one spark of the divine fire, which -alone can kindle the true light. Robert Burns like all great artists, -taught the world that the beauty of the landscape, and the grandeur and -pathos of life depend, not upon the external objects that nature has -chanced to place before our view, but upon the soul of the artist, which -alone can really see and interpret the manifold works of the great -author, beside which all human effort is so poor and weak. - -Millet looked at the French peasants standing in their wooden shoes, -digging potatoes from the earth and pausing to bow reverently at the -sounding of the Angelus, and saw in this simple life, so close to -Nature’s heart, more beauty and pathos and poetry than all the -glittering courts of Europe could produce. And Robert Burns, whose broad -mind and sympathetic soul made him kin to all living things, had no need -to see the splendor and gaiety of wealth and power, to visit foreign -shores and unknown lands; but the flowers, the heather, the daisies, the -bleak fields, the pelting rains, the singing birds, the lowing cattle, -and above all, the simple country folk seen through his eyes, and felt -by his soul, and held in his all-embracing heart, were covered with a -beauty and a glory that all the artificial world could not create, and -that his genius has endowed with immortal life. Robert Burns did not -borrow his philosophy from the books, his humanity from the church, or -his poetry from the schools. Luckily for us he escaped all these, and -unfettered and untaught, went straight to the soul of Nature to learn -from the great source, the harmony and beauty and unity that pervades -the whole; and he painted these with colors drawn from his great human -heart. His universal sympathy gave him an insight into life that -students of science and philosophy can never reach. Contemplating -Nature, and seeing her generous bounties lavished alike on all her -children, he could not but contrast this with the selfishness and -inhumanity of man, which crushes out the weak and helpless and builds up -the great and strong. Burns was a natural leveler, and while men still -believed in the “divine right of kings,” he preached that “man was the -divine King of rights.” None knew better than he the injustice of the -social life in which he lived, and in which we live to-day. Burns knew, -as all men of intelligence understand, that worldly goods are not, and -never have been given as a reward of either brains or merit. - - It’s hardly in a body’s power - To keep at times, frae being sour, - To see how things are shared; - How best o’chiels are whiles in want - While coofs on countless thousands rant - And ken na how to wair’t. - -The immortal singer of songs, and all his descendants, received -infinitely less for all the works of his genius than an ordinary gambler -often gets for one sale of something that he never owned, or one -purchase of something that he never bought; and it is doubtful if all -the masterpieces of the world in art, in literature, and in science, -ever brought as much cash to those whose great, patient brains have -carefully and honestly wrought that the earth might be richer and better -and brighter, as has been often “made” by one inferior speculator upon a -single issue of watered stock. - -Living in the midst of aristocracy and privilege and caste, Burns was a -democrat that believed in the equality of man. It required no books or -professors, or theories to teach him the injustice of the social -conditions under which the world has ever lived. Here, as elsewhere, he -looked to the heart—a teacher infinitely more honest and reliable than -the brain. - - If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave, - By Nature’s law design’d; - Why was an independent wish - E’er planted in my mind? - - If not, why am I subject to - His cruelty, or scorn? - Or why has man the will and pow’r - To make his fellow mourn? - -Preachers and authors and teachers, judges and professors and lawyers, -have been employed for ages to teach the justice of slavery and the -folly and crime of equal rights; but through all quibbles and evasions, -this question of Burns, straight from the heart, as well as the head, -shows that all these excuses are but snares and cheats. The voice of the -French Revolution could not fail to move a soul like that of Robert -Burns. This great struggle for human liberty came upon the world with -almost the suddenness of an earthquake, and with much of its terrors, -too. Here the poor and the oppressed felt the first substantial hope for -freedom that had pierced the long, dark centuries since history told the -acts of men. To the oppressors and the powerful, who hated liberty then -as they ever have, before and since, it was a wild, dread threat of -destruction and ruin to their precious “rights.” When the struggle -commenced, Burns was enjoying the munificent salary of Fifty pounds a -year as a whisky gauger in the village of Dumfries. He had already spent -a winter in Edinburgh, and had been feted and dined by the aristocracy -and culture of Scotland’s capital without losing his head, although at -no small risk. An acquaintance and entertainer of the nobility and an -incumbent of a lucrative office, there was but one thing for Burns to -do; this was to condemn the Revolution and lend his trenchant pen to the -oppressor’s cause; but this course he flatly refused to take. He openly -espoused the side of the people, and wrote the “Tree of Liberty,” one of -his most stirring songs, in its defense. - - Upon this tree there grows sic fruit, - Its virtues a’can tell man; - It raises man aboon the brute, - It mak’s him ken himsel’ man. - Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, - He’s greater than a lord man. - - King Louis thought to cut it down - When it was unco sma’ man; - For this the watchman cracked his crown, - Cut aff his head an’ a’ man. - -Even these words are not strong enough to express his love for natural -liberty and his distrust of those forms and institutions which over and -over again have crushed the priceless gem they pretend to protect. - - A fig for those by law protected! - Liberty’s a glorious feast! - Courts for cowards were erected, - Churches built to please the priest. - -Even higher and broader was Burns’ view of equality and right. He stood -on a serene height, where he looked upon all the strife and contention -of individuals and states, and dreamed of a perfect harmony and -universal order, where men and Nations alike should be at peace, and the -world united in one grand common brotherhood, where the fondest wish of -each should be the highest good of all. These beautiful, prophetic lines -seem to speak of a day as distant now as when Burns wrote them down a -hundred years ago. But still, all men that love the human race will ever -hope, and work, and say with him: - - Then let us pray that come it may, - As come it will for a’ that, - That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth - May bear the gree, and a’ that; - For a’ that, and a’ that, - It’s coming yet, for a’ that, - That man to man, the warld o’er, - Shall brothers be for a’ that. - -It is perhaps as a singer of songs that the literary fame of Burns will -longest be preserved. No other poet has ever breathed such music from -his soul. His melodies are as sweet and pure as the bubbling spring; and -as natural and spontaneous as ever came from the throat of the -nightingale or lark. These songs could not be made. The feeling and -passion that left his soul bore this music as naturally as the zephyr -that has fanned the strings of the Æolian harp. The meter of these songs -was not learned by scanning Latin verse, or studying the dry rules that -govern literary art, but it was born of the regular pulse beats, which -in the heart of Nature’s poets are as smooth and unstudied as the -rippling laughter of her purling brooks. - - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - When we were first acquent, - Your locks were like the raven, - Your bonnie brow was brent; - But now your brow is beld, John, - Your locks are like the snow; - But blessing on your frosty pow, - John Anderson, my jo. - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - We clamb the hill tegither, - And mony a canty day, John, - We’ve had wi’ ane anither; - Now we maun totter down, John, - But hand in hand we’ll go, - And sleep tegither at the foot, - John Anderson, my jo. - -Although a plough boy and surrounded by the grime and dirt that come -from contact with the soil, still even here Burns found material for -music and poetry that will live as long as human hearts endure; for, -though the sky may be warmer and bluer on the Mediterranean shore than -where it domes the Scottish hills and crags, still the same heaven bends -above them both, and the same infinite mysteries are hidden in their -unfathomed depths. The tragedy of death is alike, whether defying the -power of a Prince, or entering the home of the humblest peasant to bring -the first moments of relief and rest. The miracle of life, whether -wrought by Nature on the rich couch of the Queen or the unwatched pallet -of the peasant, is the same mystery, ever new, ever old, appealing ever -to the heart of man. The affections and passions,—those profound -feelings that Nature planted deep in the being of all sentient things, -and on whose strength all life depends,—these are the deepest and purest -as we leave the conventions and trappings of the artificial world, and -draw nearer to the heart of the great Universal power. With the sky -above, the fields around, and all Nature throbbing and teeming with -pulsing life, but one thing more was needed to make harmony and music, -and that was Robert Burns. - -The old story of human love was sung by him a thousand times and in a -thousand varying moods, as never love was sung before. It mattered not -that his melodies breathed of rustic scenes, of country maids, and of -plain untutored hearts that beat as Nature made them feel, unfettered by -the restraints and cords of an artificial life. Transport his Mary to a -gorgeous palace, and deck her fair form with the richest treasures of -the earth and bring to her side the proudest noble that ever paid homage -to a princess, and no singer,—not even Burns himself,—could make a -melody like the matchless music that he sung to Highland Mary. - - How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk, - How rich the hawthorn’s blossom; - As underneath their fragrant shade, - I clasp’d her to my bosom! - - The golden hours, on angel wings, - Flew o’er me and my dearie; - For dear to me as light and life - Was my sweet Highland Mary. - -All the conventions and baubles and spangles which fashion and custom -use to adorn the fair could only have cheapened and made vulgar the -rustic maiden that moved Burns’ soul to song. - -These sweet lines could never have been written of any but a simple -country lass, whose natural charms had moved a susceptible human heart: - - I see her in the dewy flowers, - I see her sweet and fair; - I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, - I hear her charm the air; - - There’s not a bonnie flower that springs - By fountain, shaw, or green, - There’s not a bonnie bird that sings, - But minds me o’ my Jean. - -Who was this Burns that sang these sweet songs and whose musical soul -was stirred by every breeze and moved to poetry by every lovely face and -form that came within his view? Biographers and critics and admirers -have praised the genius and begged excuses for the man. Without asking -charity for this illustrious singer, let us view him in the light of -justice, exactly as he was. It is not difficult to understand the -character of Robert Burns. His heart was generous and warm and kind; his -mind was open as the day, and his soul was sensitive to every breath -that stirred the air. These qualities have made the poet loved in every -land on earth, and brought more pilgrims to his grave than were ever -drawn to the tomb of any other poet or author that has ever lived and -died. And yet the short-sighted, carping, moralizing world, with solemn -voice and wisdom ill-assumed, has ever told how much better and holier -he could have been and should have been. Poor, silly, idle world, can -you never learn that the qualities that make us strong must also make us -weak; that the heart that melts at suffering and pain is made of clay so -sensitive and fine as to be moved and swayed by all the emotions of the -soul? Would you serve the weak, the suffering and the poor—would you -calm their fears and dry their eyes and feel with them the cruel woes of -life—you must wear your heart upon your sleeve, and then of course the -daws will peck it into bits. Would you keep it safely hidden from the -daws, you must hide it in a breast of stone or ice and keep it only for -yourself. Perhaps we may admire the man that walks with steady step -along a straight and narrow path, unmoved by all the world outside. He -never feels and never errs. But we cannot ask of either man the virtues -that belong to both, and when our choice is made we must take the -strength and weakness too. - -We look at the mountain top, lifting its snow-crowned head high into the -everlasting blue, and are moved with wonder and with awe. Above is the -endless sky; below, the world with all its bickering and strife, the -clouds, the lightning and the storm, but the mountain, cold, impassive, -changeless, unmoved by all the world, looks ever upward to the eternal -heavens above. Again we gaze on the peaceful, fertile lowlands, rich -with their generous harvests yet unborn—beautiful with their winding -streams and grassy fields, ever ready to bestow bounteously on all that -ask, demanding little and lavishly returning all; and we love the quiet, -rustic, generous beauty of the scene. The mountain is majestic and -sublime, and the yielding, generous lowlands are beautiful and pleasing -too. We love them both, but we cannot have them both at once and both in -one. - -Robert Burns, and all men like him that ever lived, were always giving -from their generous souls. In the cold judgment of the world, Burns -wasted many a gem upon the thoughtless, worthless crowd, who consumed a -life he should have spent for nobler things. But the flower that never -wastes its fragrance has no perfume to give out. If it is truly sweet, -its strength is borne away on every idle wind that blows. Robert Burns -with lavish bounty shed his life and fragrance on every soul he met. He -loved them all and loved them well: his sensitive, harmonious soul -vibrated to every touch, and moved in perfect harmony with every heart -that came within his reach. The lives of men like him are one long -harmony; but as they pass along the stage of life, they leave a trail of -disappointed hopes, and broken hearts, and vain regrets. But of all the -tragedies great and small that mark their path, the greatest far and -most pathetic is the sad and hopeless wreck that ever surely falls upon -the exhausted artist’s life. - -The life of Burns was filled with wrecks—with promises made and broken, -with hopes aroused, and then dashed to earth again. It was filled with -these because one man cannot give himself personally to all the world. -The vices of Robert Burns perhaps like those of all the rest that ever -lived, were virtues carried to excess. Of course, the world could not -understand it then, and cannot understand it now, and perhaps it never -will, for slander and malice and envy, like death, always love a -shinning mark. The life of Burns and the life of each is the old Greek -fable told again. Achilles’ mother would make him invulnerable by -dipping him in the river Styx. She held him by the heel, which remained -unwashed and vulnerable, and finally brought him to his death. To -whatever dizzy height we climb, and however invulnerable we seek to be, -there still remains with all the untouched heel that binds us to the -earth. And after all, this weak and human spot, is the truest bond of -kinship that unites the world. - -I look back at Robert Burns, at the poor human life that went out a -hundred years ago, and study its works to know the man. I care not what -his neighbors thought; I care not for the idle gossip of an idle hour. I -know that his immortal songs were not born of his wondrous brain alone, -but of the gentlest, trust, tenderest heart that ever felt another’s -pain. I know full well that the love songs of Robert Burns could have -come from no one else than Robert Burns. I know that even the Infinite -could not have changed the man and left the songs. Burns, like all true -poets, told us what he felt and saw, and it is not for me to ask excuses -for this or that; but rather reverently to bow my head in the presence -of this great memory, and thank the infinite source of life for blessing -us with Robert Burns exactly as he was. - -It is difficult to understand our own being; it is impossible to know -our fellow man’s, but I have faith to think that all life is but a -portion of one great inclusive power, and that all is good and none is -bad. The true standard for judging Burns and all other men is given by -Carlyle, and I cannot refrain from borrowing and adopting what he says: - -“The world is habitually unjust in its judgments of such men; unjust on -many grounds, of which this one may be stated as the substance: It -decides, like a court of law, by dead statutes; and not positively but -negatively, less on what is done right than on what is or is not done -wrong. Not the few inches of deflection from the mathematical orbit, -which are so easily measured, but the ratio of these to the whole -diameter, constitutes the real aberration. This orbit may be a planet’s, -its diameter the breadth of the solar system; or it may be a city -hippodrome; nay, the circle of a ginhorse, its diameter a score of feet -or paces. But the inches of deflection only are measured; and it is -assumed that the diameter of the ginhorse and that of the planet will -yield the same ratio when compared with them! Here lies the root of many -a blind, cruel condemnation of Burns, Swift, Rousseau, which one never -listens to with approval. Granted, the ship comes into harbor with -shrouds and tackle damaged; the pilot is blameworthy; he has not been -all-wise and all-powerful; but to know how blameworthy; tell us first -whether his voyage has been around the Globe, or only to Ramsgate and -the Isle of Dogs.” - -Robert Burns has been dust for a hundred years, and yet the world knows -him better now than the neighbors that lived beside his door. I look -back upon the little village of Dumfries,—not the first or the last town -that entertained angels unawares. I see poor Robert Burns passing down -the street, and the pharisees and self-righteous walking on the other -side. The bill of indictment brought against him by the Dumfries -community was long and black; he was intemperate, immoral, irreligious, -and disloyal to the things that were. The first two would doubtless have -been forgiven, but the others could not be condoned. And so this -illustrious man walked an outcast through the town that to-day makes its -proudest boast that it holds the ashes of the mighty dead, who in life -was surrounded by such a halo of glory that his neighbors could not see -his face. - -A hundred years ago Scotland was held tightly in the grasp of the -Presbyterian faith. Calvinism is not very attractive even now, -especially to us that live and expect to die outside its fold, but even -Calvinism has softened and changed in a hundred years. Burns was too -religious to believe in the Presbyterian faith, and to the Scotch -Covenanter there was no religion outside the Calvinistic creed. How any -man can read the poetry of Robert Burns and not feel the deep religious -spirit that animates its lines is more than I can see. True, he -ridicules the dogmas and the creeds that held the humanity and intellect -of Scotland in its paralyzing grasp; but creeds and dogmas are the work -of man; they come and go; are born and die; serve their time and pass -away; but the love of humanity, the instincts of charity and tenderness, -the deep reverence felt in the presence of the infinite mystery and -power that pervade the universe, these, the basis of all the religions -of the earth, remain forever, while creeds and dogmas crumble to the -dust. - -Scotland of a hundred years ago measured Burns’ religion by “Holy -Willie’s Prayer,” “The Holy Fair,” and kindred songs. The world a -hundred years from now will not make these the only test. Dumfries and -all the Unco’ Guid of Scotland could not forgive Burns for writing: - - O Thou wha in the heavens dost dwell, - Wha, as it pleases best thysel’, - Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, - A’ for thy glory, - And no for ony guid or ill - They’ve done afore thee! - - I bless and praise thy matchless might, - When thousands thou hast left in night, - That I am here afore thy sight, - For gifts an, grace, - A burnin, an a shinin’ light, - To a’ this place. - - Lord, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r, - Against that presbt’ry o’ Ayr; - Thy strong right hand, Lord make it bare - Upo’ their heads! - Lord, weigh it down, an’ dinna spare, - For their misdeeds. - - But, Lord, remember me and mine - Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, - That I for gear and grace may shine, - Excell’d by name; - And a the glory shall be thine, - Amen, Amen. - -It was not enough that Robert Burns taught a religion as pure and gentle -and loving as that proclaimed by the Nazarene himself. Its meaning and -beauty and charity were lost on those who would not see. Long ago it was -written down that, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of -these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” If this is any test of a -religious life, then few men will stand as high in the great beyond as -Robert Burns. This poor poet has melted more hearts to pity and moved -more souls to mercy, and inclined more lives to charity than any other -poet that ever dreamed and sung. Not men and women and children alone -were the objects of his bounteous love and tender heart, but he felt the -pain of the bird, the hare, the mouse, and even the daisy whose roots -were upturned to the biting blast. Hear him sing of the poor bird for -whom he shudders at the winter’s cold: - - Ilka hopping bird, we helpless thing - That in the merry month o’ spring - Delighted me to hear thee sing, - What comes o’ thee! - Where wilt thou cow’r thy chilling wing - And close thy ee? - -Few men that ever lived would stop and lament with Burns, as he -shattered the poor clay home of the field mouse with his plough. No -matter what he did; no matter what he said; no matter what his creed; -the man that wrote these lines deserves a place with the best and purest -of this world or any other that the Universe may hold. - - Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie! - O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! - Thou need na start awa sae hasty, - Wi’ bickerin’ brattle; - I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, - Wi’ murd’ring prattle? - -In a world which still enjoys the brutal chase, where even clergymen -find pleasure in inflicting pain with the inhuman gun and rod, these -lines written a hundred years ago, on seeing a wounded hare limp by, -should place Burns amongst the blessed of the earth: - - Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art, - And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; - May never pity sooth thee with a sight, - Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! - - * * * * * * - - Oft, as by winding Nith I musing wait. - The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, - I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn, - And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. - -This was Robert Burns,—and yet Dumfries, which held this gentle soul -within its walls, and the Protestant world of a hundred years ago, -looked at John Calvin piling the faggots around Servetus’ form, and -knelt before him as a patron, religious saint, while they cast into -outer darkness poor Robert Burns with his heart bowed down at the -suffering of a wounded hare. - -Will the world ever learn what true religion is? Will it ever learn that -mercy and pity and charity are more in the sight of the Infinite than -all the creeds and dogmas of the earth? Will it ever learn to believe -this beautiful verse of Robert Burns: - - But deep this truth impressed my mind, - Through all his works abroad; - The heart benevolent and kind, - The most resembles God. - -Will the world ever learn when it prays to pray with Robert Burns, as -man has seldom spoken to the Infinite, in whose unknown hands, we are as -bubbles on the sea; to the great power, which sends us forth into the -darkness to stagger through a tangled maze for a little time and then -calls us back to sleep within its all-embracing heart. - - O thou, unknown, Almighty Cause - Of all my hope and fear! - In whose dread presence, ere an hour, - Perhaps I must appear! - - If I have wandered in those paths - Of life I ought to shun;— - As something loudly in my breast - Remonstrates I have done;— - - Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me - With passion wild and strong; - And list’ning to their witching voice - Has often led me wrong. - - Where human weakness has come short, - Or frailty step aside, - Do thou, All Good?—for such thou art - In shades of darkness hide. - - Where with intention I have err’d, - No other plea I have - But, Thou art good! and goodness still - Delighteth to forgive! - -Dear Robert Burns, to place one flower upon your grave, or add one -garland to your fame is a privilege indeed. A noble man you were, -knighted not by King or Queen, but titled by the Infinite Maker of us -all. You loved the world; you loved all life; you were gentle, kind and -true. Your works, your words, your deeds, will live and shine to teach -the brotherhood of man, the kinship of all breathing things, and make -the world a brighter, gentler, kindlier place because you lived and -loved and sung. - -[Illustration] - - - - - REALISM - IN · LITERATURE - AND · ART - - -[Illustration] - - - - - REALISM IN LITERATURE AND ART - - -Man is nature’s last and most perfect work, but, however high his -development or great his achievements, he is yet a child of the earth -and the rude forces that have formed all the life that exists thereon. -He cannot separate himself from the environment that gave him birth, and -a thousand ties of nature bind him back to the long forgotten past and -prove his kinship to all the lower forms of life that have sprung from -that great universal mother, Earth. - -As there is a common law of being, which controls all living things, -from the aimless motions of the mollusk in the sea to the most perfect -conduct of the best developed man, so all the activities of human life, -from the movements of the savage digging roots, to the work of the -greatest artist with his brush, are controlled by universal law, and are -good or bad, perfect or imperfect, as they conform to the highest -condition nature has imposed. - -The early savage dwelt in caves and cliffs and spent his life in seeking -food and providing a rude shelter from the cold. He looked upon the -earth, the sun, the sea, the sky, the mountain peak, the forest and the -plain, and all he saw and heard formed an impression on his brain and -aided in his growth. Like a child he marveled at the storm and flood; he -stood in awe as he looked upon disease and death; and to explain the -things he could not understand, he peopled earth and air and sea with -gods and demons, and a thousand other weird creations of his brain. All -these mysterious creatures were made in the image of the natural objects -that came within his view. The gods were men grown large and endowed -with marvelous powers, while tree and bird and beast alike were used as -models for a being greater far than any nature ever formed. - -An angry god it was that made the rivers overrun their banks and leave -destruction in their path; an offended god it was that hurled his -thunderbolts upon a wicked world, or sent disease and famine to the -sinning children of the earth: and to coax these rulers to be merciful -to man, the weak and trembling children of the ancient world turned -their minds to sacrifice and prayer. And the first clouded thoughts of -these rude men that were transcribed on monument and stone, or carved in -wood, or painted with the colors borrowed from the sun and earth and -sky; in short, the first rude art was born to sing the praise, and tell -the fame, and paint the greatness of the gods. But all of this was -natural to the time and place; the graven images, the chiseled -hieroglyphics, and all this rude beginning of literature and art were -formed upon what men saw and heard and felt, enlarged and magnified to -fit the stature of the gods. - -As the world grew older art was used to celebrate the greatness and -achievements of kings and rulers as well as gods, and their tombs were -ornamented with such decorations as these early ages could create; and -yet all literature and art were only for the gods and the rulers of the -world. Then, even more than now, wealth and power brought intellect to -do its will, and all its force was spent to sing the praises of the -rulers of the earth and air. The basis of all this art of pen and brush -was the reality of the world, but this was so magnified and distorted -for the base use of kings and priests that realism, in the true sense, -could not exist. It would not do to paint a picture of a king resembling -a man of flesh and blood, and of course a god must be far greater than a -king. It would not do to write a tale in which kings and princes, lords -and ladies, should act like men and women, else what difference between -the ruler and the ruled? The marvelous powers that romance and myth had -given to gods and angels were transferred to those of royal blood. The -wonderful achievements of these kings and princes could be equaled only -by the gods, and the poor dependents of the world, who lived for the -glory of the great, were fed with legends and with tales that sung the -praises of the strong. - -Literature, sculpture, painting, music, and architecture, indeed all -forms of art, were the exclusive property of the great, and the artist -then, like most of those to-day, was retained to serve the strong and -maintain the status of the weak. No one dreamed that there was any -beauty in a common human life or any romance in a fact. The greatest of -the earth had not yet learned to know that every life is a mystery and -every death a tragedy; that the spark of the infinite, which alone -transforms clay to life, animates alike the breast of the peasant and -the soul of the prince. The world had not yet learned that the ant-hill -is as great as Mont Blanc, and the blade of grass as mysterious as the -oak. It is only now that the world is growing so delicate and refined -that it can see the beauty of a fact; that it is developing a taste so -rare as to distinguish between the false and true; that it can be moved -by the gentle breeze as well as by the winter’s gale; that it can see -greater beauty in a statement true to life, than in the inflated tales, -which children read. - -Most of the art and literature the world has known has been untrue. The -pictures of the past have been painted from the distorted minds of -visionists, and the pliant brains of tools. They have represented -impossible gods and unthinkable saints; angels and cherubs and demons; -everything but men and women. Saints may be all right in their place, -but a saint with a halo around his head was born of myth and not of art. -Angels may be well enough, but all rational men prefer an angel with -arms to an angel with wings. When these artists were not drawing saints -and madonnas, they were spending their time in painting kings and royal -knaves; and the pictures of the rulers were as unlike the men and women -that they were said to represent as the servile spirit of the painter -was unlike that of the true artist of to-day. Of course an artist would -not paint the poor; they had no clothes that would adorn a work of art, -and no money nor favors that could remunerate the toil. An ancient -artist could no more afford to serve the poor than a modern lawyer could -defend the weak. - -After literature had so far advanced as to concern other beings than -gods and kings, the authors of these ancient days told of wondrous -characters endowed with marvelous powers; knights with giant strength -and magic swords; princes with wondrous palaces and heaps of gold; -travelers that met marvelous beasts and slew them in extraordinary ways; -giants with forms like mountains, and strength like oxen, who could -vanquish all but little dwarfs. Railroads were not invented in those -early days, but travel was facilitated by the use of seven league boots. -Balloons and telescopes were not yet known, but this did not keep -favored heroes from peering at the stars or looking down from on high -upon the earth; they had but to plant a magic bean before they went to -bed at night, and in the morning it had grown so tall that it reached up -to the sky; and the hero, although not skilled in climbing, needed -simply to grasp the stalk and say, “Hitchety, hatchety, up I go. -Hitchety, hatchety, up I go,” and by this means soon vanish in the -clouds. Tales of this sort used once to delight the world, and the -readers half believed them true. We give them to children now, and the -best of these view them with a half contempt. - -The modern man does not enjoy these myths. He relishes a lie, but it -must not be too big; it must be so small that, although he knows in his -inmost soul that it is not true, he can yet half make himself believe it -is not false. Most of us have cherished a pleasing, waking dream, and -have fondly clung to the sweet delusion while we really knew it was not -life. The modern literary stomach is becoming so healthy that it wants a -story at least half true; should the falsehood be too strong, it acts as -an emetic instead of food. These old fairy tales have lost their power -to charm, as the stories of the gods and kings went down before. They -have lost their charm, for as we read them now, they wake no answering -chord born of the experiences that make up what we know of human life. - -When the beauty of realism shall be truly known, we shall read the book, -or look upon the work of art, and in the light of all we know of life, -shall ask our beings whether the picture that the author or the painter -creates for us is like the image that is born of the consciousness that -moves our soul, and the experiences that have made us know. - -Realism worships at the shrine of nature; it does not say that there may -not be a sphere in which beings higher than man can live, or that some -time an eye may not rest upon a fairer sunset than was ever born behind -the clouds and sea, but it knows that through countless ages nature has -slowly fitted the brain and eye of man to the earth on which we live and -the objects that we see: and the perfect earthly eye must harmonize with -the perfect earthly scene. - -To say that realism is coarse and vulgar is to declare against nature -and her works, and to assert that the man she made may dream of things -higher and grander than nature could unfold. The eye of the great -sculptor reveals to him the lines that make the most perfect human form, -and he chisels out the marble block until it resembles this image so -completely that it almost seems to live. Nature, through ages of -experiment and development, has made this almost faultless form. It is -perfect because every part is best fitted for the separate work it has -to do. The artist knows that he could not improve a single organ if he -would, for all the rest of nature must be adjusted to the change. He has -the skill to reproduce this shape in lasting stone, and the human brain -could not conceive a form more beautiful and fair. Here is a perfect -image of the highest work that countless centuries of nature’s toil has -made, and yet some would seek to beautify and sanctify this work by -dressing it in the garb that shifting fashion and changing fancy makes -for man. - -Only the vulgar superstition of the past ever suggested that the -reproduction of human forms in stone was an unholy work. Through long -dark centuries religion taught that the flesh was vile and bad, and that -the soul of man was imprisoned in a charnel house, unfit for human -sight. The early Christians wounded, bruised, and maimed their house of -clay; they covered it with skins, which under no circumstances could be -removed, and many ancient saints lived and died without ever having -looked upon the bodies nature gave. The images of saints and martyrs, -which in the name of religion were scattered through Europe, were -covered with paint and clothes, and were nearly as hideous as the monks -that placed them there. When the condition of Europe and its religious -thought are clearly understood, it is not difficult to imagine the -reception that greeted the first dawn of modern realistic art. Sculpture -and painting deified the material. They told of beauty in the human form -which hundreds of years of religious fanaticism had taught was bad and -vile. If the flesh was beautiful, what of the monks and priests, who had -hidden it from sight, who had kept it covered night and day through all -their foolish lives, who maimed and bruised, cut and lacerated, for the -glory of the spirit, which they thought was chained within. The church -had taught that the death of the flesh was the birth of the soul, and -they therefore believed that the artist’s resurrection of the flesh was -the death of the soul. - -This old religious prejudice, born of a misty, superstitious past, has -slowly faded from the minds of men, but we find its traces even yet. The -origin of the feeling against realistic art has well nigh been forgot, -but much of the feeling still remains. No one would now pretend to say -that all the body was unholy or unfit for sight, and yet years of custom -and inherited belief have made us think that a part is good and the rest -is bad: that nature, in her work of building up the human form, has made -one part sacred and another vile. It is easy to mistake custom for -nature, and inherited prejudice for morality. There is scarcely a single -portion of the human body but that some people have thought it holy, and -scarcely a single portion but that some have believed it vile. It was -not shame that made clothing, but clothing that made shame. If we would -eradicate from our beliefs all that inheritance and environment have -given, it would be hard for us to guess how much should still remain. -Custom has made most things good and most things bad, according to the -whim of time and place. To find solid ground we must turn to nature and -ask her what it is that conduces to the highest happiness and the -longest life. - -The realistic artist cannot accept the popular belief, whatever that may -be, as to just where the dead line on the human body should be drawn -that separates the sacred and profane. There are realists that look at -all the beauty and loveliness of the world, and all its maladjustments -too, and do not seek to answer the old, old question whether back of -this is any all-controlling and designing power; they do not answer, for -they cannot know; but they strive to touch the subtle chord that makes -their individual lives vibrate in harmony with the great heart of that -nature, which they love; and they cannot think but that all parts of -life are good, and that while men may differ, nature must know best. - -Other realists there are that believe they see in nature the work of a -divine maker, who created man in his own image as the last and highest -triumph of his skill; that the minutest portion of the universe exists -because he wished it thus. To the realist that accepts this -all-controlling power, any imputation against a portion of his master’s -work must reach back to the author that designed it all. - -We need not say that the human body might not be better than it is; we -need only know that it is the best that man can have, and that its -wondrous mechanism has been constructed with infinitely more than human -skill; that every portion is adapted for its work, and through the -harmony of every part the highest good is reached; and that all is -beautiful, for it makes the being best adapted to the earth. Those who -denounce realistic art deny that knowledge is power and that wisdom only -can make harmony, and they insist instead that there are some things -vital to life and happiness that we should not know, but that if we must -know these things, we should at all events pretend that we do not. One -day the world will learn that all things are good or bad according to -the service they perform. One day it ought to learn that the power to -create immortality, through infinite succeeding links of human life, is -the finest and most terrible that nature ever gave to man, and that to -ignore this power or call it bad, or fail to realize the great -responsibility of this tremendous fact, is to cry out against the power -that gave us life, and commit the greatest human sin, for it may be one -that never dies. - -The true artist does not find all beauty in the human face or form. He -looks upon the sunset, painting all the clouds with rosy hue, and his -highest wish is to create another scene like this. He never dreams that -he could paint a sunset fairer than the one which lights the fading -world. A fairer sunset would be something else. He sees beauty in the -quiet lake, the grassy field, and running brook; he sees majesty in the -cataract and mountain peak. He knows that he can paint no streams and -mountain peaks more perfect than the ones that nature made. - -The growth of letters has been like the growth of art from the marvelous -and mythical to the natural and true. The tales and legends of the -ancient past were not of common men and common scenes. These could not -impress the undeveloped intellect of long ago. A man of letters could -not deify a serf, or tell the simple story of the poor. He must write to -maintain the status of the world, and please the prince that gave him -food; so he told of kings and queens, of knights and ladies, of strife -and conquest; and the coloring he used was human blood. - -The world has grown accustomed to those ancient tales, to scenes of -blood and war, and novels that would thrill the soul and cause the hair -to stand on end. It has read these tales so long that the true seems -commonplace, and unfit to fill the pages of a book. But all the time we -forget the fact that the story could not charm unless we half believed -it true. The men and women in the tale we learn to love and hate; we -take an interest in their lives; we hope they may succeed or fail; we -must not be told at every page that the people of the book are men of -straw, that no such beings ever lived upon the earth. We could take no -interest in men and women that are myths conjured up to play their -parts, and remind us in every word they speak that, regardless of the -happiness or anguish the author makes them feel, they are but myths and -can know neither joy nor pain. - -It may be that the realistic tale is commonplace, but so is life, and -the realistic tale is true. Among the countless millions of the earth it -is only here and there, and now and then, that some soul is born from -out the mighty deep that does not soon return to the great sea and leave -no ripple on the waves. - -In the play of life each actor seems important to himself; the world he -knows revolves around him as the central figure of the scene; his -friends rejoice in all the fortune he attains and weep with him in all -his grief. To him the world is bounded by the faces that he knows, and -the scenes in which he lives. He forgets the great surging world -outside, and cannot think how small a space he fills in that infinity -which bounds his life. He dies, and a few sorrowing friends mourn him -for a day, and the world does not know he ever lived or ever died. In -the ordinary life nearly all events are commonplace; but a few important -days are thinly sprinkled in amongst all of those that intervene between -the cradle and the grave. We eat and drink, we work and sleep, and here -and there a great joy or sorrow creeps in upon our lives, and leaves a -day that stands out against the monotony of all the rest, like the -pyramids upon the level plains; but these events are very few and are -important only to ourselves, and for the rest we walk with steady pace -and slow along the short and narrow path of life, and rely upon the -common things alone to occupy our minds and hide from view the marble -stone that here and there gleams through the over-hanging trees just -where the road leaves off. - -The old novel which we used to read and to which the world so fondly -clings, had no idea of relation or perspective. It had a hero and a -heroine, and sometimes more than one. The revolutions of the planets -were less important than their love. War, shipwreck, and conflagration, -all conspired to produce the climax of the scene, and the whole world -stood still until the lovers’ hearts and hands were joined. Wide oceans, -burning deserts, arctic seas, impassable jungles, irate fathers, and -even designing mothers, were helpless against the decree that fate had -made, and when all the barriers were passed and love had triumphed over -impossibilities, the tale was done; through the rest of life nothing of -interest could occur. Sometimes in the progress of the story, if the -complications were too great, a thunderbolt or an earthquake was -introduced to destroy the villain and help on the match. Earthquakes -sometimes happen, and the realistic novelist might write a tale of a -scene like this, but then the love affair would be an incident of the -earthquake, and not the earthquake an incident of the love affair. - -In real life the affections have played an important part and sometimes -great things have been done and suffered in the name of love, but most -of the affairs of the human heart have been as natural as the other -events of life. - -The true love story is generally a simple thing. “Beside a country road, -on a sloping hill, lives a farmer, in the house his father owned before. -He has a daughter, who skims the milk, and makes the beds, and goes to -singing school at night. There are other members of the household, but -our tale is no concern of theirs. In the meadow back of the house a -woodchuck has dug its hole, and reared a family in its humble home. -Across the valley only a mile away, another farmer lives. He has a son, -who plows the fields and does the chores and goes to singing school at -night. He cannot sing, but attends the school as regularly as if he -could. Of course he does not let the girl go home alone, and in the -spring, when singing school is out, he visits her on Sunday eve without -excuse. If the girl had not lived so near, the boy would have fancied -another girl about the same age, who also went to singing school. Back -of the second farmer’s house is another woodchuck hole and woodchuck -home. After a year or two of courtship the boy and girl are married as -their parents were before, and they choose a pretty spot beside the -road, and build another house near by, and settle down to common life: -and so the world moves on. And a woodchuck on one farm meets a woodchuck -on the other, and they choose a quiet place beside a stump, in no one’s -way, where they think they have a right to be, and dig another hole and -make another home.” For after all, men and animals are much alike, and -nature loves them both and loves them all, and sends them forth to drive -the loneliness from off the earth, and then takes them back into her -loving breast to sleep. - -It may be that there are few great incidents in the realistic take, but -each event appeals to life and cannot fail to wake our memories and make -us live the past again. The great authors of the natural school—Tolstoi, -Hardy, Howells, Daudet, Ibsen, Flaubert, Zola and their kind, have made -us think and live. Their words have burnished up our minds and revealed -a thousand pictures that hang upon the walls of memory, covered with the -dust of years, and hidden from our sight. Sometimes of course we cry -with pain at the picture that is thrown before our view, but life -consists of emotions, and we cannot truly live unless the depths are -stirred. These great masters, it is true, may sometimes shock the -over-sensitive with the tales they tell of life, but if the tale is -true, why hide it from our sight? - -There is nothing more common than the protest against the wicked stories -of the realistic school, filled with tales of passion and of sin; but he -that denies passion denies all the life that exists upon the earth, and -cries out against the mother that gave him birth. And he that ignores -this truth passes with contempt the greatest fact that nature has -impressed upon the world. Those who condemn as sensual the tales of -Tolstoi and Daudet still defend the love stories of which our literature -is full. Those weak and silly tales that make women fit only to be the -playthings of the world, and deny to them a single thought or right -except to serve their master, man. These objectors do not contend that -tales dealing with the feelings and affections shall not be told, they -approve these tales; they simply insist that they shall be false instead -of true. The old novel filled the mind of the school girl with a -thousand thoughts that had no place in life—with ten thousand pictures -she could never see. It taught that some time she should meet a prince -in disguise to whom she would freely give her hand and heart. So she -went out upon the road to find this prince, and the more disguised he -was, the more certain did she feel that he was the prince for whom she -sought. The realist paints the passions and affections as they are. Both -man and woman can see their beauty and their terror, their true -position, and the relation that they bear to all the rest of life. He -would not beguile the girl into the belief that her identity should be -destroyed and merged for the sake of this feeling, which not once in ten -thousand times could realize the promises the novel made; but he would -leave her as an individual to make the most she can, and all she can, of -life, with all the hope and chance of conquest, which men have taken for -themselves. Neither would the realist cry out blindly against these deep -passions, which have moved men and women in the past, and which must -continue fierce and strong as long as life exists. He is taught by the -scientist that the fiercest heat may be transformed to light, and is -taught by life that from the strongest passions are sometimes born the -sweetest and the purest souls. - -In these days of creeds and theories, of preachers in the pulpit and of -preachers out, we are told that all novels should have a moral and be -written to serve some end. So we have novels on religion, war, marriage, -divorce, socialism, theosophy, woman’s rights, and other topics without -end. It is not enough that the preachers and lecturers shall tell us how -to think and act; the novelist must try his hand at preaching too. He -starts out with a theory, and every scene and incident must be bent to -make it plain that the author believes certain things. The doings of the -men and women in the book are secondary to the views the author holds. -The theories may be true, but the poor characters that must adjust their -lives to these ideal states are sadly warped and twisted out of shape. -The realist would teach a lesson, too, but he would not violate a single -fact for all the theories in the world—for a theory could not be true if -it did violence to life. He paints his picture so true and perfect that -all men who look upon it know it is a likeness of the world that they -have seen; they know that these are men and women and little children -that they meet upon the streets; they see the conditions of their lives, -and the moral of the picture sinks deep into their minds. - -There are so-called scientists that make a theory and then gather facts -to prove their theory true; the real scientist patiently and impartially -gathers facts, and then forms a theory to explain and harmonize these -facts. All life bears a moral, and the true artist must teach a lesson -with his every fact. Some contend that the moral teacher must not tell -the truth; the realist holds that there can be no moral teaching like -the truth. The world has grown tired of preachers and sermons; to-day it -asks for facts. It has grown tired of fairies and angels, and asks for -flesh and blood. It looks on life as it exists, both its beauty and its -horror, its joy and its sorrow; it wishes to see it all; not the prince -and the millionaire alone, but the laborer and the beggar, the master -and the slave. We see the beautiful and the ugly, and with it know what -the world is and what it ought to be; and the true picture, which the -author saw and painted, stirs the heart to holier feelings and to -grander thoughts. - -It is from the realities of life that the highest idealities are born. -The philosopher may reason with unerring logic, and show us where the -world is wrong. The economist may tell us of the progress and poverty -that go hand in hand; but these are theories, and the abstract cannot -suffer pain. Dickens went out into the streets of the great city and -found poor little Jo sweeping the crossing with his broom. All around -was the luxury and the elegance, which the rich have ever appropriated -to themselves; great mansions, fine carriages, beautiful dresses, but in -all the great city of houses and homes, poor little Jo could find no -place to lay his head. His home was in the street, and every time he -halted for a moment in the throng, the policeman touched him with his -club and bade him “move on.” At last, ragged, wretched, almost dead with -“moving on,” he sank down upon the cold stone steps of a magnificent -building erected for “The Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.” -As we think of wretched, ragged Jo in the midst of all this luxury and -wealth, we see the tens of thousands of other waifs in the great cities -of the world, and we condemn the so-called civilization of the earth -that builds the mansions of the rich and great upon the rags and -miseries of the poor. - -The true realist cannot worship at the shrine of power, nor prostitute -his gifts for gold. With an artist’s eye he sees the world exactly as it -is, and tells the story faithful unto life. He feels for every heart -that beats, else he could not paint them as he does. It takes the soul -to warm a statue into life and make living flesh and coursing blood, and -each true picture that he paints or draws makes the world a better place -in which to live. - -The artists of the realistic school have a sense so fine that they -cannot help but catch the inspiration that is filling all the world’s -best minds with the hope of greater justice and more equal social life. -With the vision of the seer they feel the coming dawn when true equality -shall reign upon the earth; the time when democracy shall no more be -confined to constitutions and to laws, but will be a part of human life. -The greatest artists of the world to-day are telling facts and painting -scenes that cause humanity to stop, and think, and ask why one should be -a master and another be a serf; why a portion of the world should toil -and spin, should wear away its strength and life, that the rest should -live in idleness and ease. - -The old-time artists thought they served humanity by painting saints and -madonnas and angels from the myths they conjured in their brains. They -painted war with long lines of soldiers dressed in uniforms, and looking -plump and gay; and a battle scene was always drawn from the side of the -victorious camp, with the ensign proudly planting his bright colors on -the rampart of the foe. One or two were dying, but always in their -comrades’ arms, and listening to shouts of victory that filled the air, -and thinking of the righteous cause for which they fought and died. In -the last moments they dreamed of pleasant burial yards at home, and of -graves kept green by loving, grateful friends; and a smile of joy shone -on their wasted faces that was so sweet, that it seemed a hardship not -to die in war. They painted peace as a white winged dove settling down -upon a cold and fading earth. Between the two it was plain which choice -a boy would make, and thus art served the state and king. - -But Verestchagin painted war; he painted war so true to life that as we -look upon the scene, we long for peace. He painted war as war has ever -been, and as war will ever be—a horrible and ghastly scene, where men, -drunk with blind frenzy which rulers say is patriotic pride, and made -mad by drums and fifes and smoke and shot and shell and flowing blood, -seek to maim and wound and kill, because a ruler gives the word. He -paints a battle field, a field of life and death; a field of carnage and -of blood; and who are these that fight like fiends and devils driven to -despair? What cause is this that makes these men forget that they are -men, and vie with beasts to show their cruel thirst for blood? They -shout of home and native land, but they have no homes, and the owners of -their native land exist upon their toil and blood. The nobles and -princes, for whom this fight is waged, are far away upon a hill, beyond -the reach of shot and shell, and from this spot they watch their slaves -pour out their blood to satisfy their rulers’ pride and lust of power. -What is the enemy they fight? Men like themselves; who blindly go to -death at another king’s command, slaves, who have no land, who freely -give their toil or blood, whichever one their rulers may demand. These -fighting soldiers have no cause for strife, but their rulers live by -kindling in their hearts a love of native land, a love that makes them -hate their brother laborers of other lands, and dumbly march to death to -satisfy a king’s caprice. But let us look once more after the battle has -been fought. Here we see the wreck and ruin of the strife; the field is -silent now, given to the dead, the beast of prey and night. A young -soldier lies upon the ground; the snow is falling fast around his form; -the lonely mountain peaks rise up on every side; the wreck of war is all -about. His uniform is soiled and stained, a spot of red is seen upon his -breast. It is not the color that his country wove upon his coat to catch -his eye and bait him to his death; it is hard and jagged and cold. It is -his life’s blood, which leaked out through a hole that followed the -point of a sabre to his heart. His form is stiff and cold, for he is -dead. The cruel wound and icy air have done their work. The government -that took his life taught this poor boy to love his native land; as a -child he dreamed of scenes of glory and of power, and the great wide -world just waiting to fall captive to his magic strength. He dreamed of -war and strife, of victory and fame; if he should die, kind hands would -smooth his brow, and loving friends would keep his grave and memory -green, because he died in war. But no human eye is there at last, as the -mist of night and mist of death shut out the lonely mountains from his -sight. The snow is all around, and the air above is grey with falling -flakes, which soon will hide him from the world; and when the summer -time shall come again, no one can tell his bleaching bones from all the -rest. The only life upon the scene is the buzzard slowly circling in the -air above his head, waiting to make sure that death has come. The bird -looks down upon the boy, into the eyes through which he first looked out -upon the great, wide world, and which his mother fondly kissed; upon -these eyes the buzzard will commence his meal. - -Not all the world is beautiful, and not all of life is good. The true -artist has no right to choose the lovely spots alone and make us think -that this is life. He must bring the world before our eyes and make us -read and learn. As he loves the true and noble, he must show the false -and bad. As he yearns for true equality, he must paint the master and -the slave. He must tell the truth, and tell it all, must tell it o’er -and o’er again, till the deafest ear will listen and the dullest mind -will think. He must not swerve to please the world by painting only -pleasant sights and telling only lovely tales. He must think, and paint, -and write, and work, until the world shall learn so much and grow so -good, that the true will all be beautiful and all the real be ideal. - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE · SKELETON - IN · THE · CLOSET - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET - - -The closet has so long been allotted to the skeleton that we have come -to regard this room as its fit and natural home; it has been given over -to this guest because it is the darkest, the closest and least -conspicuous in the house. The door can be securely fastened and only now -and then can the grating bones be heard by the world outside. Still, -however secluded and unused this guest chamber seems to be, and however -carefully we bolt the door and darken every chink and crevice in the -walls, we are ever conscious that the occupant is there, and will remain -until the house is closed, and the last tenant has departed, never to -return. The very fact that we try so hard to keep the skeleton in its -proper room, makes it the more impossible to forget that it is there. -Now and then we awake with a start at the thought of what might happen -should it break the door and wander through the house, and then stray -out into the wide world, and tell all the peaceful, trusting neighbors -from what house it stole away; and yet we are somehow conscious that the -rumor of its dread presence has already traveled as far as we are known. -Man is a wonderfully adaptable animal; he fits himself easily into the -environment where he is placed. He passes from infancy to childhood and -from childhood to boyhood as smoothly as the placid river flows to the -waiting sea. Every circumstance and surrounding of his life seems to -have been made for him. Suddenly a new desire takes possession of his -soul; he turns his back on the home of his childhood days and goes out -alone. In a little time a new family is reared about him, and he forgets -the group that clustered round his father’s hearth. He may lose a leg or -a fortune, and he soon conforms to his changed condition and life goes -on as naturally and as easily as before. A child is born beneath his -roof; it takes a place within his heart and home, and in a little while -he can scarcely think of the day it was not there. Death comes, and a -member of his little band is carried out, but time drops its healing -balm upon the wounds and life goes on almost unconscious that the dead -has ever lived. But while we adjust ourselves naturally to all things -living and to ever varying scenes, the skeleton in the closet is always -an intruder, no matter how long it may have dwelt beneath the roof. Even -though we may forget its actual presence for a little time, still no -scene is so perfect and no enjoyment so great but we feel a cloud -casting its shadow across our happiness or the weight of some burden on -our soul; and when we stop to ask the cause, the grinning skeleton -reminds us that it is with us even here. - -This specter stands quite apart from the other sorrows of our life; age -seems powerless to forget, and time will not bring its ever-fresh, -recurring scenes to erase the memory of the past. This is not because -the skeleton is really such a dreadful guest. The kind and loving ivy -creeps tenderly around each yawning scar and crumbling stone, until the -whole ruin is covered with a lovely green. The decaying pile stands free -and open to the sun and rain and air. It does not hide its head or -apologize for the blemishes and seams that mark its face, and a kind, -forgiving nature takes the ruin, scars and all, and blends these with -her softening years and lovely face into a beautiful harmonious whole; -but unlike the ruin, the skeleton in the closet is a neglected, outcast -child. With every breath we insist that there is nothing in the room. We -refuse to take it to our hearts and homes and acknowledge it as our own. -We seek to strangle it to death, and each fresh attempt not only shows -our murderous design, but proves that the skeleton is not a pulseless -thing but is endowed with immortal life. The brighter the fire-light -that glows around our hearth, the more desolate and drear sounds the -wail of the wind outside, for through its cold blasts wanders the -outcast, whose rightful place is in the brightest corner of the room. - -Our constant annoyance and sorrow at this dread presence is not caused -by the way the skeleton behaves to us, but from the way we treat our -guest. If we looked it squarely in its grinning skull, it might not seem -so very loathsome to the sight. It has the right to grin. It may be but -a grim smile over the consciousness that it has sounded the last sorrow -and that henceforth no greater evils are in store; it may be a mocking, -sardonic grin at the thought of our discomfiture over its unwelcome -presence and the knowledge that we cannot drive it out. - -There is no truer index to real character than the way we treat the -skeletons with which we live. Some run to the closet door, and try to -lock it fast when a neighbor comes their way. If perchance any fear of -discovery is felt, they stand guard outside and solemnly protest that -there is nothing in the room. Their anxiety and haste plainly show fear -lest their hated guest shall reveal its face; and of course there rises -in the neighbor’s mind a vision of a skeleton more horrible by far than -the one inside the door or than anyone can be. If the luckless jailer -really fears that the rattle of the prisoner’s bones has been heard -outside, he feels it his duty to carefully explain or tediously cover up -every detail and circumstance that caused the presence of the specter in -the house. All this can only show that the guest is terrible to behold -or that the jailer is so poor and weak that he himself is a helpless -prisoner to his foolish pride and unmanly fear. It can only serve to -emphasize the presence he tries so vainly to deny. There are also those -who know that their skeleton has been seen, or who having lost all else -but this persistent, grinning guest, drag it out and parade it in the -world to gain the sympathy or the money of their neighbors and their -friends, like the crippled beggar standing on the corner holding out his -hat to every passer-by. The true man neither guiltily conceals nor -anxiously explains nor vulgarly parades. He lives his life the best he -can, and lets it stand for what it is. A thousand idle tales may be true -or false. One may have seen but certain things, and placed him with the -saints. Another little soul, who never felt the breadth and depth of -human life, may have seen his scars alone, and cast him out. But -standing by his side, or clasping his strong, sympathetic hand, no one -thinks of halos or scars or asks an explanation of this or that, for in -his whole being is felt the divine presence of a great soul, who has -lived and loved, sinned and suffered, and been strengthened and purified -by all. - -The skeleton is really kind that it only grins as we look it in the -face. Of all our household it has received the hardest treatment at our -hands. It has helped us more than any of the rest, and been locked in -the closet for its pains. It may perchance have come at our own -invitation, bringing us the keenest, wildest joy our life had ever -known. We gladly drained the pleasure to the dregs, and then coolly -locked the memory close in the darkest hole that we could find. The day -it came, has well nigh faded from our minds, and the mad, wild joy we -knew can never more be wakened from the burned-out passions of the past, -but the skeleton, which rose up grim and ghastly from the dying flame, -remains to mock and jeer and make us sad. And now when the day is spent -and the cup is drained, we charge the poor specter with our lasting -pain, and forget the joy it brought. We look with dread at these -mocking, grinning bones, which we cannot drive away, and we forget the -time, long, long ago, when those dry sticks were covered up with -beautiful and tempting flesh. - -It may be that we shall always shudder as we hear the rattle of the -bones when we pass the closet door, but in justice to the inmate, we -should give him credit for the joys of long ago. And this brings us back -to the old question of the balancing of pain and pleasure, good and -evil, right and wrong. It may be that in the mysterious adjustment of -nature’s balances, a moment of supreme bliss will outweigh an eternity -of pain. In the infinite economy, which life counted for the more,—that -of Napoleon, or the poor French peasant that passed through an obscure -existence to an unknown grave? The brief glory of Austerlitz was -followed by the bitterness of Waterloo, and the long silence of an -exile’s life, while the peasant trod his short path without ambition, -and filled a nameless grave without regret. Which is the greater and -finer, the blameless life of the patient brute, or the winding, devious -path of a human soul? It is only the dull level that brings no sorrow or -regret. It is a sterile soil where no weeds will grow, and a bare closet -where no skeleton will dwell. - -Neither should we remember the skeleton only for the joy it brought; -from the day it came, it has been the greatest benefactor that our life -has known. When the mad delirium had passed away, and the last lingering -fragrance was almost spent, this despised skeleton remained as the sole -companion, whose presence should forever bind us back to those feelings -that were fresh and true and straight from nature’s heart, and that -world which once was green and young and filled with pulsing life. As -the shadows gather round our head, and our once-straying feet fall -mechanically into the narrow path so straight and even at the farther -end, we may shudder now and then at the thought of the grim skeleton -whose life is so far removed from our sober later selves; but with the -shudder comes a spark, a flash of that great, natural light and heat -that once possessed this tottering frame, and gave a glow of feeling and -a strength of purpose so deep and all-controlling that the artificial -life of an artificial world seems no more than a dim candle shining by -the glorious sun. - -It is the exhausted emotions of age, which men call prudence, that are -ever warning youth of the follies of its sins. It is the grinning -skeleton, speaking truly from the memory of other days, that insists -that life’s morning held the halcyon hours. Does old age outlive the -follies of childhood or does the man outgrow the wisdom of youth? The -most vociferous preachers are often those whose natural spirits have led -them to drink the deepest of life. They are so foolish as to think that -others can be taught by their experiences, and mumbling grey-beards -endorse the excellence and wisdom of the sermons that they preach. They -are not wise enough to know that their prattle is more vain and foolish -than the babblings of their childhood days. It was the growing, vital -sap of life that made them children years ago; it is the icy, palsying -touch of age that makes them babbling, preaching children once again. As -well might the calm and placid lake teach the beauty of repose to the -boiling, seething cataract, that thunders down Niagara’s gulf. When the -troubled waters shall have reached the lake they shall be placid too. -Nature is wiser far than man. She makes the first childhood precede the -second. If the age of prudence came with youth, it would be a dull and -prosy world for a little time; then life would be extinct upon the earth -and death triumphant over all. - -But these are the smallest reasons why we should venerate the neglected -skeleton, which we have ruthlessly cast into the closet as if it were a -hideous thing. This uncanny skeleton, ever thrusting its unwelcome bones -into our presence and our lives, has been the most patient, persistent, -constant teacher that all our years have known. We look backward through -the long dim vista of the past, back to the little trusting child that -once nestled on its mother’s breast and from whose loving lips and -gentle soul it first was told of life, its temptations and its sins; -backward to her, whose whole thought was a benediction to the life that -was once a portion of herself. We remember still this mother’s words -teaching us the way to live and telling us the way to die. We always -knew that no selfish thought inspired a single word she said and yet -time and time again we strayed and wandered from the path she pointed -out. We could not keep the road and after while we did not try. Again -our teacher told us of the path. He, too, was good and kind and knew the -way we ought to go, and showed us all the bad results of sin, and still -we stumbled on. The preacher came and told us of the beauteous heaven, -straight at the other end of the narrow path, and the yawning gulf of -hell to which our shifting footsteps led; but we heeded not his solemn -tones, though they seemed to come with the authority of God himself. As -the years went on, our mother’s voice was stilled, the teacher’s words -were hushed, the preacher’s threats became an empty, hollow sound; and -in their place came the grinning skeleton, born of our own desires and -deeds; less loving than the gentle mother, more real and life-like than -the teacher, saner and truer than the preacher’s idle words. It was ever -present and persistent; it was a portion of our very selves. - -We detested and feared the hated thing; we locked it in the closet, and -denied that it was there; but through the brightness of the day and the -long and silent watches of the night, we heard its rattling bones, and -felt its presence at our side. No teacher of our youth was like that -grim and ghastly skeleton, which we tried to hide away. The schoolmaster -of our early life took our fresh, young, plastic minds and sought to -crowd them full of useless, unrelated facts that served no purpose -through the years that were to come. These lessons that our teacher made -us learn by rote filled so small a portion of our daily lives that most -of them were forgotten when the school-house door was closed. When now -and then we found some use for a trifling thing that we had learned -through years at school, we were surprised to know that the pedagogue -had taught us even this. In those early days it seemed to us that life -would consist of one long examination in which we should be asked the -names of states, the rule of three, and the words the Romans used for -this and that. All that we were taught of the great world outside and -the problem that would one day try our souls, was learned from the copy -books where we wrote the same old maxim until all the paper was used up. -In after years, we learned that, while the copy book might have taught -us how to write in a stilted, unused hand, still all its maxims were -untrue. - -We left the school as ignorant of life as we commenced, nay, we might -more easily have learned its lesson without the false, misleading -theories we were taught were true. When the doors were opened and the -wide world met us face to face, we tested what we learned, and found it -false, and then we blundered on alone. We were taught by life that the -fire and vigor of our younger years could not be governed by the -platitudes of age. Nature was ever present with her strong and earthly -grasp, her keen desires, her white hot flame. We learned the precepts of -the books, but we lived the life that nature taught. - -Our pathetic blunders and mistakes, and the skeleton that followed in -their wake, remained to teach us what was false and point to what was -true. This grim, persistent teacher made but little of the unimportant -facts that the schoolmaster sought to make us learn, and it laughed to -scorn the preacher’s doctrine, that in some way we could avoid the -results of our mistakes and sins. It did not preach, it took its place -beside us as another self and by its presence sought to make us know -that we could not be at peace until we clasped it to our breast and -freely accepted the unwelcome thing as a portion of our lives. - -Only the smallest fraction that we learned in youth was assimilated and -made a portion of ourselves; the rest faded so completely that it seemed -never to have been. The teacher soon became a dim, uncertain memory of -the past, whose voice had long since died away; but the skeleton in the -closet never wearied nor grew old. It ever made us learn again the -lesson we would fain forget; opened at each succeeding period of our -lives the pages we would gladly put away, until, at last, the ripening -touch of time and the specter’s constant presence made us know. From the -day it came beneath our roof, it remained the liveliest, wisest, most -persistent member of the family group, the tireless, watchful teacher, -who would neither sleep nor allow its pupil to forget. - -It may be that there are lives so barren and uneventful that this guest -passes ever by their door, but unfortunate indeed is that abode where it -will not dwell. The wide vistas can be seen only from the mountain top, -and the infinite depths of life can be sounded only by the soul that has -been softened and hallowed by the sanctifying touch of misery and sin. - -Life is a never-ending school, and the really important lessons all tend -to teach man his proper relation to the environment where he must live. -With wild ambitions and desires untamed, we are spawned out into a -shoreless sea of moving molecules of life, each separate atom journeying -on an unknown course, regardless of the countless other lives it meets -as it blindly rushes on; no lights nor headlands stand to point the -proper way the voyager should take, he is left to sail an untried bark -across an angry sea. If no disaster should befall, it does not show that -the traveler is wise or good, but that his ambitions and desires are few -or he has kept close inside the harbor line. At first we seek to swim -the flood, to scale the rocky heights, to clutch the twinkling stars. Of -course we fail and fall, and the scars our passions and ambitions leave, -remain, though all our particles are made anew year after year. We learn -at last to leave the stars to shine where they belong, to take all -things as they are and adjust our lives to what must be. - -The philosophy of life can come only from those experiences that leave -lasting scars and results that will not die. Rather than seek to cover -up these gaping wounds, we should accept with grace the tales they tell, -and show them as trophies of the strife we have passed through. Those -scars are honorable that have brought our lives into greater harmony -with the universal power. For resist it as we will, this infinite, -loving presence will ever claim us as a portion of its self until our -smallest fragments return once more to earth, and are united with the -elements from which we came. - -No life can be rounded and complete without the education that the -skeleton alone can give. Until it came we never knew the capacities of -the human soul. We had learned by rote to be forgiving, kind and true. -But the anguish of the human soul cannot be told—it must be felt or -never known. That charity born of true comradeship, which is the highest -and holiest sentiment of life, can be taught by the skeleton alone. The -self-righteous, who prate of forgiveness to their fellow men and who -look down upon their sinning brothers from above, are hypocrites or -fools. They either have not lived or else desire to pass for something -they are not. No one can understand the devious, miry paths trodden by -another soul unless he himself has wandered through the night. - -Those placid, human lives that have moved along a narrow, even path; -that learned by rote the lessons that the churches and the schools have -ever taught; whose perfection consists in refraining from doing certain -things in certain ways; who never had a noble thought or felt a great -desire to help their fellow men—those blameless, aimless, worthless -souls, are neither good nor bad. They neither feel nor think; no -skeleton would deem it worth its while to come inside their door. - -The world judges the conduct of youth by the standards of age. Even when -due allowance is made for the inexperience and haste of the young, it is -assumed that youth and age are measured by the calendar alone. Few have -ever been wise enough to know that every passion and circumstance must -be fully weighed, before an honest verdict can be written down; and that -therefore only the infinite can judge a human soul. - -Though accursed, doubted, and despised, Nature ever persists in her -relentless plan. She would make us learn the lessons that youth so -easily forgets. She finds us headstrong, unreasoning, and moved by the -same feelings that sway the brute. She decrees that every act, however -blind or wilful, must leave its consequences on our lives, and these -immortal consequences we treat as skeletons and lock them up. But these -uncanny specters wrap us closely in their bony arms; they ever peer with -sightless eyes into our soul; they are with us if we sleep or wake, and -their persistent presence will not let us sleep. It is the hated, -imprisoned skeleton that we vainly sought to hide away, that takes an -untamed, fiery soul within its cruel, loving clasp, and holds it closely -in its unforgiving grasp until the vain longings and wild desires of -youth are subdued, and cooled, and the deeper harmonies of life are -learned. It is the hated skeleton that finds within our breast a heart -of flint and takes this hard and pulseless thing and scars and twists -and melts it in a thousand tortuous ways until the stony mass is purged -and softened and is sensitive to every touch. - -It is this same despised skeleton that finds us vain and boastful and -critical of others’ sins, that watches every word we speak and even each -unuttered thought; it is with us when we tightly draw our robes and pass -our fellow on the other side; it hears us when we seek to show how good -we are by boasting of our neighbor’s sins; for every spot of black or -red that we see upon another’s robes, it points its bony fingers to a -scar upon our heart, to remind us that we are like the rest; and the -same finger ever points us to our wounds until we feel and understand -that the clay the Master used for us was as weak and poor as that from -which he made the rest. - -However blind and stubborn we may be, however long we deny the lesson -that the skeleton would teach, still it will not let us go until with -perfect peace and harmony we look at all the present and the past, at -all that was, and all that is, and feel no regrets for what is gone, and -no fears for what must come. It may be that our stubborn, stiffnecked -soul will still persist until the hair is white and the heavy shadows -hang about our heads, but the skeleton with his soothing, softening -ally, time, sits with the last watchers at our suffering bed, and goes -if need be, to the silent grave, where alike the darkest crimson spot -and the softest, purest clay are reunited once again with the loving, -universal mother who has forgiven all and conquered all. It matters not -how high we seem to climb, or what the careless world may think for good -or ill. It matters not how many small ambitions we may seem to have -achieved. Even the unworthy cannot be forever soothed by the hollow -voice of fame. All triumphs are futile without the victory over self; -and when the triumph over self is won, there are no more battles to be -fought, for all the world is then at peace. It is the skeleton in the -closet pointing ever to the mistakes and maladjustments of our past, the -skeleton standing there before our gaze that makes us still remember -where our lives fell short; that teaches us so slowly but so surely to -turn from the unworthy victories and the dire defeats of life to the -mastery of ourselves. It is the skeleton from whom we learn that we can -live without the world, but not without ourselves. - -Without the skeleton we could never feel another’s sorrow, or know -another’s pain. Philosophy and theology cannot tell us how another’s -life became a hopeless wreck. It is ourselves alone that reveals the -precipice along which every footpath leads. It is from life we learn -that it is but an accident when we fall, and equally an accident when we -keep the path. The pupil of the schools may look down with pitying -glance upon the unfortunate victim of what seems to be his sin. He may -point to a love that will forgive and kindly plead with him to take -another path, but the wayfarer that the skeleton has taught will clasp -this fellow mortal to his heart, for in his face he sees but the -reflection of himself. The wise and good may forgive the evil and the -wrong, but only the sinner knows that there is no sin. - -The charity that is born of life and sin is not fine because of its -effect on some one else, but for what it does for us. True charity is -only the sense of the kinship of all living things. This is the charity -that neither humiliates nor offends. It is the sense that brings a new -meaning to life and a new purpose to the soul. - -Let us do simple justice to this neglected, outcast guest, the useful, -faithful teacher of our lives. Let us open the closet door, and let the -skeleton come out, and lock the schoolmaster in its place. Let us leave -this faithful friend to roam freely at its will. Let us look it squarely -in the face with neither fear or shame, but with gratitude for the -lessons it has taught. It may be that the jeering crowd will point in -scorn as they see us with the grewsome figure at our side, but when we -fully learn the lesson that it came to teach, we shall need to look no -more without for the approval or disapproval of our acts, but seek to -satisfy ourselves alone. Let us place a new chair beside the hearth, in -the cosiest nook, and bid the skeleton take its place as the worthiest -guest. Let us neither parade nor hide our new-found friend, but treat it -as a fact of life—a fact that is, a fact that had the right to be, and a -fact that taught us how to find ourselves. Let us not forget the -parents, who watch us in our youth, and the friends that were ever good -and true. But above all, let us remember this grim and silent teacher, -who never neglected or forgot, who showed us life as only it could show, -who opened up new vistas to our soul, who touched our human hearts, who -made us know and love our fellowman, who softened and mellowed and -purified our souls until we felt the kinship that we bore to all living -things. Until it came we knew only the surface of the world. Before it -came, we had tasted of the shallow cup of joy and the bitter cup of -pain, but we needed this to teach us from the anguish of the soul that -there is a depth profound and great, where pain and pleasure both are -one. That there is a life so deep and true that earth’s rewards and -penalties alike are but a hollow show; that there is a conquest of -ourselves, which brings perfect peace and perfect rest. - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - PRINTED FOR C. L. RICKETTS - BY R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS - COMPANY, AT THE LAKESIDE - PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. MCMII - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Persian Pearl and Other Essays, by -Clarence S. 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Darrow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: A Persian Pearl and Other Essays - -Author: Clarence S. Darrow - -Release Date: November 13, 2016 [EBook #53524] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PERSIAN PEARL AND OTHER ESSAYS *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class='tnotes covernote'> - -<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber's Note:</strong></p> - -<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/title.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div> - <h1 class='c001'>A PERSIAN PEARL<br /> <span class='xlarge'>AND OTHER ESSAYS</span></h1> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='small'>BY</span></div> - <div><span class='large'>CLARENCE S. DARROW</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id002'> -<img src='images/i_003.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>CHICAGO</div> - <div><span class='large'>C. L. RICKETTS</span></div> - <div><span class='small'>MDCCCCII</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c002' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c003'> - <div>Copyright</div> - <div>1899</div> - <div>Clarence S. Darrow</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c002' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class='table0' summary='CONTENTS'> - <tr> - <td class='c005'>1</td> - <td class='c006'>A Persian Pearl</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_9'>9</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'> </td> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'>2</td> - <td class='c006'>Walt Whitman</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_43'>43</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'> </td> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'>3</td> - <td class='c006'>Robert Burns</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_77'>77</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'> </td> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'>4</td> - <td class='c006'>Realism in Literature and Art</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_107'>107</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'> </td> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c005'>5</td> - <td class='c006'>The Skeleton in the Closet</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_139'>139</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='lg-container-b c003'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>A · PERSIAN · PEARL</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_007.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span> - <h2 class='c004'>A PERSIAN PEARL</h2> -</div> - -<div class='c008'> - <img class='drop-capi' src='images/i_009di.jpg' width='100' alt='' /> -</div><p class='drop-capi_8'> -The reader and observer is -constantly reminded that -“there is nothing new under -the sun.” We no sooner -find some rare gem of -thought or expression than -we discover that it is only -an old diamond, polished anew, perhaps, -and offered as an original stone. Neither -the reader nor the writer is always aware -that the gem is antique and the setting alone -is new.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The rich mine where the treasure was first -found was exhausted in a few brief years, -and then became like all the dust of all the -worlds; but the gem polished and worn -by time and use, ever sparkles and shines, -regardless of the fact that the miner’s name -is forgotten and his work alone remains. -Thus Nature, the great communist, provides -that the treasures of genius, like her -own bountiful gifts of sunlight, rain and -air, shall remain the common property of -all her children while any dwell upon the -earth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Current literature seems to point to the -ascendancy of what is often termed the -“pessimistic school.” In one sense this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>philosophy uncrowns man and places him -in his proper relation to the great universe, -of which he is so small a part; but while it -makes less of man, it expects less from him, -and covers his deeds with that cloak of -charity, which is the legitimate garment of -the great Unknown. But these modern reflections -on life and its problems, its purposes -and lessons, are far from new. Without -venturing a guess as to their origin or -age, we take up that old Persian Pearl,—the -“Rubaiyat,” and find on its musty pages -the great thoughts and searching questions, -which have ever returned to man since the -intellect was born, and which will still remain -unanswered when the last word shall -have been spoken, and the race have run its -course.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is nearly eight hundred years since -Omar Khayyam, the Persian astronomer, philosopher, -and poet, mused and wrote upon -the uncertainty of life, the eternity of time -and the mutability of human things. Since -the rose bush was planted above his grave, -the material world has been almost made -anew. Art and literature have given countless -treasures to the earth, and science has -solved its mysteries without end. But the -riddles of existence—the problems of life, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>the deep heart of the universe, the cause and -purpose and end of all, are mysteries as dark -and inscrutable as they were eight centuries -ago. To quote from the Rubaiyat:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>There was the Door to which I found no Key;</div> - <div class='line'>There was the Veil thro’ which I could not see:</div> - <div class='line in2'>Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee</div> - <div class='line'>There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>As Egypt is the newest country visited -by the traveler, so this old book, burnished -by the genius of FitzGerald, comes to us as -the latest and profoundest word upon the -infinite mysteries which over-shadow human -life. It seems to be the last word, rather -than one of the first, spoken to the perplexed -soul of man, calling him from the -vain pursuit of vanities, and asking what all -of it is about.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To an egoistic, boasting age and nation, -this message, coming from a far off time -and a distant land, reminds us that all wisdom -is garnered neither now nor here. This -Persian Pearl remained unpolished for more -than seven hundred years. It was left for -Edward FitzGerald carefully and patiently -to burnish up the gem, and make it the thing -of beauty that we know.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It may be that research and study would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>reveal much of the personal traits and private -life of the great Persian philosopher, -whose fame has so outlived his clay, but with -these we can have no concern. It is not -important to know his parents, or whether -he had a wife or children, or cattle or lands. -All of these are gone and only his work remains. -True, we cannot but reflect on the -personality of the poet in whose brain these -great thoughts were born, but we can know -the man only by knowing his works. Some -there are who stand at a distance and view -the acts of the imperfect beings, who at the -best stumble and grope along the uncertain -path between the cradle and the grave. All -the footsteps that are straight and true are -unnoticed as they pass by, but the irregular, -uncertain, shifting tracks stand out alone to -mark the character of the pilgrim, who -bore his heavy load the best he could. -These forget that every son of man travels -an unbeaten path—a road beset with dangers -and temptations that no other wanderer -met; that his footsteps can be judged only -in the full knowledge of the strength and -light he had, the burden that he carried, the -obstacles and temptations that he met, and -a thorough knowledge of every open and secret -motive that impelled him here or there.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>That Omar’s steps were often winding -and devious, and like those of all other -mortal men, we gather from his words. No -doubt his neighbors delighted in gossiping -about the great philosopher, and his reputation -was often tarnished by their idle words. -These slanderers have been long forgotten—they -could not live upon the great name -they sullied, and we should not even know -he was their prey except for lines like these:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Indeed the Idols I have loved so long</div> - <div class='line'>Have done my credit in Men’s eyes much wrong;</div> - <div class='line in2'>Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup,</div> - <div class='line'>And sold my reputation for a Song.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Eight hundred years ago, as to-day, the -love of wine was one of the chief weaknesses -of the flesh. Doubtless the other -frailties of human nature are of substantially -the same kind as eight centuries ago, for -while man may change the fashion of his -garment or religion, nature is ever consistent -and persistent, and is the same yesterday, -to-day and forever. But our old human -philosopher, like our modern human men, -saw the folly of his ways, and made many a -brave resolve, but these good intentions and -solemn purposes melted in the sunshine then -the same as now.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before</div> - <div class='line'>I swore—but was I sober when I swore?</div> - <div class='line in2'>And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand</div> - <div class='line'>My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>But Omar was greater than most of the -weak and sinning children of to-day. His -own frailties taught him the rare lesson, that -of all the virtues, charity is the chiefest! -And as we read the wondrous product of -his brain and understand the thoughts that -stirred his being, we can know the man better -than his neighbors who judged a great -soul by the narrow vision of sordid minds. -We know that his purpose was lofty, and -above all the mists and conflicting emotions -and desires of his life he rose majestic and -supreme, unsullied by the specks that can -only mar the weak. Let us turn then to the -philosophy and poetry of this great soul to -know the man, and as figs are not gathered -of thistles, we may be sure that broad -thoughts, high aspirations, and tender charity -are born only of great minds and rare -men.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To Omar Khayyam, the so-called sins of -men were not crimes, but weaknesses inherent -in their being and beyond their power -to prevent or overcome. He knew that man -could not separate himself from all the rest -<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>of nature; and that the rules and conditions -of his being were as fixed and absolute as -the revolutions of the planets and the changing -seasons of the year. Above man and -his works he saw the heavy hand of destiny, -ever guiding and controlling, ever moving -its creature forward to the inevitable fate -that all the centuries had placed in store for -the helpless captive, marching shackled to -the block.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There have ever been two views of life. -Both philosophies have been made by man -and mostly for him. One places him above -all the rest of the universe, whose infinite -mysteries are constantly revolving and -changing before his hazy, wondering gaze. -The portion of the world that comes nearest -to his eyes he cannot understand, and his -own existence is a riddle that all the ages -have not solved. And yet, amidst it all, one -system teaches that man rules supreme,—and -the fate of all the worlds, or of all that -may exist thereon, has no relation to his -own. The other peers into the thick darkness -that hangs above, and can see no light, -it does not understand and will not guess; -the endless mysteries are not for mortal -man to solve. Its devotees feel themselves -part of a mighty whole, and are powerless -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>to separate their lives from all the rest, and -would not dare to undertake it if they could. -They know that in the great, unlimited universe -they are less than the tiniest bubble in -the wildest, angriest sea. That in the words -of the Rubaiyat:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>We are no other than a moving row</div> - <div class='line'>Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go</div> - <div class='line in2'>Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held</div> - <div class='line'>In Midnight by the Master of the Show.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Omar Khayyam was probably not the first, -certainly not the last, to feel the impotence -of man in the great power which animates -the whole. He could have no faith in the -cruel religious tenets, which eight centuries -ago in Persia, as ever since in the Christian -world, have taught the responsibility of the -helpless victim for the great, blind work in -which he had no part. He seemed to think -that back of all the universe, some intelligent -power moved and controlled the world -for some purpose unknown to all except -himself, but he could not think that man -was in any way accountable for the whole. -To him, the great master sent us here or -there to suit his will, and it was left for us -only to obey his mighty power. The individual -units of humanity were to him only:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays</div> - <div class='line'>Upon this checker-board of Nights and Days;</div> - <div class='line in2'>Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,</div> - <div class='line'>And one by one back in the Closet lays.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Even this does not sufficiently express his -thought of man’s absolute irresponsibility -for his acts.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We have all met the parallel drawn between -man and the pottery fashioned by the -moulder from the clay. Perhaps there is no -better illustration of the helplessness of the -human being in the hands of the power that -fashioned and shaped him, even ages before -his birth,—the uncontrollable force that determined -the length of his body, the color -of his hair, the size and shape of his brain -and the contour of his face. But the comparison -made in the beautiful stanza wrought -by Omar, and retouched and gilded by the -magic of FitzGerald, is wondrously powerful -and fine. The poet ranges his poor -pieces of pottery in line, each representing -a man; each imperfect in structure or form, -like all the other creatures ever made. -These poor, imperfect vessels, fresh from -the potter, each pleads its cause and makes -excuses for its faults.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>After a momentary silence spake</div> - <div class='line'>Some vessel of a more ungainly Make:</div> - <div class='line in2'>“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:</div> - <div class='line'>What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>When will humanity be great enough and -good enough to distinguish between the -fault of the potter and the fault of the pot! -When can it look over the myriads of human -beings, each with his flaws and limitations, -and pity instead of blame!</p> - -<p class='c000'>The history of the past is a record of -man’s cruel inhumanity to man; of one imperfect -vessel accusing and shattering another -for the faults of both. In ancient -times and amongst savage tribes, the old, the -infirm, and the diseased were led out and -put to death; even later, the maniac and -imbecile were fettered, chained, beaten, and -imprisoned because they were different -from other men. The world has grown a -little wiser, and perhaps humaner, as the -centuries have passed away. We have -learned to build asylums, and treat the afflicted -with tenderness and care. We have -learned not to blame the dwarf for his stature; -the hunchback for his load; the deaf -because they cannot hear, and the blind because -they cannot see. We do not expect -the midget to carry the giant’s load, or the -cripple to triumph in a contest of speed. -We establish a regulation size for policemen -and soldiers, but we do not put a man to -death because his stature is below the standard -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>fixed. We forgive the size of the foot, -the length of the arm, the shade of the hair, -the color of the eye, and even the form of -the skull. But, while we do not blame a -man because he has an ill-shaped head, we -punish him because the brain within conforms -to the bone which molds its form. -The world has made guns and swords, racks -and dungeons, chains and whips, blocks and -gibbets, and to these have dragged an endless -procession thro’ all the past. It has -penned and maimed, tortured and killed, -because the potter’s work was imperfect and -the clay was weak. During all the ages it -has punished mental deformity as a crime, -and without pity or regret has crushed the -imperfect vessels beneath its feet. Every -jail, every scaffold, every victim—is a monument -to its cruelty and blind unreasoning -wrath. Whether it was a fire kindled to -burn a heretic in Geneva,—a gibbet erected -to kill a witch in Salem,—or a scaffold made -to put to death an ordinary “criminal,” it -has ever been the same,—the punishment of -the creature for the creator’s fault. There -might be some excuse if man could turn -from the frail, cracked vessels, and bring to -trial the great potter for the imperfect work -of his hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>But we live in the shadows; we can see -only the causes and effects that are the closest -to our eyes. If the clouds would rise, -and the sun shine bright, and our vision -reach out into time and space, we might -find that these cracked vessels serve as high -a purpose in a great, broad scheme, as the -finest clay, wrought in the most beautiful -and perfect form. The following stanza -was born of this philosophy and would inevitably -come from the broad, charitable -brain that had studied the creeds that told -of the cruelty of the great Maker, but -whose brain and conscience had not been -stunted and warped by their palsying dogmas:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Then said a Second—“Ne’er a peevish Boy</div> - <div class='line'>Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;</div> - <div class='line in2'>And he that with his hand the Vessel made</div> - <div class='line'>Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>The cruel religious dogmas, which in -Omar’s land and Age, as in our own, blackened -both man and his Maker, had no terrors -for a soul like his. He could not believe -in eternal punishment. The doctrine -was a slander, alike to God and man. He -felt something of the greatness of a force -that could permeate and move the countless -worlds, which make up the limitless, unfathomed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>infinite we call the Universe. He saw -in man one of the smallest and most insignificant -toys created by this power to serve -some unknown end; and he could not believe -that the Master-Builder would demand -of his imperfect children more than he had -furnished them the strength to give. His -faith in the justice of man’s case before the -great Judge is shown in the following -stanza:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin</div> - <div class='line'>Beset the Road I was to wander in,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Thou wilt not with Predestin’d Evil round</div> - <div class='line'>Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>But even more strongly he presents the -case of God against man, and man against -God, for all the crimes and miseries and -sufferings of the world. It would doubtless -be difficult in all the literature of the earth -to find a juster, bolder statement of the old -question of the responsibility for sin. To -some minds, this strong expression may -seem like blasphemy, but it is manly and -courageous, logical and just.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make</div> - <div class='line'>And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake;</div> - <div class='line in2'>For all the Sin wherewith the face of Man</div> - <div class='line'>Is blacken’d—Man’s forgiveness give—and take!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>This is not the cringing prayer of the -coward, who asks God’s forgiveness to appease -his wrath, but the utterance of a noble -soul, who asks forgiveness for the shortcomings -of his life, and at the same time pardons -his Maker for creating him as he did. -The world has heard much of man’s duty -to God, of the responsibility which the unconsulted, -fragile children of a day owe to -the power that is responsible for all. It is -time we heard more of the duty of God to -man; the responsibility of the Creator for -making “conscious something” out of unthinking, -unfeeling clay.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>“Oh, many a cup of this forbidden Wine</div> - <div class='line'>Must drown the memory of that insolence!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>The world has talked the same nonsense -of the duty of children to parents. It has -taught this, because parents are larger, and -have the brute power to compel obedience -to their demands. All the duties are from -parents to children,—from those who -thoughtlessly, wantonly, to satisfy their own -desires, call into conscious being a human -life,—send another soul with all its responsibilities -out on the great, wide sea, to be -tossed and buffeted and torn, until, mangled -and dead, it is thrown out upon the sands to -bleach.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>But after all, whether it was wise or unwise, -just or unjust, we have been placed -upon the earth as sentient beings and -charged with the responsibilities of life; and -practical philosophy asks the question, what -does it mean, and how shall we take the -journey which a higher power has decreed -that we shall make?</p> - -<p class='c000'>The poet and the dreamer and the copy -book have told us much of the meaning of -life. We often repeat these lessons to make -ourselves believe them true. When we feel -a doubt casting its shadow across our path, -we read them once again to drive the doubt -away; and yet, in spite of all, we know absolutely -nothing of the scheme, or whether -there is any kind of plan. We are only -whistlers passing through a graveyard, with -our ears tied close and our eyes shut fast. It -would surely be as well to step boldly up -and read the inscription on the marble tomb -and then walk round and look at the vacant, -grinning space upon the other side, calmly -waiting to record our name.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Measured by the philosophy of to-day, -Omar Khayyam was a pessimist; he was not -gifted with second sight. He saw no spooks -and ghosts, and he would not look out into -the midnight, and declare that his eyes discerned -<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>a glorious rainbow, bright with fresh -colors and unbounded hopes. All the proud -promises and brave assumptions and false -theories of the world were to him a mockery -and a sham. The mysticisms of religion -and philosophy alike were hollow and bare. -The “jarring sects” and quibbling doctors, -with their fine-spun webs, were worthy the -attention only of children and professors. -This is the way he put them down:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Myself when young did eagerly frequent</div> - <div class='line'>Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument</div> - <div class='line in2'>About it and about; but evermore</div> - <div class='line'>Came out by the same door wherein I went.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>While it is true that in the common meaning -Omar was a pessimist, still this word, -like many others, is rarely well defined. All -men understand the uncertainties of life, -the disappointments and troubles of existence, -and the infinitesimal time that is reluctantly -parceled out to each mortal from -the eternity that had no beginning and will -have no end. The pessimist looks at all the -hurry and rush, the torment and strife, the -ambitions and disappointments that are the -common lot, and can see no prizes so tempting -as rest and peace. He makes the most -of what he has, and looks contentedly forward -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>to the long sleep that brings relief at -last.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Omar Khayyam was not deceived by all -the glitter and bustle of the world. He saw -the stage from behind the curtain, as well as -from the circle before the scenes. He -looked on the great surging mass of men, -ever pulling and pushing, striving and trying, -working and fighting, as if all eternity -was theirs in which to build, and all unmindful -of the silent bookkeeper, who -could be deceived by no false entries, and -ever remembered to demand his dues. Of -life he said:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest</div> - <div class='line'>A Sultan to the Realm of Death addrest;</div> - <div class='line in2'>The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash</div> - <div class='line'>Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>In the presence of all that the world had -to offer,—while honors and glories fell fast -upon his head, he still could not close his -eyes to the facts of existence, and the mortality -of human things. It may be that he -mused too much upon the great fact that -ever sternly faces life,—the great being before -whom all monarchs bow, and in whose -presence all crowns are shattered. To the -boasting and forgetful, these words may not -be pleasant, but they still are true:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d</div> - <div class='line'>Of the Two worlds so learnedly are thrust</div> - <div class='line in2'>Like foolish Prophets forth; their words to Scorn</div> - <div class='line'>Are scatter’d and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Neither the great nor the good could -avoid the common fate; the unyielding -messenger came alike to call the proud Sultan -and the good and kindly friend.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>For some we loved, the loveliest and the best</div> - <div class='line'>That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,</div> - <div class='line'>And one by one crept silently to rest.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Death is so common that we sometimes -wonder why men make plans,—why they -ever toil or spin. But, of course, we can see -only the leaves that fall from other stalks. -Rarely do we feel that all this has a personal -meaning, and that our turn soon must come. -Omar looked at the stricken friends around -him, and thus mused:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,</div> - <div class='line'>Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,</div> - <div class='line'>The leaves of Life keep falling one by one.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It has never required the great or the -learned to note the constant falling of the -leaves and the ceaseless running of the sands. -It is mainly from this that systems of religion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>have been evolved. Man has ever sought -to make himself believe that these things -are not what they seem; that, in reality, -death is only birth, and the body but a prison -for the soul. This may be true, but the -constant cries and pleadings of the ages have -brought back no answering sound to prove -that death is anything but death.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Our old philosopher could not accept -these pleasing creeds on faith. He preferred -to plant his feet upon the shifting -doubtful sands, rather than deceive himself -by alluring and delusive hopes. Upon the -old question of immortality, he could answer -only what he knew, and this is what he -said:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who</div> - <div class='line'>Before us pass’d the door of Darkness through</div> - <div class='line in2'>Not one returns to tell us of the Road</div> - <div class='line'>Which to discover we must travel too.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>This stanza is perhaps gloomy and hopeless, -but it is thoughtful, and brave, and -beautiful. We may seek to be children if -we will, but whatever our desires, we cannot -strangle the questions that ever rise before -our minds and will not be put away. -To our own souls we should be just and -true. Peace and comfort, when gained at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>the sacrifice of courage and integrity, are -purchased at too high a price. The truth -alone can make us free, and</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“One flash of it within the tavern caught</div> - <div class='line'>Better than in the Temple lost outright.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Yes, one flash of the true light is better than -all the creeds and dogmas. It is better, even -though these hold out the fairest prospects -and the brightest dreams, and the flash of -true light is only the blackest midnight.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Not only would Omar take away the hope -of Heaven, but he leaves us with little to -boast while we live upon the earth. Our -short, obscure existence is not felt or noticed -in the great sweep of time and the resistless -movement of the years. Along the pathway -of the world we leave scarce a footprint, -and our loudest voice and bravest words are -as completely lost as if spoken in the presence -of Niagara’s roar.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>And fear not lest Existence closing your</div> - <div class='line'>Account and mine, should know the like no more;</div> - <div class='line in2'>The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour’d</div> - <div class='line'>Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>The weakness and littleness of man has -been the subject of endless words before -and since, but never has poet put it more -strongly than here. The Eternal Saki—the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>great wine pourer, tips his pitcher and turns -out millions of bubbles, and still they come -forever, and each of us is one.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But however brave and stoical Omar -seems to be, still he feels sad when witnessing -the flight of years and the ravages of -time. It is, of course, useless to fight the -inevitable, and the strongest will must bend -and break before the weakening touch of -age. Whether it is good or bad, all cling -to existence, and sadly and reluctantly let go -the tendrils that hold to pulsing life. The -fading of Spring and youth, and the coming -of Autumn with its suggestions of the approaching -end, is most beautiful and touching -in this marvelous book:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Yet, Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!</div> - <div class='line'>That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!</div> - <div class='line in2'>The Nightingale that in the branches sang,</div> - <div class='line'>Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>This strain of sadness is sincere and true. -To recognize the inevitable and not pretend -to deceive one’s self is one thing, but to -think that all is just and wise and best may -be quite another. Omar felt that fate was -inexorable, relentless and hard.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The moving Finger writes; and having writ,</div> - <div class='line'>Moves on; nor all your piety nor Wit</div> - <div class='line in2'>Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>He would have tempered her hardness -with a little human love and tender pity, -and bade the great Recorder leave much -untold. He recognized the fact that the -scheme could not be changed, and that even -our brief existence depended upon our subservience -to the great will that would neither -break nor bend; but he still regretted that -it was not better and kinder and more forgiving -than it is. There is almost a wail in -the strain of sadness in which he laments -the rigor of unyielding fate.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Would that some winged Angel ere too late</div> - <div class='line'>Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of fate,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And make the stern Recorder otherwise</div> - <div class='line'>Enregister, or quite obliterate!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Ah Love! could you and I with him conspire</div> - <div class='line'>To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Would we not shatter it to bits—and then</div> - <div class='line'>Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is impossible to live to a moderate age -without forming some idea of the conduct -of life; this may be practical or theoretical, -or both. But either with or without consciousness -we construct some plan of life -and its purpose, and our daily conduct conforms -more or less closely to the theory that -we accept. The religionist teaches that the -hope of future rewards and punishments -<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>must be kept before the mind, or man would -give himself completely to indulgence, and -the race would die. This theory loses sight -of the fact that Nature herself is constantly -wiping out those who defy her laws, and -preserving longest those who conform to -the conditions she has imposed. Excesses -of all kinds destroy and weaken existence, -and bring the natural penalty, which leaves -only the more rational and temperate to perpetuate -life upon the earth. Of course -these observations apply, not to the fashions -and forms and conventions of man, except -so far as these conform to the unbending -laws of nature, which must ever be supreme.</p> - -<p class='c000'>From Omar Khayyam’s views of life, he -could not but think that it was the duty of -every pilgrim to get the most he could in -his journey through the world. But, really, -all accept this obvious fact. The Religionist -says merely that man should be less -happy here,—that his enjoyment may be the -greater in the world to come. It is not in -the theory as to life’s purpose that men have -differed, but as to the conduct that really -brings the greatest happiness when the last -balance has been struck, and the book is -forever closed. Our poet could not see the -days and years go by and life’s sands swiftly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>running out, and still postpone all enjoyment -to some far off, misty time. He believed -in the reality of to-day, and that beyond -the present all was but a vision and a -dream. In his day, as in ours, the priests -held out the hope of heaven and fear of -hell, to keep the wanderer in the narrow -path. But Omar was a philosopher and astronomer. -He peered into the infinite -depths of endless space, and could see only -moving, whirling worlds like ours, and could -find no place for heaven or hell. What -the mysteries of astronomy could not reveal, -the theories of life left equally in the -dark. While he refused to be moved by a -literal heaven and hell, he yet felt a deep -meaning attached to these old religious -views. The humane, progressive thinkers -of to-day have scarcely gone beyond this old -seer, who lived eight centuries ago and pondered -the same problems over which our -theologians wrangle now. The following -stanza gives an interpretation of these religious -dogmas, which for beauty and breadth -and insight seems to be the latest product of -ethical, religious thought, instead of the -musty musings of an old pagan, who has -been dust almost eight hundred years:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I sent my Soul through the Invisible,</div> - <div class='line'>Some letter of that After-Life to spell;</div> - <div class='line in2'>And by and by my Soul returned to me,</div> - <div class='line'>And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>If these places are but states of consciousness, -it of course must follow that we make -our own heaven and hell, and it is, therefore, -the right and duty of each, not to wait -for some dreamy mirage born of old superstition, -unmanly fear, and unfounded faith, -but to take the present, fleeting moment, -and with it do the best we can. This stanza -may seem painfully sad and hopeless, but it -contains the true philosophy of life:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,</div> - <div class='line'>Before we too into the Dust descend;</div> - <div class='line in2'>Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie,</div> - <div class='line'>Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Not only is the present the all important -time, but the realities know nothing except -the present. There is no moment but the -one that’s here,—the past is gone, the next -one has not come, and he that misses the -present loses all there is.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Some for the Glories of This World, and some</div> - <div class='line'>Sigh for the Prophet’s paradise to come;</div> - <div class='line in2'>Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>As to how the pleasures of life are to be -found, men never have agreed and never -can. Our view of pleasure, like our feelings -and emotions, grows from the condition -<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>of our being, and is the result of causes -that we did not create and cannot control. -Some there are who look at all the strife and -suffering of the world, and feel no kinship -to the great, surging mass that moves and -feels and thinks. These walk silently along -the path alone, oblivious alike to the pleasures -and the sufferings of the world around. -Others there are whose souls are so sensitive -that they feel the joys and sorrows of -the world, and who cannot separate their -lives from all the sentient, moving things -that teem and swarm upon the earth. Both -can and must feel those appetites and desires -that are ever incident to being. Without -these, nature could neither bring life upon -the earth nor sustain it when it came. It is -in the balancing of these feelings that nature -almost necessarily makes the imperfect man. -Unless the emotions and desires are sufficiently -developed, the creature is cold, impassive, -pulseless clay. If too much developed, -it runs the risk of sacrificing the -higher emotions and more lasting enjoyments -to the fleeting, sensual pleasures of -the hour. Almost every person must stand -upon one side or the other of this shadowy -line, which no man can see, and which he -would have no power to cross, even if he -knew where it ran.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>Perhaps the Rubaiyat shows too much -leaning toward the sensual; too great fondness -for the vine. Some of the allusions -were perhaps symbolical, but still, Omar -doubtless was very fond of wine and found -in its use one of the chief purposes of life. -Philosophy and theology could not satisfy -his mind. These furnished only visionary, -inconsistent theories of existence, utterly -barren and futile,—wholly purposeless and -wrong. After studying and wrangling and -disputing, he threw them to the winds and -reached out for the realities,—however -transitory and unsatisfactory these realities -seemed to be. His exchange of theories -and mysticisms for wine may be symbolical -or not, but whether literal or figurative, he -could hardly be cheated by the trade. This -is the way he relates the story of his change -of heart:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>You know, My Friends, with what a brave Carouse</div> - <div class='line'>I made a Second Marriage in my house;</div> - <div class='line in2'>Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,</div> - <div class='line'>And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>After throwing the theoretical philosophy -to the winds, he turned to the vine to learn -what life really meant. No doubt, the vessel -here is figuratively used. It might mean -<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>a wine cup, it might mean feeding a beggar, -it might mean a warm room and comfortable -dress. It meant something besides -the intangible, barren theories, which have -ever furnished theologians and professors -with the pleasing occupation of splitting -hairs and quibbling about the meaning of -terms.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn</div> - <div class='line'>I lean’d, the secret of my Life to learn;</div> - <div class='line in2'>And Lip to Lip it murmur’d—“While you live,</div> - <div class='line'>Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Neither would it do to postpone the pleasures -of the wine,—time is fleeting, and -every hour may be the last. Life has no -space for resolutions or regrets. These -only rob existence of a portion of the poor -prizes that she stingily scatters into the ring -to be fought and scrambled after by the -crowd.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring</div> - <div class='line'>Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling;</div> - <div class='line in2'>The Bird of Time has but a little way</div> - <div class='line'>To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is not the dainty sipping of the wine -that our poet commends for the peace of -the soul, but the giving up of self to the enjoyment -of the hour,—the complete abandonment -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>that forgets time and space and -eternity, and knows only the moment that is.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Perplext no more with Human or Divine,</div> - <div class='line'>To-morrow’s tangle to the winds resign,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And lose your fingers in the tresses of</div> - <div class='line'>The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>This stanza may mean wine,—it may mean -any strong purpose, or intense emotion that -takes possession of our life,—that makes us -its devoted slave, anxious to dare or suffer -for the privilege of enlisting in a cause. -That Omar knew something of life’s pleasures -and realities, besides the wine he -lauded, is apparent from his work. His insight -was so deep that he could not be deceived -by the tinsel and glitter and trappings -that make up the vain show with which men -deceive others, and attempt to beguile themselves. -In Persia eight hundred years ago, -there were probably no twenty-story buildings, -no railroads, nor street cars, nor telegraph -wires; perhaps no chambers of commerce, -nor banks; but no doubt these old -Mohammedans had much as useless and -vain and artificial as these inventions of a -later day. There was then, as now, the -master with all the false luxury that idleness -could create in that land and time; there -<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>was also, as to-day, the hopeless slave, whose -only purpose on the earth was to minister to -the parasite and knave; and both of these, -master and man alike, were helpless prisoners -in the schemes and devices, the machinery -and inventions, the worthless appendages -and appliances that bound and enslaved -them, and that have held the world with -ever increasing strength to the present day.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But Omar knew that all of this was a delusion -and a snare;—that it failed of the -purpose that it meant to serve. He turned -from these vanities to a simpler, saner life, -and found the sweetest and most lasting -pleasures close to the heart of that great nature, -to which man must return from all his -devious wanderings, like the lost child that -comes back to its mother’s breast. What -simpler and higher happiness has all the artificial -civilization of the world been able to -create than this:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>A Book of Verses underneath the bough,</div> - <div class='line'>A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou</div> - <div class='line in2'>Beside me singing in the Wilderness—</div> - <div class='line'>Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is these bright spots in life’s desert that -make us long to stay. These hours of -friendship and close companionship of congenial -souls that seem the only pleasures -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>that are real, and from which no regrets -can come. It is away from the bustle and -glare of the world, above its petty strifes, -and its cruel taunts, in the quiet and trust of -true comradeship, that we forget the evil -and fall in love with life. And our old philosopher, -with all his pessimism, with all his -doubts and disappointments, knew that here -was the greatest peace and happiness that -weary, mortal man could know. In the -presence of the friends he loved, and the -comradeship of congenial lives, he could -not but regret the march of time and the -flight of years, which heralded the coming -of the end. Poor Omar was like all the rest -that ever lived—he looked forward into the -dark, unknown sea, and shuddered as he -felt the rising water on his feet.</p> - -<p class='c000'>All of us know how small and worthless -are our lives when measured by the infinite -bubbles poured out by the great creative -power. All know that we shall quickly sink -into the great dark sea and the waves will -close above us as if we had not been. And -yet we do not really think of the world as -moving on the same when we have spoken -our last lines and retired behind the scenes. -To the world we are little,—to ourselves we -are all. We almost hope that for a time at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>least we shall be missed,—that some souls -shall sorrow and some lives feel pain. We -hope that here and there some pilgrim will -tell of a burden that we helped him bear, or -a road we tried to smooth. That sometime -when the merry feast is on, a former friend -shall feel a momentary shadow rest upon his -heart at the thought of the face he used to -know and the voice that now is still. Thus -Omar and FitzGerald mused and hoped and -told in beautiful, pathetic lines:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—</div> - <div class='line'>How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;</div> - <div class='line in2'>How oft hereafter rising look for us</div> - <div class='line'>Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>And when like her, O Saki, you shall pass</div> - <div class='line'>Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And in your blissful errand reach the spot</div> - <div class='line'>Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span></div> -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='lg-container-b c003'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>WALT</div> - <div class='line'>WHITMAN</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_041.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span> - <h2 class='c004'>WALT WHITMAN</h2> -</div> - -<div class='c008'> - <img class='drop-capi' src='images/i_043di.jpg' width='100' alt='' /> -</div><p class='drop-capi_8'> -The work of Whitman stands -alone in the literature of the -world. Both in substance -and construction he ignored -all precedents and dared to -be himself. All the rules of -form and taste must be unlearned -before the world can accept his style -as true literary art. Still it may be that Walt -Whitman was a poet, and that sometime the -world will look back and marvel at the mechanical -precision and glittering polish that -confines and emasculates for the sake of a -purely artificial form.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Measured by the common rules, Whitman’s -work is neither poetry nor prose; it -is remotely allied to the wild chanting of -the primitive bards, who looked about at -the fresh new marvels of earth and sky and -sea, and unhampered by forms and rules -and customs, sang of the miracles of the -universe and the mysteries of life. Whitman -seems one of those old bards, fresh -from the hand of nature, young with the -first creation, the newest handwork of the -great Master, untaught in any schools, unfettered -by any of the myriad chords, which -time is ever weaving about the brains and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>hearts and consciences of men as the world -grows gray; a primitive bard of nature, -born by some chance or accident in this old, -tired, worn-out world, dropped into this -Nineteenth century with its machines and -conventions, its artificial life, its unnatural -morals and its fettered limbs. He alone in -all the ages seems to have been specially -given to the world, still fresh with the imprint -of the Creator’s hand, and standing -amid all our false conventions, natural, -simple, true, “naked and not ashamed.” -To the world with its crowded cities, its diseased -bodies, its unnatural desires, its narrow -religion, and its false morals, he comes -like a breeze of the morning, from the -mountains or the sea. Aye, like a breath of -that great, creative life, which touched the -fresh world and brought forth the green -grass, the sparkling waters and the growing, -beauteous, natural earth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>No one ever fell in love with Whitman’s -work for its literary art, but his work must -live or die because of his philosophy of life -and the material he chose from which to -weave his songs. It is in his whole point of -view that Walt Whitman stands so much -alone. No one else has ever looked on the -universe and life as this man did. If religion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>means devotion to that great unseen -power that is ever manifest in all of nature’s -works, then Walt Whitman was the most -reverent soul that ever lived. This man -alone of all the world dared defend the -Creator in every part and parcel of his -work. The high mountains, the deep valleys, -the broad plains and the wide seas; the -feelings, the desires, and the passions of -man; all forms of life and being that exist -upon the earth, were to him but several -manifestations of a great creative power that -formed them all alike, made each one needful -to the whole, and every portion sacred -through its Master’s stamp.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present and can be none in the future,</div> - <div class='line'>And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn’d to beautiful results,</div> - <div class='line'>And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are compact,</div> - <div class='line'>And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.</div> - <div class='line'>I will not make poems with reference to parts.</div> - <div class='line'>But I will make poems, songs, thoughts, with reference to ensemble,</div> - <div class='line'>And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to all days.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>Whitman’s philosophy knew no evil and -no wrong. The fact of existence proved -the right of existence; in the great workshop -of nature every tool had its special use -and its rightful place.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The imperfections of the world come -from the narrow visions of men. If the -perspective is right, the universe is right. -From the narrow valley the house may look -old and worn, the fences decayed, the fields -barren, the woods scraggy and the cliff -ragged and bare; but climb to the only -place where either life or landscape can be -rightly seen, the mountain top, and look -once more. The hills, the valley, the -stream, the woods, and the farms have -melted and blended into one harmonious -whole, and every imperfection has been -swept away. The universe is filled with -myriad worlds as important as our own, each -one a tiny floating speck in an endless sea of -space—each whirling, turning, moving on -and on and on, through the countless ages, -past and yet to come. No one can tell the -purpose of their tireless, endless flight -through space; but still we know that each -has an orbit of its own, and every world is -related to the rest, and every grain of sand -and the weakest, feeblest spark of power has -<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>its needful place in the balance of the whole. -So all of good, and all of bad, and all of life, -and all of death, and all of all, has the right -to be and must needs be. Walt Whitman -did not even know how to divide the evil -from the good, but he sang them both -alike.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.</div> - <div class='line'>What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?</div> - <div class='line'>Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>The universe can make no mistakes, every -particle of energy that has permeated the -world since time began, has been working -toward a completer system and a more harmonious -whole. There is a soul of truth in -error; there is a soul of good in evil. From -the trials and sorrows and disappointments -of life, even from its bitterness and doubt -and sin, are often born the holiest desires, -the sincerest endeavors and the most righteous -deeds.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn’d love,</div> - <div class='line'>But now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is certain one way or another,</div> - <div class='line'>(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return’d,</div> - <div class='line'>Yet out of that I have written these songs.)</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>This is the old, old philosophy, ever forgotten, -yet ever present. It is sure in the -world of mechanics, it is equally true in the -world of morals and of life. Nothing is -lost; the force that once was heat is transformed -to light; the flood that destroyed -the grain, comes at last to turn the miller’s -wheel. What we call sin and evil make the -experiences of life and go to the upbuilding -of character and the development of man. -We can know only what we have felt, and -however much we try to deceive others, we -can tell only of the experiences we ourselves -have had. The poorest life is the one that -has no tale to tell. In the doubts and darkness -of life, in the turbulence of mind and -the anguish of the soul, it is most consoling -to feel that resignation and confidence which -comes from a realization that all is right and -that you are master of yourself and at peace -with God and man. This calm, optimistic, -self-reliant philosophy is ever present with -its consoling power in all Walt Whitman’s -work.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I have said that the soul is not more than the body,</div> - <div class='line'>And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,</div> - <div class='line'>And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,</div> - <div class='line'>And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud,</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,</div> - <div class='line'>And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times,</div> - <div class='line'>And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe,</div> - <div class='line'>And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,</div> - <div class='line'>For I who am curious about each, am not curious about God,</div> - <div class='line'>(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death).</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Why should I wish to see God better than this day?</div> - <div class='line'>I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four and each moment then,</div> - <div class='line'>In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,</div> - <div class='line'>I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by God’s name,</div> - <div class='line'>And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er I go,</div> - <div class='line'>Others will punctually come for ever and ever.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>This is not the boasting of the ignorant -egotist who vaunts himself above his fellow -man, but the calm, conscious serenity of a -great soul, who has learned the patient philosophy -of life.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>There is an egotism that is cheap and vulgar -and born of ignorance alone. There is -an egotism that comes from the knowledge -that after all what we are depends not upon -the estimate of the world, but upon the integrity -and character of ourselves. This -consciousness of individual worth brings -that peace of soul, “which the world can -neither give nor take away.”</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I know I am august,</div> - <div class='line'>I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,</div> - <div class='line'>I see that the elementary laws never apologize,</div> - <div class='line'>(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all),</div> - <div class='line'>I exist as I am, that is enough,</div> - <div class='line'>If no other in the world be aware I sit content.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself;</div> - <div class='line'>And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,</div> - <div class='line'>I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>My foothold is tennon’d and mortis’d in granite,</div> - <div class='line'>I laugh at what you call dissolution,</div> - <div class='line'>And I know the amplitude of time.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Happy is the man that has climbed to the -height on which Walt Whitman stood. -Happy is he that has mastered the haste and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>impatience of youth, and is content to bide -his time. Happy is he that has so far solved -the problem of life as to know that reward -is not received from others and cannot be -withheld by others, but can be given only by -ourselves. Such a man has struck the subtle -harmony which unites his soul with the -universal life and he knows that no one but -himself can cut the cord.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To a great mass of men and women, Walt -Whitman is known almost alone by that -portion of his work called “Children of -Adam.” These poems have called forth the -fiercest opposition and the bitterest denunciation, -and if the common judgment is -correct, they are obscene and vile. While -this portion of his book is by far the smallest -part, still, before the court of public -opinion, he must stand or fall upon these -lines. In one sense public opinion is right, -for unless these stanzas can be defended, his -point of view is wrong, and Walt Whitman’s -work will die. We need not accept all he -did, or give unstinted praise to all his work, -but his scheme is consistent in every portion -of his thought, and his point of view will -determine the place he shall fill in art and -life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is in this work that the courage and personality -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>of Whitman towers so high above -every other man that ever wrote. It is easy -for the essayist to speak in general terms -and glittering phrases in defense of Whitman’s -work. His defenders have been -many, but he alone has had the courage to -speak.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is not difficult to insist that his “A Woman -Waits for Me” is a tremendous work, -and as pure as nature’s generating power. -Still perhaps few would dare to read it aloud -in an assembly of men and women. If -Whitman is right, the world is wrong. This -poem, and others of its like, in plain words -deals of the deepest, strongest, most persistent -feelings that move the sentient world. -In proportion as they are deeper and -stronger than any other, they should the -more be the subject of thought and art. -And still ages of established convention have -made the world pretend ignorance until no -one dares defend his right to life but this -brave and simple man.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In both England and America, narrow interpretations -of morality have almost stifled -art. As remarked by a leading novelist—“All -our literature is addressed to the young -school girl.” If it will not pass muster before -her eyes, it has no right to live, and almost -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>no English or American author has -been great enough to rise above these narrow -conventions and write the natural and -true. The artists of continental Europe -have been less fettered and have taken us -over a broader range and a wider field. -Still while these authors have told more of -life, they have treated these tremendous -subjects by drawing the curtain only a little -way aside, and giving us a curious, perverted, -half stolen look, as if they knew that the picture -was unholy and therefore tempting to -the gaze. But Walt Whitman approached -the human body and the mysteries of life -from an entirely different view.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>If anything is sacred, the human body is sacred,</div> - <div class='line'>And the glory and sweet of man is the token of manhood untainted,</div> - <div class='line'>And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>If Walt Whitman could have drawn the -veil from the universe and shown us the living -God in all his majesty and power, he -would have approached his throne with no -greater reverence than when he stripped the -human body and pointed to its every part -fresh and sacred from its Maker’s hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>No true system of life and morals will exist -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>until the holiest feelings and most potent -and eternal power is openly recognized and -discussed with neither jest nor shame.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Walt Whitman was the great bard of democracy -and equality; not simply the vulgar -democracy of political rights and promiscuous -familiarity, but the deep, broad, -fundamental democracy that looks at all of -nature and feels the unity and kinship that -makes the universe a whole.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To Walt Whitman there could be no -thought of class or caste. Each one held -his certificate of birth from the same infinite -power that, through all the ages and all the -false and criminal distinctions of man, has -yet decreed that all shall enter helpless and -naked through the same gateway of birth, -and each alike must go back to the fundamental -mother, shorn of every distinction -that man in his vain-glorious pride has -sought to make. Whitman placed the -works of nature above the works of man. -He had no faith in those laws and institutions -which the world has ever made to defraud, -and enslave, and deny the common -brotherhood of all. He believed that every -child that came upon the earth was legitimate, -and had an equal right to land, and -sea, and air, and all that nature made, and -all that nature gave.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>Each of us is inevitable,</div> - <div class='line'>Each of us limitless—each of us with his or her right upon the earth,</div> - <div class='line'>Each of us allow’d the eternal purports of the earth,</div> - <div class='line'>Each of us here as divinely as any is here.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Let this stanza speak to our conscience -face to face—is it true or false? Can any -but a blasphemer deny the divine right of -every man upon the earth? And yet if this -simple stanza is true, every law book should -be burned and every court abolished and -natural justice, unfettered and undenied, -should be enthroned above the forms and -conventions and laws, which, each and all, -deny the integrity of the soul and the equal -rights of man.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Through all the injustice and inequality of -the world, the vision of democracy has still -prevailed and ever must prevail as long as -nature brings forth and takes back the master -and the slave alike. But the aspiration -for democracy is not always high and noble. -It is easy to demand for ourselves the same -rights enjoyed by our fellow men, but Whitman’s -democracy was on a higher plane.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracys</div> - <div class='line'>By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>These lines breathe the spirit of true humanity, -the spirit that will one day remove -all barriers and restrictions, and liberate the -high and low alike. For nothing is truer in -life or more inevitable in the economy of -nature than this sage thought:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Whatever degrades another degrades me,</div> - <div class='line'>And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is a sad mistake to believe that injustice -and wrong can injure only the poor and the -weak. Every mean word and narrow -thought and selfish act degrades the aggressor, -leaves its mark upon his soul and its -penalty in his life. So, too, no good effort -is really lost, however it may seem to be. -The kind word may be spoken to the deaf, -the righteous effort be wrongly directed, the -alms unworthily bestowed, but the heart -that feels and the soul that tries has grown -greater by the act.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him,</div> - <div class='line'>The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him,</div> - <div class='line'>The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him,</div> - <div class='line'>The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him,</div> - <div class='line'>The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him,</div> - <div class='line'>The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him,—it cannot fail,</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress, not to the audience,</div> - <div class='line'>And no man understands any greatness or goodness but his own, or the indication of his own.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Not alone in his theory of personal equality -was Walt Whitman a democrat in the -highest meaning of the term, but he distrusted -the ease and effeminacy of modern -life; he doubted and feared the polish and -super-sensitiveness that precedes decay; he -had no faith in hot-house plants, in pampered -life, in luxury and repose. He believed in -rugged, primeval nature, in the rocks and -hills, the rivers and the pines; he loved the -dumb and patient brute, and believed in -stalwart men and strong women; in sunlight, -rain and air.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I am enamour’d of growing out of doors,</div> - <div class='line'>Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,</div> - <div class='line'>Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses,</div> - <div class='line'>I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.</div> - <div class='line'>I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d,</div> - <div class='line'>I stand and look at them and long and long.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>They do not sweat and whine about their condition,</div> - <div class='line'>They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,</div> - <div class='line'>They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,</div> - <div class='line'>Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,</div> - <div class='line'>Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Walt Whitman’s work is not of the old, -time-worn sort. When he speaks of love it -is the love of life, the love of reality, the -strong love of men, the intense love of women, -the honest love that nature made, the -love that is; not the unhealthy, immoral, -false, impossible love told in erotic prose -and more erotic verse, and given to young -girls and boys as the truth, to poison and -corrupt with its false and vicious views of -life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But he sings of the common things, the -democracy of every day; for it is the small -affairs that make up life, and its true philosophy -is to see the beauty and greatness and -relation of these little things and not to pine -for the seemingly momentous events, which -can rarely come. The Alexanders, the -Cæsars and the Napoleons are scattered -only here and there in the great sea of human -existence, and yet every life measured -by just standards may be as great as these; -and the soul that is conscious of its own integrity -knows its own worth regardless of -the world.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>I do not call one greater and one smaller,</div> - <div class='line'>That which fills its period and place is equal to any.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Walt Whitman felt the music of the hammer -and the axe as he felt the harmony of -the symphonies of Beethoven, and he understood -the art of the plough-boy in the -field as well as the glorious creations of -Millet.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,</div> - <div class='line'>The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day,</div> - <div class='line'>The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,</div> - <div class='line'>In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen and love them.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The soldier camp’d or upon the march is mine,</div> - <div class='line'>On the night ere the pending battle may seek me, and I do not fail them,</div> - <div class='line'>On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me,</div> - <div class='line'>My face rubs to the hunter’s face when he lies down alone in his blanket,</div> - <div class='line'>The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,</div> - <div class='line'>The young mother and old mother comprehend me,</div> - <div class='line'>The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,</div> - <div class='line'>They and all would resume what I have told them.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Walt Whitman’s democracy did not end -with sex. Man is not always a logical animal. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>Most of the practical democracy of -the world has stopped with men, and generally -with white men at that. The political -equality of woman has only barely been -considered; the still more important question, -her economic independence, is yet a -far-off dream. But Walt Whitman knew no -limit to equality. With him equality meant -equality. It could mean nothing else.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,</div> - <div class='line'>And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,</div> - <div class='line'>And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Probably Walt Whitman would not have -raised his hat to a woman on the street, nor -given her his seat in the car, simply because -she was a woman. Both these may be well -enough, but they grow from false ideas of -women and of course through these false -ideas women lose the most. Injustice and -oppression can never be made up by chivalry -and pretended courtesy. And the evil -always is and must be the false relation which -these create. Men expect to pay women -for their political and economic freedom in -theater tickets and by taking off their hats in -public, and in the end women become willing -to receive this paltry and debasing bribe.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>“The Open Road,” one of Whitman’s -masterpieces, is full of wholesome inclusive -democracy.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,</div> - <div class='line'>Healthy, free, the world before me,</div> - <div class='line'>The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Henceforth I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune,</div> - <div class='line'>Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing</div> - <div class='line'>Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,</div> - <div class='line'>Strong and content I travel the open road.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The earth, that is sufficient,</div> - <div class='line'>I do not want the constellations any nearer,</div> - <div class='line'>I know they are very well where they are,</div> - <div class='line'>I know they suffice for those who belong to them.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Here the profound lessons of reception, nor preference nor denial,</div> - <div class='line'>The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;</div> - <div class='line'>The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,</div> - <div class='line'>The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,</div> - <div class='line'>The early market men, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,</div> - <div class='line'>They pass, I also pass, anything passes, none can be interdicted,</div> - <div class='line'>None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>But Walt Whitman’s democracy was more -inclusive still. It is almost becoming the -fad to forgive the evil in others and to insist -that, after all, their good qualities give them -the right to kinship with ourselves, but this -is only one side of true democracy. The -felon is my brother, not alone because he -has every element of good that I so well -recognize in myself, but because I have -every element of evil that I see in him. -Walt Whitman was wise enough to see the -feelings and passions that make others sin, -and he was just enough and great enough to -recognize all these feelings in himself.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>You felons on trial in courts,</div> - <div class='line'>You convicts in prison-cells, you sentenced assassins chain’d and handcuff’d with iron,</div> - <div class='line'>Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison?</div> - <div class='line'>Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain’d with iron, or my ankles with iron?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>You prostitutes flaunting over the pavements or obscene in your rooms,</div> - <div class='line'>Who am I that I should call you more obscene than myself?</div> - <div class='line'>O culpable! I acknowledge—I expose!</div> - <div class='line'>(O admirers, praise not me—compliment not me—you make me wince,</div> - <div class='line'>I see what you do not—I know what you do not.)</div> - <div class='line'>Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch’d and choked,</div> - <div class='line'>Beneath this face that appears so impassive hell’s tides continually run,</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me,</div> - <div class='line'>I walk with delinquents with passionate love,</div> - <div class='line'>I feel I am of them—I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself,</div> - <div class='line'>And henceforth I will not deny them—for how can I deny myself?</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>These lines are not a burst of poetic feeling, -they are the sincere utterances of a -brave philosopher and poet, who tells the -truth about himself and about you and me. -Let us be honest about sin. How do you -and I differ from the murderer on the gallows, -the prostitute in the street or the burglar -in the jail? How wide a breach is -there between coveting the house or home -or seal skin coat of your neighbor and taking -it if you can? How great a difference -between making a sharp trade with your -neighbor, getting more from him than you -give to him, and taking outright what he -has? Yet one is business, the other larceny. -What is the distance between hating your -neighbor, and wishing him dead: how great -a chasm between feeling relief at his death, -and killing him yourself? So far as the man -is concerned, it is not the act that is evil, -but the heart that is evil. There is no difference -between the committed and the uncommitted -crime. Every feeling that makes -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>every sort of crime is in the heart of each -and every one. Nature has made the blood -of some of us a little cooler, and has developed -caution a little more, or fate has -made the temptation a trifle less, and thus we -have escaped,—that is, managed to conceal -the real passion that boils and surges in our -hearts. Until this is dead, evil is in our -souls. Away with all this talk of superiority -and differences. It is cant—pure, simple -cant.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my companions?</div> - <div class='line'>O you shunn’d persons, I at least do not shun you,</div> - <div class='line'>I come forthwith in your midst, I will be your poet,</div> - <div class='line'>I will be more to you than to any of the rest.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Has man the right to be less kind than nature -is? Have we the right by word or deed -to pass judgment on our fellow man? Can -we not learn of love and charity and hope -from the sun, the rain, the generous earth, -and the pulsing, growing spring? Hear -Walt Whitman’s word to a common prostitute:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Be composed—be at ease with me—I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty as Nature,</div> - <div class='line'>Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you,</div> - <div class='line'>Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>Neither was it the magnanimous soul of -Whitman that was charitable and kind, but -it was the truthful, honest man who saw his -own goodness in the woman; and her sin, -which after all was only an excess of kindness, -in himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The regenerated world will be built upon -the democracy Walt Whitman taught. It -will know neither rich nor poor; neither -high nor low; neither good nor bad; neither -right nor wrong; but</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I will establish *** in every city of these states inland and seaboard,</div> - <div class='line'>In the fields and woods, and above every keel, little or large, that dents the water,</div> - <div class='line'>Without edifices or rules or trustees or any argument,</div> - <div class='line'>The institution of the dear love of comrades.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Walt Whitman was always and at all times -an optimist. He never struck a despairing -note or voiced a doubting strain. His hope -was not anchored in blind faith or narrow -creed. His optimism was not that of the -cowardly fanatic who stubbornly shuts his -eyes to avoid an unpleasant view. He looked -abroad at all the world and called it good.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Optimism and pessimism in their last analysis -are questions of temperament. They -depend upon the eye that looks out, not -upon the object that it sees. The pessimist -<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>points to the sunset, casting its lengthening -shadows on the earth, and tells of the night -that is coming on; the optimist shows us the -rosy dawn, the golden promise of a glorious -day. The pessimist tells of winter, whose -icy breath chills and deadens all the world; -the optimist points to springtime with its -ever recurring miracle of light and life. Is -the pessimist right or is the optimist right—does -the night precede the day, or the day -precede the night? After all, are our calendars -wrong—does the winter with its -white shroud and cold face mark the ending -of the year, or does the springtime with its -budding life and its resurrecting power -awaken the dead earth to joyous, pulsing -life again?</p> - -<p class='c000'>Above the view of the optimist, who sees -the morning and the spring, and the pessimist, -who sees the evening and the closing -year, stand a few serene souls, who look on -both with clear eye and tranquil mind, and -declare that all is good. The morning is -right and the evening is right. It is beautiful -to pass through the joyous gates of birth; -it is good to be clasped in the peaceful arms -of death. Rare Walt Whitman at thirty-seven, -full of health and vigor and strength, -with the world before him, and conscious of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>his genius and his power, sings in a burst of -optimism:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I celebrate myself, and sing myself,</div> - <div class='line'>And what I assume you shall assume,</div> - <div class='line'>For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I loafe and invite my soul,</div> - <div class='line'>I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,</div> - <div class='line'>Born of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,</div> - <div class='line'>I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,</div> - <div class='line'>Hoping to cease not till death.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Again at seventy, looking back on a life -well spent, conscious that the last few sands -are running out, a confirmed invalid with -palsied limbs and failing strength, looking -death squarely in the face and just before -him; with the same sweet smile, the same -lovely nature, the same all-embracing philosophy, -sings once again his optimistic song:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Not from successful love alone,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor wealth, nor honor’d middle age, nor victories of politics or war;</div> - <div class='line'>But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm,</div> - <div class='line'>As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,</div> - <div class='line'>As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air,</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish’d and indolent-ripe on the tree,</div> - <div class='line'>Then for the teeming, quietest, happiest days of all!</div> - <div class='line'>The brooding, blissful halcyon days!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It must be that somewhere is a serene -height where life triumphs over death. It -must be that nature does not jar, and that -the close of a lovely life is really as peaceful -and as beautiful as the decline of a perfect -day; that each day rightly lived and every -year well spent, must bring the pilgrim more -in harmony with his journey drawing to a -close.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The world has ever shuddered at death—has -stubbornly closed its eyes and refused to -look at the great fact that nature places all -about our path; has never tried to look in -its face, to take its hand, to think of its peaceful, -forgiving, soothing touch; has ever -called it enemy and never thought to caress -it as a friend. Walt Whitman was wiser -than the rest. His philosophy made him -know that death was equally good, whether -the opening gateway to a freer, fuller life, or -a restful couch for a weary soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Whitman had solved the eternal riddle; -he had conquered death; he looked at her -pale form and saluted her as he would welcome -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>a new birth. No bard ever sang a -more glorious hymn than Walt Whitman -sang to death.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Come, lovely and soothing Death,</div> - <div class='line'>Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,</div> - <div class='line'>In the day, in the night, to all, to each,</div> - <div class='line'>Sooner or later, delicate Death,</div> - <div class='line'>Praised be the fathomless universe</div> - <div class='line'>For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,</div> - <div class='line'>And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise</div> - <div class='line'>For the sure enwinding arms of cool, enfolding Death.</div> - <div class='line'>Dark Mother, always gliding near with soft feet,</div> - <div class='line'>Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?</div> - <div class='line'>Then I chant for thee, I glorify thee above all,</div> - <div class='line'>I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly,</div> - <div class='line'>Approach, strong deliveress,</div> - <div class='line'>When it is so, when thou hast taken them</div> - <div class='line'>I joyously sing the dead,</div> - <div class='line'>Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,</div> - <div class='line'>Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.</div> - <div class='line'>From me to thee glad serenades,</div> - <div class='line'>Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee,</div> - <div class='line'>And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,</div> - <div class='line'>And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night,</div> - <div class='line'>The night in silence under many a star,</div> - <div class='line'>The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,</div> - <div class='line'>And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well veil’d Death,</div> - <div class='line'>And the body gratefully nestling close to thee,</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>Over the tree tops I float thee a song,</div> - <div class='line'>Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,</div> - <div class='line'>Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves, and ways,</div> - <div class='line'>I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Whitman in his wheel chair, physically -shattered and broken, but with a mind -strong and serene, and at peace with all the -world, waiting for the sun to set, is a lesson -in optimism better than all the sermons ever -preached. Without faith in any form of religion -that the world has ever known, he -had brought his life so in harmony with nature -that he felt every beat of the great, -universal heart, and with the confidence of -certain knowledge he looked upon the fading -earth and caroled a song as he sailed -forth on that great unknown sea, which is -hidden in perpetual night, from all but the -few great souls, whose wisdom and insight -have given them the confidence and trust of -a little child.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Joy, shipmates, joy!</div> - <div class='line'>(Pleas’d to my soul at death I cry,)</div> - <div class='line'>Our life is closed, our life begins,</div> - <div class='line'>The long, long anchorage we leave,</div> - <div class='line'>The ship is clear at last, she leaps!</div> - <div class='line'>She swiftly courses from the shore,</div> - <div class='line'>Joy, shipmates, joy.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>Conscious of the integrity of his purpose, -and the inherent righteousness of his life, -moved and upheld by his broad philosophy -and his patient, trustful soul, with no false -modesty and with the same manly egoism -that made him what he was—the kindest, -gentlest, justest, broadest, manliest man—Walt -Whitman asked the reward his life had -earned.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Give me the pay I have served for,</div> - <div class='line'>Give me to sing the song of the great Idea, take all the rest,</div> - <div class='line'>I have loved the earth, sun, animals, I have despised riches,</div> - <div class='line'>I have given alms to every one that ask’d, stood up for the stupid and crazy, devoted my income and labor to others,</div> - <div class='line'>Hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence toward people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown,</div> - <div class='line'>Gone freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young, and with the mothers of families,</div> - <div class='line'>Read these leaves to myself in the open air, tried them by trees, stars, rivers,</div> - <div class='line'>Dismiss’d whatever insulted my own soul or defiled my body,</div> - <div class='line'>Claim’d nothing to myself which I have not carefully claim’d for others on the same terms,</div> - <div class='line'>Sped to the camps, and comrades found and accepted from every State,</div> - <div class='line'>(Upon this breast has many a dying soldier lean’d to breathe his last,</div> - <div class='line'>This arm, this hand, this voice, have nourish’d, rais’d, restor’d,</div> - <div class='line'>To life recalling many a prostrate form;)</div> - <div class='line'>I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of myself,</div> - <div class='line'>Rejecting none, permitting all.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>When man has grown simpler and saner -and truer—when the fever of civilization has -been subdued and the pestilence been -cured; when man shall no longer deny and -revile the universal mother who gave him -birth, then Walt Whitman’s day will come. -In the clear light of that regenerated time, -when the world looks back to the doubt and -mist and confusion of to-day, Walt Whitman -will stand alone, the greatest, truest, noblest -prophet of the age, a man untainted by artificial -life and unmoved by the false standards -of his time. In a sodden, commercial, -money-getting age, he enjoyed all the beauty -of the earth without the vulgar lust to own. -In a world of privilege and caste, he felt and -taught the brotherhood of man and the kinship -of all living things. In an age of false -modesty and perverted thought, he sang the -sanctity of the body with the divinity of the -soul. Against the agnostic and the Christian -too, he defended every part and portion of -the faultless work of the creative power. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>Above the doleful, doubting voice of men, -through the dreariest day and darkest night, -in the raging of the storm and the madness -of the waves, his strong, optimistic, reassuring -note was ever heard above the rest, proclaiming -to the universe that all is well. He -saw that in a wise economy and a great -broad way, that the false was true, the evil -good, the wrong was right, and that over all -the universe, pervading all its teeming life, -a power omnipotent, beneficent and wise, -was working to uplift, conserve and purify -the whole. The poor, the weak, the suffering, -the outcast, the felon, all knew him for -their comrade and their friend. His great, -inclusive, universal heart left no soul outside, -but all alike he knew, the life of all he felt, -and one and all he loved. In his vocabulary -were no words of bitterness and hate, -and in his philosophy no right to censure or -to blame. In his every deed and thought -he seemed to say:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“So I be written in the book of love,</div> - <div class='line'>I have no care about that book above,</div> - <div class='line'>Erase my name, or write it as you please,</div> - <div class='line'>So I be written in the book of love.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>As the shadows lengthen and the daylight -wanes—as the hair whitens and the passions -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>cool, more and more do we learn that love -is the true philosophy of life; more and more -do we revise the sterner judgments of our -earlier years; more and more do we see -that pity should take the place of blame, -forgiveness of punishment, charity of -justice, and hatred be replaced by love. -When old familiar faces awake the memories -of bygone days, often and often again -do we fear that our judgments were cruel -and unjust, but every deed of mercy and -every act of charity and every thought of -pity is like the balm of Gilead to our souls. -We may none of us be wise or great, fortune -may elude us and fame may never come; -but however poor or weak or humble, we -yet may inscribe our names in the fairest, -brightest book,—the book of love, and on -its sacred pages, earned by the glorious -truths he taught, by his infinite, ever present -love of all, upon the foremost line will be -inscribed Walt Whitman’s name.</p> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span></div> -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='lg-container-b c003'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>ROBERT · BURNS</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_075.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span> - <h2 class='c004'>ROBERT BURNS.</h2> -</div> - -<div class='c008'> - <img class='drop-capi' src='images/i_077di.jpg' width='100' alt='' /> -</div><p class='drop-capi_8'> -It is difficult to account for a -genius like Robert Burns. -His life and work seem to -defy the laws of heredity and -environment alike. The -beasts of the field were -scarcely bound closer to the -soil than were the ancestors from which he -sprang; and from his early infancy he was -forced to follow the stony path his father -trod before. As a mere child, he learned -how hard it is to sustain life in the face of an -unfriendly nature and a cruel, bitter world. -He was early bred to toil; not the work that -gives strength and health, but the hard, constant, -manual labor that degrades and embitters, -deforms and twists and stunts the -body and the soul alike. Burns was denied -even the brief years of childhood—those few, -short years upon which most of us look back -from our disappointments and cares as the -one bright spot in a gray and level plain.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is not alone by the works he has left us -that Robert Burns is to be truly judged. -Fortune endowed him with a wondrous brain -and a still rarer and greater gift—a tender, -loving, universal heart; but as if she grudged -him these and sought to destroy or stunt -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>their power, she cast his lot in a social and -religious environment as hard and forbidding -as the cold and sterile soil of his native -land; and from these surroundings alone he -was obliged to draw the warmth and color -and sunshine that should have come from -loving hearts, generous bounties, and bright, -blue southern skies. In measuring the power -and character of Robert Burns, we must -remember the hard and cruel conditions of -his life, and judge of his great achievements -in the light of these.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The ways of destiny have ever been beyond -the ken of man; now and then, at rare, -long intervals, she descends upon the earth, -and in her arms she bears disguised a precious -gift, which she lavished upon a blind, -unwilling world. She passes by the gorgeous -palaces and beautiful abodes of men, -and drops the treasure in a manger or a hut; -she comes again to take it back from a world -that knew it not and cast it out; and again, -she seeks it not among the strong and great, -but in the hovel of the poor, the prison pen, -or perhaps upon the scaffold or the block.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Measured by the standards of our day and -generation, the life of Robert Burns was a -failure and mistake. He went back to the -great common Mother as naked of all the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>gilded trappings and baubles, which men -call wealth, as when she first placed the -struggling infant on its mother’s breast.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Robert Burns was not a “business man”; -he was not one of Dumfries’ “first citizens”—in -the measure of that day and this; he -was one of its last if not its worst. He had -no stock in a corporation and no interest in a -syndicate or trust. He had neither a bank -nor bank account. He never endowed a -library, a museum, or a university. He was -a singer of songs,—a dreamer of dreams. He -was poor, improvident, intemperate, and according -to the Scottish creed, immoral and -irreligious. In spite of his great intellect he -was doubted, neglected and despised. He -died in destitution and despair; but the great -light of his genius, which his neighbors could -not see or comprehend, has grown brighter -and clearer as the years have rolled away. A -beautiful mausoleum now holds his once -neglected ashes; monuments have been reared -to his memory wherever worth is known -and fame preserved; while millions of men -and women, the greatest and the humblest -of the world alike, have felt their own heartstrings -moved and stirred in unison with the -music of this immortal bard, whose song was -the breath of Nature,—the sweetest, tenderest -<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>melody that ever came from that rarest -instrument—the devoted poet’s soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The great masterpieces of his genius were -not created in the pleasant study of a home -of refinement, luxury, and ease, but were born -in the fields, the farm yard, the stable; while -the “monarch peasant” was bending above -the humblest tasks that men pursue for -bread. Only the most ordinary education -was within the reach of this child of toil, -and the world’s great storehouses of learning, -literature, and art were sealed forever -from his sight; and yet, with only the rude -peasants, with whom his life was spent, the -narrow setting of bleak fields and grey hills, -which was the small stage on which he -moved, and the sterile Scotch dialect with -which to paint, he stirred the hearts of men -with the sweetest, highest, purest melody -that has ever moved the human soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Olive Schreiner tells of an artist whose -pictures shone with the richest, brightest -glow. His admirers gazed upon the canvas -and wondered where he found the colors—so -much rarer than any they had ever seen -before. Other artists searched the earth, -but could find no tints like his; he died with -the secret in his breast. And when they undressed -him to put his grave-clothes on, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>they found an old wound, hard and jagged -above his heart; and still they wondered -where he found the coloring for his work. -Robert Burns, perhaps more than any other -man who ever lived, taught the great truth -that poets are not made but born; that the -richest literature, the brightest gems of art, -even the most pleasing earthly prospects are -less than one spark of the divine fire, which -alone can kindle the true light. Robert -Burns like all great artists, taught the world -that the beauty of the landscape, and the -grandeur and pathos of life depend, not -upon the external objects that nature has -chanced to place before our view, but upon -the soul of the artist, which alone can really -see and interpret the manifold works of the -great author, beside which all human effort -is so poor and weak.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Millet looked at the French peasants -standing in their wooden shoes, digging -potatoes from the earth and pausing to bow -reverently at the sounding of the Angelus, -and saw in this simple life, so close to Nature’s -heart, more beauty and pathos and -poetry than all the glittering courts of -Europe could produce. And Robert Burns, -whose broad mind and sympathetic soul -made him kin to all living things, had no -<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>need to see the splendor and gaiety of wealth -and power, to visit foreign shores and unknown -lands; but the flowers, the heather, -the daisies, the bleak fields, the pelting -rains, the singing birds, the lowing cattle, -and above all, the simple country folk seen -through his eyes, and felt by his soul, and -held in his all-embracing heart, were covered -with a beauty and a glory that all the -artificial world could not create, and that his -genius has endowed with immortal life. -Robert Burns did not borrow his philosophy -from the books, his humanity from the -church, or his poetry from the schools. -Luckily for us he escaped all these, and unfettered -and untaught, went straight to the -soul of Nature to learn from the great -source, the harmony and beauty and unity -that pervades the whole; and he painted -these with colors drawn from his great human -heart. His universal sympathy gave -him an insight into life that students of science -and philosophy can never reach. Contemplating -Nature, and seeing her generous -bounties lavished alike on all her children, -he could not but contrast this with the selfishness -and inhumanity of man, which -crushes out the weak and helpless and builds -up the great and strong. Burns was a natural -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>leveler, and while men still believed in -the “divine right of kings,” he preached -that “man was the divine King of rights.” -None knew better than he the injustice of -the social life in which he lived, and in -which we live to-day. Burns knew, as all -men of intelligence understand, that worldly -goods are not, and never have been given -as a reward of either brains or merit.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>It’s hardly in a body’s power</div> - <div class='line'>To keep at times, frae being sour,</div> - <div class='line in2'>To see how things are shared;</div> - <div class='line'>How best o’chiels are whiles in want</div> - <div class='line'>While coofs on countless thousands rant</div> - <div class='line in2'>And ken na how to wair’t.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>The immortal singer of songs, and all his -descendants, received infinitely less for all -the works of his genius than an ordinary -gambler often gets for one sale of something -that he never owned, or one purchase of -something that he never bought; and it is -doubtful if all the masterpieces of the world -in art, in literature, and in science, ever -brought as much cash to those whose great, -patient brains have carefully and honestly -wrought that the earth might be richer and -better and brighter, as has been often -“made” by one inferior speculator upon a -single issue of watered stock.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>Living in the midst of aristocracy and -privilege and caste, Burns was a democrat -that believed in the equality of man. It required -no books or professors, or theories to -teach him the injustice of the social conditions -under which the world has ever lived. -Here, as elsewhere, he looked to the heart—a -teacher infinitely more honest and reliable -than the brain.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,</div> - <div class='line in2'>By Nature’s law design’d;</div> - <div class='line'>Why was an independent wish</div> - <div class='line in2'>E’er planted in my mind?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>If not, why am I subject to</div> - <div class='line in2'>His cruelty, or scorn?</div> - <div class='line'>Or why has man the will and pow’r</div> - <div class='line in2'>To make his fellow mourn?</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Preachers and authors and teachers, judges -and professors and lawyers, have been employed -for ages to teach the justice of -slavery and the folly and crime of equal -rights; but through all quibbles and evasions, -this question of Burns, straight from -the heart, as well as the head, shows that all -these excuses are but snares and cheats. -The voice of the French Revolution could -not fail to move a soul like that of Robert -Burns. This great struggle for human liberty -came upon the world with almost the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>suddenness of an earthquake, and with -much of its terrors, too. Here the poor and -the oppressed felt the first substantial hope -for freedom that had pierced the long, dark -centuries since history told the acts of men. -To the oppressors and the powerful, who -hated liberty then as they ever have, before -and since, it was a wild, dread threat of destruction -and ruin to their precious “rights.” -When the struggle commenced, Burns was -enjoying the munificent salary of Fifty -pounds a year as a whisky gauger in the village -of Dumfries. He had already spent a -winter in Edinburgh, and had been feted -and dined by the aristocracy and culture of -Scotland’s capital without losing his head, -although at no small risk. An acquaintance -and entertainer of the nobility and an incumbent -of a lucrative office, there was but -one thing for Burns to do; this was to condemn -the Revolution and lend his trenchant -pen to the oppressor’s cause; but this -course he flatly refused to take. He openly -espoused the side of the people, and wrote -the “Tree of Liberty,” one of his most -stirring songs, in its defense.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Upon this tree there grows sic fruit,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Its virtues a’can tell man;</div> - <div class='line'>It raises man aboon the brute,</div> - <div class='line in2'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>It mak’s him ken himsel’ man.</div> - <div class='line'>Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,</div> - <div class='line in2'>He’s greater than a lord man.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>King Louis thought to cut it down</div> - <div class='line in2'>When it was unco sma’ man;</div> - <div class='line'>For this the watchman cracked his crown,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Cut aff his head an’ a’ man.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Even these words are not strong enough -to express his love for natural liberty and his -distrust of those forms and institutions which -over and over again have crushed the priceless -gem they pretend to protect.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>A fig for those by law protected!</div> - <div class='line in2'>Liberty’s a glorious feast!</div> - <div class='line'>Courts for cowards were erected,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Churches built to please the priest.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Even higher and broader was Burns’ view -of equality and right. He stood on a serene -height, where he looked upon all the strife -and contention of individuals and states, -and dreamed of a perfect harmony and universal -order, where men and Nations alike -should be at peace, and the world united in -one grand common brotherhood, where the -fondest wish of each should be the highest -good of all. These beautiful, prophetic -lines seem to speak of a day as distant now -as when Burns wrote them down a hundred -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>years ago. But still, all men that love the -human race will ever hope, and work, and -say with him:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Then let us pray that come it may,</div> - <div class='line in2'>As come it will for a’ that,</div> - <div class='line'>That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth</div> - <div class='line in2'>May bear the gree, and a’ that;</div> - <div class='line'>For a’ that, and a’ that,</div> - <div class='line in2'>It’s coming yet, for a’ that,</div> - <div class='line'>That man to man, the warld o’er,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Shall brothers be for a’ that.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is perhaps as a singer of songs that the -literary fame of Burns will longest be preserved. -No other poet has ever breathed -such music from his soul. His melodies are -as sweet and pure as the bubbling spring; -and as natural and spontaneous as ever came -from the throat of the nightingale or lark. -These songs could not be made. The feeling -and passion that left his soul bore this -music as naturally as the zephyr that has -fanned the strings of the Æolian harp. The -meter of these songs was not learned by -scanning Latin verse, or studying the dry -rules that govern literary art, but it was born -of the regular pulse beats, which in the -heart of Nature’s poets are as smooth and -unstudied as the rippling laughter of her -purling brooks.</p> -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>John Anderson, my jo, John,</div> - <div class='line in2'>When we were first acquent,</div> - <div class='line'>Your locks were like the raven,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Your bonnie brow was brent;</div> - <div class='line'>But now your brow is beld, John,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Your locks are like the snow;</div> - <div class='line'>But blessing on your frosty pow,</div> - <div class='line in2'>John Anderson, my jo.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>John Anderson, my jo, John,</div> - <div class='line in2'>We clamb the hill tegither,</div> - <div class='line'>And mony a canty day, John,</div> - <div class='line in2'>We’ve had wi’ ane anither;</div> - <div class='line'>Now we maun totter down, John,</div> - <div class='line in2'>But hand in hand we’ll go,</div> - <div class='line'>And sleep tegither at the foot,</div> - <div class='line in2'>John Anderson, my jo.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Although a plough boy and surrounded -by the grime and dirt that come from contact -with the soil, still even here Burns found material -for music and poetry that will live as -long as human hearts endure; for, though -the sky may be warmer and bluer on the -Mediterranean shore than where it domes the -Scottish hills and crags, still the same heaven -bends above them both, and the same infinite -mysteries are hidden in their unfathomed -depths. The tragedy of death is alike, -whether defying the power of a Prince, or -entering the home of the humblest peasant -to bring the first moments of relief and rest. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>The miracle of life, whether wrought by -Nature on the rich couch of the Queen or -the unwatched pallet of the peasant, is the -same mystery, ever new, ever old, appealing -ever to the heart of man. The affections -and passions,—those profound feelings that -Nature planted deep in the being of all sentient -things, and on whose strength all life -depends,—these are the deepest and purest -as we leave the conventions and trappings -of the artificial world, and draw nearer to -the heart of the great Universal power. -With the sky above, the fields around, and -all Nature throbbing and teeming with -pulsing life, but one thing more was needed -to make harmony and music, and that was -Robert Burns.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old story of human love was sung by -him a thousand times and in a thousand varying -moods, as never love was sung before. -It mattered not that his melodies breathed -of rustic scenes, of country maids, and of -plain untutored hearts that beat as Nature -made them feel, unfettered by the restraints -and cords of an artificial life. Transport his -Mary to a gorgeous palace, and deck her -fair form with the richest treasures of the -earth and bring to her side the proudest -noble that ever paid homage to a princess, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>and no singer,—not even Burns himself,—could -make a melody like the matchless music -that he sung to Highland Mary.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk,</div> - <div class='line in2'>How rich the hawthorn’s blossom;</div> - <div class='line'>As underneath their fragrant shade,</div> - <div class='line in2'>I clasp’d her to my bosom!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The golden hours, on angel wings,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Flew o’er me and my dearie;</div> - <div class='line'>For dear to me as light and life</div> - <div class='line in2'>Was my sweet Highland Mary.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>All the conventions and baubles and spangles -which fashion and custom use to adorn -the fair could only have cheapened and -made vulgar the rustic maiden that moved -Burns’ soul to song.</p> - -<p class='c000'>These sweet lines could never have been -written of any but a simple country lass, -whose natural charms had moved a susceptible -human heart:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I see her in the dewy flowers,</div> - <div class='line in2'>I see her sweet and fair;</div> - <div class='line'>I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,</div> - <div class='line in2'>I hear her charm the air;</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>There’s not a bonnie flower that springs</div> - <div class='line in2'>By fountain, shaw, or green,</div> - <div class='line'>There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,</div> - <div class='line in2'>But minds me o’ my Jean.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>Who was this Burns that sang these sweet -songs and whose musical soul was stirred by -every breeze and moved to poetry by every -lovely face and form that came within his -view? Biographers and critics and admirers -have praised the genius and begged excuses -for the man. Without asking charity for -this illustrious singer, let us view him in the -light of justice, exactly as he was. It is not -difficult to understand the character of -Robert Burns. His heart was generous and -warm and kind; his mind was open as the -day, and his soul was sensitive to every -breath that stirred the air. These qualities -have made the poet loved in every land on -earth, and brought more pilgrims to his -grave than were ever drawn to the tomb of -any other poet or author that has ever lived -and died. And yet the short-sighted, carping, -moralizing world, with solemn voice -and wisdom ill-assumed, has ever told how -much better and holier he could have been -and should have been. Poor, silly, idle -world, can you never learn that the qualities -that make us strong must also make us weak; -that the heart that melts at suffering and -pain is made of clay so sensitive and fine as -to be moved and swayed by all the emotions -of the soul? Would you serve the weak, the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>suffering and the poor—would you calm -their fears and dry their eyes and feel with -them the cruel woes of life—you must wear -your heart upon your sleeve, and then of -course the daws will peck it into bits. -Would you keep it safely hidden from the -daws, you must hide it in a breast of stone -or ice and keep it only for yourself. Perhaps -we may admire the man that walks -with steady step along a straight and narrow -path, unmoved by all the world outside. -He never feels and never errs. But we cannot -ask of either man the virtues that belong -to both, and when our choice is made we -must take the strength and weakness too.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We look at the mountain top, lifting its -snow-crowned head high into the everlasting -blue, and are moved with wonder and -with awe. Above is the endless sky; below, -the world with all its bickering and strife, -the clouds, the lightning and the storm, but -the mountain, cold, impassive, changeless, -unmoved by all the world, looks ever upward -to the eternal heavens above. Again -we gaze on the peaceful, fertile lowlands, -rich with their generous harvests yet unborn—beautiful -with their winding streams and -grassy fields, ever ready to bestow bounteously -on all that ask, demanding little and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>lavishly returning all; and we love the quiet, -rustic, generous beauty of the scene. The -mountain is majestic and sublime, and the -yielding, generous lowlands are beautiful -and pleasing too. We love them both, but -we cannot have them both at once and both -in one.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Robert Burns, and all men like him that -ever lived, were always giving from their -generous souls. In the cold judgment of the -world, Burns wasted many a gem upon the -thoughtless, worthless crowd, who consumed -a life he should have spent for nobler -things. But the flower that never wastes its -fragrance has no perfume to give out. If it -is truly sweet, its strength is borne away on -every idle wind that blows. Robert Burns -with lavish bounty shed his life and fragrance -on every soul he met. He loved them all -and loved them well: his sensitive, harmonious -soul vibrated to every touch, and -moved in perfect harmony with every heart -that came within his reach. The lives of -men like him are one long harmony; but as -they pass along the stage of life, they leave -a trail of disappointed hopes, and broken -hearts, and vain regrets. But of all the -tragedies great and small that mark their -path, the greatest far and most pathetic is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>the sad and hopeless wreck that ever surely -falls upon the exhausted artist’s life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The life of Burns was filled with wrecks—with -promises made and broken, with hopes -aroused, and then dashed to earth again. It -was filled with these because one man cannot -give himself personally to all the world. -The vices of Robert Burns perhaps like -those of all the rest that ever lived, were -virtues carried to excess. Of course, the -world could not understand it then, and -cannot understand it now, and perhaps it -never will, for slander and malice and envy, -like death, always love a shinning mark. -The life of Burns and the life of each is the -old Greek fable told again. Achilles’ mother -would make him invulnerable by dipping -him in the river Styx. She held him by the -heel, which remained unwashed and vulnerable, -and finally brought him to his -death. To whatever dizzy height we climb, -and however invulnerable we seek to be, -there still remains with all the untouched -heel that binds us to the earth. And after -all, this weak and human spot, is the truest -bond of kinship that unites the world.</p> - -<p class='c000'>I look back at Robert Burns, at the poor -human life that went out a hundred years -ago, and study its works to know the man. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>I care not what his neighbors thought; I -care not for the idle gossip of an idle hour. -I know that his immortal songs were not -born of his wondrous brain alone, but of -the gentlest, trust, tenderest heart that ever -felt another’s pain. I know full well that -the love songs of Robert Burns could have -come from no one else than Robert Burns. -I know that even the Infinite could not -have changed the man and left the songs. -Burns, like all true poets, told us what he -felt and saw, and it is not for me to ask excuses -for this or that; but rather reverently -to bow my head in the presence of this great -memory, and thank the infinite source of -life for blessing us with Robert Burns exactly -as he was.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is difficult to understand our own being; -it is impossible to know our fellow -man’s, but I have faith to think that all life -is but a portion of one great inclusive power, -and that all is good and none is bad. The -true standard for judging Burns and all other -men is given by Carlyle, and I cannot refrain -from borrowing and adopting what he -says:</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The world is habitually unjust in its judgments -of such men; unjust on many -grounds, of which this one may be stated as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>the substance: It decides, like a court of -law, by dead statutes; and not positively but -negatively, less on what is done right than -on what is or is not done wrong. Not the -few inches of deflection from the mathematical -orbit, which are so easily measured, but -the ratio of these to the whole diameter, -constitutes the real aberration. This orbit -may be a planet’s, its diameter the breadth -of the solar system; or it may be a city hippodrome; -nay, the circle of a ginhorse, its -diameter a score of feet or paces. But the -inches of deflection only are measured; and -it is assumed that the diameter of the ginhorse -and that of the planet will yield the -same ratio when compared with them! -Here lies the root of many a blind, cruel -condemnation of Burns, Swift, Rousseau, -which one never listens to with approval. -Granted, the ship comes into harbor with -shrouds and tackle damaged; the pilot is -blameworthy; he has not been all-wise and -all-powerful; but to know how blameworthy; -tell us first whether his voyage has been -around the Globe, or only to Ramsgate and -the Isle of Dogs.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Robert Burns has been dust for a hundred -years, and yet the world knows him better -now than the neighbors that lived beside his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>door. I look back upon the little village of -Dumfries,—not the first or the last town that -entertained angels unawares. I see poor -Robert Burns passing down the street, and -the pharisees and self-righteous walking on -the other side. The bill of indictment -brought against him by the Dumfries community -was long and black; he was intemperate, -immoral, irreligious, and disloyal to -the things that were. The first two would -doubtless have been forgiven, but the others -could not be condoned. And so this illustrious -man walked an outcast through the -town that to-day makes its proudest boast -that it holds the ashes of the mighty dead, -who in life was surrounded by such a halo of -glory that his neighbors could not see his -face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A hundred years ago Scotland was held -tightly in the grasp of the Presbyterian faith. -Calvinism is not very attractive even now, -especially to us that live and expect to die -outside its fold, but even Calvinism has softened -and changed in a hundred years. -Burns was too religious to believe in the -Presbyterian faith, and to the Scotch Covenanter -there was no religion outside the Calvinistic -creed. How any man can read the -poetry of Robert Burns and not feel the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>deep religious spirit that animates its lines -is more than I can see. True, he ridicules -the dogmas and the creeds that held the humanity -and intellect of Scotland in its paralyzing -grasp; but creeds and dogmas are -the work of man; they come and go; are -born and die; serve their time and pass -away; but the love of humanity, the instincts -of charity and tenderness, the deep -reverence felt in the presence of the infinite -mystery and power that pervade the universe, -these, the basis of all the religions of -the earth, remain forever, while creeds and -dogmas crumble to the dust.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Scotland of a hundred years ago measured -Burns’ religion by “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” -“The Holy Fair,” and kindred songs. The -world a hundred years from now will not -make these the only test. Dumfries and all -the Unco’ Guid of Scotland could not forgive -Burns for writing:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>O Thou wha in the heavens dost dwell,</div> - <div class='line'>Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,</div> - <div class='line'>Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,</div> - <div class='line in2'>A’ for thy glory,</div> - <div class='line'>And no for ony guid or ill</div> - <div class='line in2'>They’ve done afore thee!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I bless and praise thy matchless might,</div> - <div class='line'>When thousands thou hast left in night,</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>That I am here afore thy sight,</div> - <div class='line in2'>For gifts an, grace,</div> - <div class='line'>A burnin, an a shinin’ light,</div> - <div class='line in2'>To a’ this place.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Lord, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r,</div> - <div class='line'>Against that presbt’ry o’ Ayr;</div> - <div class='line'>Thy strong right hand, Lord make it bare</div> - <div class='line in2'>Upo’ their heads!</div> - <div class='line'>Lord, weigh it down, an’ dinna spare,</div> - <div class='line in2'>For their misdeeds.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>But, Lord, remember me and mine</div> - <div class='line'>Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,</div> - <div class='line'>That I for gear and grace may shine,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Excell’d by name;</div> - <div class='line'>And a the glory shall be thine,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Amen, Amen.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It was not enough that Robert Burns -taught a religion as pure and gentle and -loving as that proclaimed by the Nazarene -himself. Its meaning and beauty and charity -were lost on those who would not see. -Long ago it was written down that, “Inasmuch -as ye have done it unto one of the -least of these my brethren, ye have done it -unto me.” If this is any test of a religious -life, then few men will stand as high in the -great beyond as Robert Burns. This poor -poet has melted more hearts to pity and -moved more souls to mercy, and inclined -more lives to charity than any other poet -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>that ever dreamed and sung. Not men and -women and children alone were the objects -of his bounteous love and tender heart, but -he felt the pain of the bird, the hare, the -mouse, and even the daisy whose roots were -upturned to the biting blast. Hear him -sing of the poor bird for whom he shudders -at the winter’s cold:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Ilka hopping bird, we helpless thing</div> - <div class='line'>That in the merry month o’ spring</div> - <div class='line'>Delighted me to hear thee sing,</div> - <div class='line in2'>What comes o’ thee!</div> - <div class='line'>Where wilt thou cow’r thy chilling wing</div> - <div class='line in2'>And close thy ee?</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Few men that ever lived would stop and -lament with Burns, as he shattered the poor -clay home of the field mouse with his -plough. No matter what he did; no matter -what he said; no matter what his creed; the -man that wrote these lines deserves a place -with the best and purest of this world or any -other that the Universe may hold.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie!</div> - <div class='line'>O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!</div> - <div class='line'>Thou need na start awa sae hasty,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Wi’ bickerin’ brattle;</div> - <div class='line'>I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Wi’ murd’ring prattle?</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>In a world which still enjoys the brutal -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>chase, where even clergymen find pleasure -in inflicting pain with the inhuman gun and -rod, these lines written a hundred years ago, -on seeing a wounded hare limp by, should -place Burns amongst the blessed of the -earth:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art,</div> - <div class='line'>And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;</div> - <div class='line'>May never pity sooth thee with a sight,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in3'>* * * * * *</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Oft, as by winding Nith I musing wait.</div> - <div class='line'>The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,</div> - <div class='line'>I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn,</div> - <div class='line'>And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>This was Robert Burns,—and yet Dumfries, -which held this gentle soul within its -walls, and the Protestant world of a hundred -years ago, looked at John Calvin piling the -faggots around Servetus’ form, and knelt -before him as a patron, religious saint, while -they cast into outer darkness poor Robert -Burns with his heart bowed down at the suffering -of a wounded hare.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Will the world ever learn what true religion -is? Will it ever learn that mercy and -pity and charity are more in the sight of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>Infinite than all the creeds and dogmas of -the earth? Will it ever learn to believe this -beautiful verse of Robert Burns:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>But deep this truth impressed my mind,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Through all his works abroad;</div> - <div class='line'>The heart benevolent and kind,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The most resembles God.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Will the world ever learn when it prays to -pray with Robert Burns, as man has seldom -spoken to the Infinite, in whose unknown -hands, we are as bubbles on the sea; to the -great power, which sends us forth into the -darkness to stagger through a tangled maze -for a little time and then calls us back to -sleep within its all-embracing heart.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>O thou, unknown, Almighty Cause</div> - <div class='line in2'>Of all my hope and fear!</div> - <div class='line'>In whose dread presence, ere an hour,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Perhaps I must appear!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>If I have wandered in those paths</div> - <div class='line in2'>Of life I ought to shun;—</div> - <div class='line'>As something loudly in my breast</div> - <div class='line in2'>Remonstrates I have done;—</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me</div> - <div class='line in2'>With passion wild and strong;</div> - <div class='line'>And list’ning to their witching voice</div> - <div class='line in2'>Has often led me wrong.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Where human weakness has come short,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Or frailty step aside,</div> - <div class='line'>Do thou, All Good?—for such thou art</div> - <div class='line in2'>In shades of darkness hide.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>Where with intention I have err’d,</div> - <div class='line in2'>No other plea I have</div> - <div class='line'>But, Thou art good! and goodness still</div> - <div class='line in2'>Delighteth to forgive!</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Dear Robert Burns, to place one flower -upon your grave, or add one garland to -your fame is a privilege indeed. A noble -man you were, knighted not by King or -Queen, but titled by the Infinite Maker of -us all. You loved the world; you loved all -life; you were gentle, kind and true. Your -works, your words, your deeds, will live and -shine to teach the brotherhood of man, the -kinship of all breathing things, and make -the world a brighter, gentler, kindlier place -because you lived and loved and sung.</p> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_103.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span></div> -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='lg-container-b c003'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>REALISM</div> - <div class='line'>IN · LITERATURE</div> - <div class='line'>AND · ART</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id004'> -<img src='images/i_105.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span> - <h2 class='c004'>REALISM IN LITERATURE <span class='fss'>AND</span> ART</h2> -</div> - -<div class='c008'> - <img class='drop-capi' src='images/i_107di.jpg' width='100' alt='' /> -</div><p class='drop-capi_8'> -Man is nature’s last and most -perfect work, but, however -high his development or -great his achievements, he is -yet a child of the earth and -the rude forces that have -formed all the life that exists -thereon. He cannot separate himself from -the environment that gave him birth, and a -thousand ties of nature bind him back to the -long forgotten past and prove his kinship to -all the lower forms of life that have sprung -from that great universal mother, Earth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As there is a common law of being, which -controls all living things, from the aimless -motions of the mollusk in the sea to the -most perfect conduct of the best developed -man, so all the activities of human life, from -the movements of the savage digging roots, -to the work of the greatest artist with his -brush, are controlled by universal law, and -are good or bad, perfect or imperfect, as -they conform to the highest condition nature -has imposed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The early savage dwelt in caves and cliffs -and spent his life in seeking food and providing -a rude shelter from the cold. He -looked upon the earth, the sun, the sea, the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>sky, the mountain peak, the forest and the -plain, and all he saw and heard formed an -impression on his brain and aided in his -growth. Like a child he marveled at the -storm and flood; he stood in awe as he looked -upon disease and death; and to explain -the things he could not understand, he peopled -earth and air and sea with gods and demons, -and a thousand other weird creations -of his brain. All these mysterious creatures -were made in the image of the natural objects -that came within his view. The gods -were men grown large and endowed with -marvelous powers, while tree and bird and -beast alike were used as models for a being -greater far than any nature ever formed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>An angry god it was that made the rivers -overrun their banks and leave destruction in -their path; an offended god it was that hurled -his thunderbolts upon a wicked world, -or sent disease and famine to the sinning -children of the earth: and to coax these -rulers to be merciful to man, the weak and -trembling children of the ancient world -turned their minds to sacrifice and prayer. -And the first clouded thoughts of these rude -men that were transcribed on monument -and stone, or carved in wood, or painted -with the colors borrowed from the sun and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>earth and sky; in short, the first rude art was -born to sing the praise, and tell the fame, -and paint the greatness of the gods. But all -of this was natural to the time and place; the -graven images, the chiseled hieroglyphics, -and all this rude beginning of literature and -art were formed upon what men saw and -heard and felt, enlarged and magnified to fit -the stature of the gods.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As the world grew older art was used to -celebrate the greatness and achievements of -kings and rulers as well as gods, and their -tombs were ornamented with such decorations -as these early ages could create; and -yet all literature and art were only for the -gods and the rulers of the world. Then, -even more than now, wealth and power -brought intellect to do its will, and all its -force was spent to sing the praises of the -rulers of the earth and air. The basis of all -this art of pen and brush was the reality of -the world, but this was so magnified and -distorted for the base use of kings and -priests that realism, in the true sense, could -not exist. It would not do to paint a picture -of a king resembling a man of flesh and -blood, and of course a god must be far -greater than a king. It would not do to -write a tale in which kings and princes, lords -<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>and ladies, should act like men and women, -else what difference between the ruler and -the ruled? The marvelous powers that romance -and myth had given to gods and -angels were transferred to those of royal -blood. The wonderful achievements of -these kings and princes could be equaled -only by the gods, and the poor dependents -of the world, who lived for the glory of the -great, were fed with legends and with tales -that sung the praises of the strong.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Literature, sculpture, painting, music, and -architecture, indeed all forms of art, were -the exclusive property of the great, and the -artist then, like most of those to-day, was -retained to serve the strong and maintain the -status of the weak. No one dreamed that -there was any beauty in a common human -life or any romance in a fact. The greatest -of the earth had not yet learned to know -that every life is a mystery and every death -a tragedy; that the spark of the infinite, -which alone transforms clay to life, animates -alike the breast of the peasant and the soul -of the prince. The world had not yet -learned that the ant-hill is as great as Mont -Blanc, and the blade of grass as mysterious -as the oak. It is only now that the world is -growing so delicate and refined that it can -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>see the beauty of a fact; that it is developing -a taste so rare as to distinguish between -the false and true; that it can be moved by -the gentle breeze as well as by the winter’s -gale; that it can see greater beauty in a -statement true to life, than in the inflated -tales, which children read.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Most of the art and literature the world -has known has been untrue. The pictures -of the past have been painted from the distorted -minds of visionists, and the pliant -brains of tools. They have represented impossible -gods and unthinkable saints; angels -and cherubs and demons; everything but -men and women. Saints may be all right -in their place, but a saint with a halo around -his head was born of myth and not of art. -Angels may be well enough, but all rational -men prefer an angel with arms to an angel -with wings. When these artists were not -drawing saints and madonnas, they were -spending their time in painting kings and -royal knaves; and the pictures of the rulers -were as unlike the men and women that -they were said to represent as the servile -spirit of the painter was unlike that of the -true artist of to-day. Of course an artist -would not paint the poor; they had no -clothes that would adorn a work of art, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>no money nor favors that could remunerate -the toil. An ancient artist could no more -afford to serve the poor than a modern lawyer -could defend the weak.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After literature had so far advanced as to -concern other beings than gods and kings, -the authors of these ancient days told of -wondrous characters endowed with marvelous -powers; knights with giant strength and -magic swords; princes with wondrous palaces -and heaps of gold; travelers that met -marvelous beasts and slew them in extraordinary -ways; giants with forms like mountains, -and strength like oxen, who could -vanquish all but little dwarfs. Railroads -were not invented in those early days, -but travel was facilitated by the use of seven -league boots. Balloons and telescopes were -not yet known, but this did not keep favored -heroes from peering at the stars or looking -down from on high upon the earth; they -had but to plant a magic bean before they -went to bed at night, and in the morning it -had grown so tall that it reached up to the -sky; and the hero, although not skilled in -climbing, needed simply to grasp the stalk -and say, “Hitchety, hatchety, up I go. -Hitchety, hatchety, up I go,” and by this -means soon vanish in the clouds. Tales of this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>sort used once to delight the world, and the -readers half believed them true. We give -them to children now, and the best of these -view them with a half contempt.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The modern man does not enjoy these -myths. He relishes a lie, but it must not be -too big; it must be so small that, although -he knows in his inmost soul that it is not -true, he can yet half make himself believe -it is not false. Most of us have cherished a -pleasing, waking dream, and have fondly -clung to the sweet delusion while we really -knew it was not life. The modern literary -stomach is becoming so healthy that it wants -a story at least half true; should the falsehood -be too strong, it acts as an emetic instead -of food. These old fairy tales have -lost their power to charm, as the stories of -the gods and kings went down before. They -have lost their charm, for as we read them -now, they wake no answering chord born of -the experiences that make up what we know -of human life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When the beauty of realism shall be truly -known, we shall read the book, or look upon -the work of art, and in the light of all -we know of life, shall ask our beings -whether the picture that the author or the -painter creates for us is like the image that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>is born of the consciousness that moves our -soul, and the experiences that have made -us know.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Realism worships at the shrine of nature; -it does not say that there may not be a -sphere in which beings higher than man -can live, or that some time an eye may not -rest upon a fairer sunset than was ever born -behind the clouds and sea, but it knows -that through countless ages nature has slowly -fitted the brain and eye of man to the -earth on which we live and the objects that -we see: and the perfect earthly eye must -harmonize with the perfect earthly scene.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To say that realism is coarse and vulgar is -to declare against nature and her works, and -to assert that the man she made may dream -of things higher and grander than nature -could unfold. The eye of the great sculptor -reveals to him the lines that make the most -perfect human form, and he chisels out the -marble block until it resembles this image -so completely that it almost seems to live. -Nature, through ages of experiment and development, -has made this almost faultless -form. It is perfect because every part is -best fitted for the separate work it has to do. -The artist knows that he could not improve -a single organ if he would, for all the rest of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>nature must be adjusted to the change. He -has the skill to reproduce this shape in lasting -stone, and the human brain could not conceive -a form more beautiful and fair. Here -is a perfect image of the highest work that -countless centuries of nature’s toil has made, -and yet some would seek to beautify and -sanctify this work by dressing it in the garb -that shifting fashion and changing fancy -makes for man.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Only the vulgar superstition of the past -ever suggested that the reproduction of human -forms in stone was an unholy work. -Through long dark centuries religion taught -that the flesh was vile and bad, and that the -soul of man was imprisoned in a charnel -house, unfit for human sight. The early -Christians wounded, bruised, and maimed -their house of clay; they covered it with -skins, which under no circumstances could -be removed, and many ancient saints lived -and died without ever having looked upon -the bodies nature gave. The images of -saints and martyrs, which in the name of -religion were scattered through Europe, -were covered with paint and clothes, and -were nearly as hideous as the monks that -placed them there. When the condition of -Europe and its religious thought are clearly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>understood, it is not difficult to imagine the -reception that greeted the first dawn of modern -realistic art. Sculpture and painting deified -the material. They told of beauty in -the human form which hundreds of years -of religious fanaticism had taught was bad -and vile. If the flesh was beautiful, what of -the monks and priests, who had hidden it -from sight, who had kept it covered night -and day through all their foolish lives, who -maimed and bruised, cut and lacerated, for -the glory of the spirit, which they thought -was chained within. The church had taught -that the death of the flesh was the birth of -the soul, and they therefore believed that -the artist’s resurrection of the flesh was the -death of the soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>This old religious prejudice, born of a -misty, superstitious past, has slowly faded -from the minds of men, but we find its -traces even yet. The origin of the feeling -against realistic art has well nigh been forgot, -but much of the feeling still remains. -No one would now pretend to say that all -the body was unholy or unfit for sight, -and yet years of custom and inherited belief -have made us think that a part is good and -the rest is bad: that nature, in her work of -building up the human form, has made one -<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>part sacred and another vile. It is easy to -mistake custom for nature, and inherited prejudice -for morality. There is scarcely a single -portion of the human body but that some -people have thought it holy, and scarcely a -single portion but that some have believed it -vile. It was not shame that made clothing, -but clothing that made shame. If we would -eradicate from our beliefs all that inheritance -and environment have given, it would be -hard for us to guess how much should still -remain. Custom has made most things good -and most things bad, according to the whim -of time and place. To find solid ground we -must turn to nature and ask her what it is -that conduces to the highest happiness and -the longest life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The realistic artist cannot accept the popular -belief, whatever that may be, as to just -where the dead line on the human body -should be drawn that separates the sacred -and profane. There are realists that look at -all the beauty and loveliness of the world, -and all its maladjustments too, and do not -seek to answer the old, old question whether -back of this is any all-controlling and designing -power; they do not answer, for they -cannot know; but they strive to touch the -subtle chord that makes their individual lives -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>vibrate in harmony with the great heart of -that nature, which they love; and they cannot -think but that all parts of life are good, -and that while men may differ, nature must -know best.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Other realists there are that believe they -see in nature the work of a divine maker, -who created man in his own image as the -last and highest triumph of his skill; that the -minutest portion of the universe exists because -he wished it thus. To the realist that -accepts this all-controlling power, any imputation -against a portion of his master’s -work must reach back to the author that designed -it all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We need not say that the human body -might not be better than it is; we need only -know that it is the best that man can have, -and that its wondrous mechanism has been -constructed with infinitely more than human -skill; that every portion is adapted for -its work, and through the harmony of every -part the highest good is reached; and that -all is beautiful, for it makes the being best -adapted to the earth. Those who denounce -realistic art deny that knowledge is power -and that wisdom only can make harmony, -and they insist instead that there are some -things vital to life and happiness that we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>should not know, but that if we must know -these things, we should at all events pretend -that we do not. One day the world will -learn that all things are good or bad according -to the service they perform. One day -it ought to learn that the power to create -immortality, through infinite succeeding -links of human life, is the finest and most -terrible that nature ever gave to man, and -that to ignore this power or call it bad, or -fail to realize the great responsibility of this -tremendous fact, is to cry out against the -power that gave us life, and commit the -greatest human sin, for it may be one that -never dies.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The true artist does not find all beauty in -the human face or form. He looks upon -the sunset, painting all the clouds with rosy -hue, and his highest wish is to create another -scene like this. He never dreams -that he could paint a sunset fairer than the -one which lights the fading world. A fairer -sunset would be something else. He sees -beauty in the quiet lake, the grassy field, -and running brook; he sees majesty in the -cataract and mountain peak. He knows -that he can paint no streams and mountain -peaks more perfect than the ones that -nature made.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>The growth of letters has been like the -growth of art from the marvelous and mythical -to the natural and true. The tales and -legends of the ancient past were not of common -men and common scenes. These -could not impress the undeveloped intellect -of long ago. A man of letters could not -deify a serf, or tell the simple story of the -poor. He must write to maintain the status -of the world, and please the prince that gave -him food; so he told of kings and queens, -of knights and ladies, of strife and conquest; -and the coloring he used was human blood.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The world has grown accustomed to those -ancient tales, to scenes of blood and war, -and novels that would thrill the soul and -cause the hair to stand on end. It has read -these tales so long that the true seems commonplace, -and unfit to fill the pages of a -book. But all the time we forget the fact -that the story could not charm unless we -half believed it true. The men and women -in the tale we learn to love and hate; we -take an interest in their lives; we hope they -may succeed or fail; we must not be told at -every page that the people of the book are -men of straw, that no such beings ever lived -upon the earth. We could take no interest -in men and women that are myths conjured -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>up to play their parts, and remind us in -every word they speak that, regardless of the -happiness or anguish the author makes them -feel, they are but myths and can know -neither joy nor pain.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It may be that the realistic tale is commonplace, -but so is life, and the realistic tale is -true. Among the countless millions of the -earth it is only here and there, and now and -then, that some soul is born from out the -mighty deep that does not soon return to -the great sea and leave no ripple on the -waves.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In the play of life each actor seems important -to himself; the world he knows revolves -around him as the central figure of -the scene; his friends rejoice in all the fortune -he attains and weep with him in all his -grief. To him the world is bounded by the -faces that he knows, and the scenes in which -he lives. He forgets the great surging world -outside, and cannot think how small a space -he fills in that infinity which bounds his life. -He dies, and a few sorrowing friends mourn -him for a day, and the world does not know -he ever lived or ever died. In the ordinary -life nearly all events are commonplace; but -a few important days are thinly sprinkled in -amongst all of those that intervene between -<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>the cradle and the grave. We eat and drink, -we work and sleep, and here and there a -great joy or sorrow creeps in upon our lives, -and leaves a day that stands out against the -monotony of all the rest, like the pyramids -upon the level plains; but these events are -very few and are important only to ourselves, -and for the rest we walk with steady pace -and slow along the short and narrow path of -life, and rely upon the common things alone -to occupy our minds and hide from view the -marble stone that here and there gleams -through the over-hanging trees just where -the road leaves off.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old novel which we used to read and -to which the world so fondly clings, had no -idea of relation or perspective. It had a -hero and a heroine, and sometimes more -than one. The revolutions of the planets -were less important than their love. War, -shipwreck, and conflagration, all conspired -to produce the climax of the scene, and the -whole world stood still until the lovers’ -hearts and hands were joined. Wide oceans, -burning deserts, arctic seas, impassable -jungles, irate fathers, and even designing -mothers, were helpless against the decree -that fate had made, and when all the barriers -were passed and love had triumphed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>over impossibilities, the tale was done; -through the rest of life nothing of interest -could occur. Sometimes in the progress of -the story, if the complications were too great, -a thunderbolt or an earthquake was introduced -to destroy the villain and help on the -match. Earthquakes sometimes happen, -and the realistic novelist might write a tale -of a scene like this, but then the love affair -would be an incident of the earthquake, and -not the earthquake an incident of the love -affair.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In real life the affections have played an -important part and sometimes great things -have been done and suffered in the name of -love, but most of the affairs of the human -heart have been as natural as the other -events of life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The true love story is generally a simple -thing. “Beside a country road, on a sloping -hill, lives a farmer, in the house his -father owned before. He has a daughter, -who skims the milk, and makes the beds, and -goes to singing school at night. There are -other members of the household, but our -tale is no concern of theirs. In the meadow -back of the house a woodchuck has dug its -hole, and reared a family in its humble -home. Across the valley only a mile away, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>another farmer lives. He has a son, who -plows the fields and does the chores and -goes to singing school at night. He cannot -sing, but attends the school as regularly as -if he could. Of course he does not let the -girl go home alone, and in the spring, when -singing school is out, he visits her on Sunday -eve without excuse. If the girl had not lived -so near, the boy would have fancied another -girl about the same age, who also went to -singing school. Back of the second farmer’s -house is another woodchuck hole and woodchuck -home. After a year or two of courtship -the boy and girl are married as their -parents were before, and they choose a pretty -spot beside the road, and build another -house near by, and settle down to common -life: and so the world moves on. And a -woodchuck on one farm meets a woodchuck -on the other, and they choose a quiet place -beside a stump, in no one’s way, where they -think they have a right to be, and dig -another hole and make another home.” -For after all, men and animals are much -alike, and nature loves them both and loves -them all, and sends them forth to drive the -loneliness from off the earth, and then takes -them back into her loving breast to sleep.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It may be that there are few great incidents -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>in the realistic take, but each event appeals -to life and cannot fail to wake our memories -and make us live the past again. The -great authors of the natural school—Tolstoi, -Hardy, Howells, Daudet, Ibsen, Flaubert, -Zola and their kind, have made us think and -live. Their words have burnished up our -minds and revealed a thousand pictures that -hang upon the walls of memory, covered -with the dust of years, and hidden from our -sight. Sometimes of course we cry with -pain at the picture that is thrown before our -view, but life consists of emotions, and we -cannot truly live unless the depths are -stirred. These great masters, it is true, may -sometimes shock the over-sensitive with the -tales they tell of life, but if the tale is true, -why hide it from our sight?</p> - -<p class='c000'>There is nothing more common than the -protest against the wicked stories of the realistic -school, filled with tales of passion and -of sin; but he that denies passion denies all -the life that exists upon the earth, and cries -out against the mother that gave him birth. -And he that ignores this truth passes with -contempt the greatest fact that nature has -impressed upon the world. Those who condemn -as sensual the tales of Tolstoi and -Daudet still defend the love stories of which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>our literature is full. Those weak and silly -tales that make women fit only to be the -playthings of the world, and deny to them -a single thought or right except to serve -their master, man. These objectors do not -contend that tales dealing with the feelings -and affections shall not be told, they approve -these tales; they simply insist that they shall -be false instead of true. The old novel filled -the mind of the school girl with a thousand -thoughts that had no place in life—with ten -thousand pictures she could never see. It -taught that some time she should meet a -prince in disguise to whom she would freely -give her hand and heart. So she went out -upon the road to find this prince, and the -more disguised he was, the more certain -did she feel that he was the prince for whom -she sought. The realist paints the passions -and affections as they are. Both man and -woman can see their beauty and their terror, -their true position, and the relation that -they bear to all the rest of life. He would -not beguile the girl into the belief that -her identity should be destroyed and merged -for the sake of this feeling, which not -once in ten thousand times could realize -the promises the novel made; but he -would leave her as an individual to make the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>most she can, and all she can, of life, with -all the hope and chance of conquest, which -men have taken for themselves. Neither -would the realist cry out blindly against these -deep passions, which have moved men and -women in the past, and which must continue -fierce and strong as long as life exists. He -is taught by the scientist that the fiercest -heat may be transformed to light, and is -taught by life that from the strongest passions -are sometimes born the sweetest and the -purest souls.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In these days of creeds and theories, of -preachers in the pulpit and of preachers out, -we are told that all novels should have a -moral and be written to serve some end. -So we have novels on religion, war, marriage, -divorce, socialism, theosophy, woman’s -rights, and other topics without end. It is -not enough that the preachers and lecturers -shall tell us how to think and act; the novelist -must try his hand at preaching too. He -starts out with a theory, and every scene and -incident must be bent to make it plain that -the author believes certain things. The doings -of the men and women in the book are -secondary to the views the author holds. -The theories may be true, but the poor characters -that must adjust their lives to these -<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>ideal states are sadly warped and twisted out -of shape. The realist would teach a lesson, -too, but he would not violate a single fact -for all the theories in the world—for a theory -could not be true if it did violence to life. -He paints his picture so true and perfect that -all men who look upon it know it is a likeness -of the world that they have seen; they -know that these are men and women and -little children that they meet upon the streets; -they see the conditions of their lives, and the -moral of the picture sinks deep into their -minds.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There are so-called scientists that make a -theory and then gather facts to prove their -theory true; the real scientist patiently and -impartially gathers facts, and then forms a -theory to explain and harmonize these facts. -All life bears a moral, and the true artist -must teach a lesson with his every fact. Some -contend that the moral teacher must not tell -the truth; the realist holds that there can be -no moral teaching like the truth. The -world has grown tired of preachers and sermons; -to-day it asks for facts. It has grown -tired of fairies and angels, and asks for flesh -and blood. It looks on life as it exists, both -its beauty and its horror, its joy and its sorrow; -it wishes to see it all; not the prince -<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>and the millionaire alone, but the laborer -and the beggar, the master and the slave. -We see the beautiful and the ugly, and with -it know what the world is and what it ought -to be; and the true picture, which the author -saw and painted, stirs the heart to holier feelings -and to grander thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is from the realities of life that the highest -idealities are born. The philosopher -may reason with unerring logic, and show us -where the world is wrong. The economist -may tell us of the progress and poverty that -go hand in hand; but these are theories, and -the abstract cannot suffer pain. Dickens -went out into the streets of the great city -and found poor little Jo sweeping the crossing -with his broom. All around was the -luxury and the elegance, which the rich have -ever appropriated to themselves; great mansions, -fine carriages, beautiful dresses, but in -all the great city of houses and homes, poor -little Jo could find no place to lay his head. -His home was in the street, and every time -he halted for a moment in the throng, the -policeman touched him with his club and -bade him “move on.” At last, ragged, -wretched, almost dead with “moving on,” -he sank down upon the cold stone steps of a -magnificent building erected for “The Propagation -<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.” -As we think of wretched, ragged Jo in the -midst of all this luxury and wealth, we see -the tens of thousands of other waifs in the -great cities of the world, and we condemn -the so-called civilization of the earth that -builds the mansions of the rich and great -upon the rags and miseries of the poor.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The true realist cannot worship at the -shrine of power, nor prostitute his gifts for -gold. With an artist’s eye he sees the world -exactly as it is, and tells the story faithful -unto life. He feels for every heart that -beats, else he could not paint them as he -does. It takes the soul to warm a statue into -life and make living flesh and coursing -blood, and each true picture that he paints -or draws makes the world a better place in -which to live.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The artists of the realistic school have a -sense so fine that they cannot help but catch -the inspiration that is filling all the world’s -best minds with the hope of greater justice -and more equal social life. With the vision -of the seer they feel the coming dawn when -true equality shall reign upon the earth; the -time when democracy shall no more be confined -to constitutions and to laws, but will be -a part of human life. The greatest artists -<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>of the world to-day are telling facts and -painting scenes that cause humanity to stop, -and think, and ask why one should be a -master and another be a serf; why a portion -of the world should toil and spin, should -wear away its strength and life, that the rest -should live in idleness and ease.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old-time artists thought they served -humanity by painting saints and madonnas -and angels from the myths they conjured in -their brains. They painted war with long -lines of soldiers dressed in uniforms, and -looking plump and gay; and a battle scene -was always drawn from the side of the victorious -camp, with the ensign proudly planting -his bright colors on the rampart of the -foe. One or two were dying, but always in -their comrades’ arms, and listening to shouts -of victory that filled the air, and thinking of -the righteous cause for which they fought -and died. In the last moments they dreamed -of pleasant burial yards at home, and of -graves kept green by loving, grateful friends; -and a smile of joy shone on their wasted -faces that was so sweet, that it seemed a hardship -not to die in war. They painted peace -as a white winged dove settling down upon -a cold and fading earth. Between the two -it was plain which choice a boy would make, -and thus art served the state and king.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>But Verestchagin painted war; he painted -war so true to life that as we look upon the -scene, we long for peace. He painted war -as war has ever been, and as war will ever -be—a horrible and ghastly scene, where -men, drunk with blind frenzy which rulers -say is patriotic pride, and made mad by -drums and fifes and smoke and shot and -shell and flowing blood, seek to maim and -wound and kill, because a ruler gives the -word. He paints a battle field, a field of life -and death; a field of carnage and of blood; -and who are these that fight like fiends and -devils driven to despair? What cause is -this that makes these men forget that they -are men, and vie with beasts to show their -cruel thirst for blood? They shout of home -and native land, but they have no homes, -and the owners of their native land exist -upon their toil and blood. The nobles and -princes, for whom this fight is waged, are -far away upon a hill, beyond the reach of -shot and shell, and from this spot they watch -their slaves pour out their blood to satisfy -their rulers’ pride and lust of power. What -is the enemy they fight? Men like themselves; -who blindly go to death at another -king’s command, slaves, who have no land, -who freely give their toil or blood, whichever -<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>one their rulers may demand. These -fighting soldiers have no cause for strife, -but their rulers live by kindling in their -hearts a love of native land, a love that -makes them hate their brother laborers of -other lands, and dumbly march to death to -satisfy a king’s caprice. But let us look -once more after the battle has been fought. -Here we see the wreck and ruin of the strife; -the field is silent now, given to the dead, -the beast of prey and night. A young soldier -lies upon the ground; the snow is falling -fast around his form; the lonely mountain -peaks rise up on every side; the wreck of -war is all about. His uniform is soiled and -stained, a spot of red is seen upon his breast. -It is not the color that his country wove -upon his coat to catch his eye and bait him -to his death; it is hard and jagged and cold. -It is his life’s blood, which leaked out -through a hole that followed the point of a -sabre to his heart. His form is stiff and -cold, for he is dead. The cruel wound and -icy air have done their work. The government -that took his life taught this poor boy -to love his native land; as a child he dreamed -of scenes of glory and of power, and the -great wide world just waiting to fall captive -to his magic strength. He dreamed of war -<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>and strife, of victory and fame; if he should -die, kind hands would smooth his brow, and -loving friends would keep his grave and -memory green, because he died in war. But -no human eye is there at last, as the mist of -night and mist of death shut out the lonely -mountains from his sight. The snow is all -around, and the air above is grey with falling -flakes, which soon will hide him from the -world; and when the summer time shall -come again, no one can tell his bleaching -bones from all the rest. The only life upon -the scene is the buzzard slowly circling in -the air above his head, waiting to make sure -that death has come. The bird looks down -upon the boy, into the eyes through which -he first looked out upon the great, wide -world, and which his mother fondly kissed; -upon these eyes the buzzard will commence -his meal.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Not all the world is beautiful, and not all -of life is good. The true artist has no right -to choose the lovely spots alone and make -us think that this is life. He must bring the -world before our eyes and make us read and -learn. As he loves the true and noble, he -must show the false and bad. As he yearns -for true equality, he must paint the master -and the slave. He must tell the truth, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>tell it all, must tell it o’er and o’er again, till -the deafest ear will listen and the dullest -mind will think. He must not swerve to -please the world by painting only pleasant -sights and telling only lovely tales. He -must think, and paint, and write, and work, -until the world shall learn so much and grow -so good, that the true will all be beautiful -and all the real be ideal.</p> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_135.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span></div> -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='lg-container-b c003'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>THE · SKELETON</div> - <div class='line'>IN · THE · CLOSET</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_137.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span> - <h2 class='c004'>THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET</h2> -</div> - -<div class='c008'> - <img class='drop-capi' src='images/i_139di.jpg' width='100' alt='' /> -</div><p class='drop-capi_8'> -The closet has so long been -allotted to the skeleton that -we have come to regard this -room as its fit and natural -home; it has been given over -to this guest because it is the -darkest, the closest and least -conspicuous in the house. The door can be -securely fastened and only now and then can -the grating bones be heard by the world -outside. Still, however secluded and unused -this guest chamber seems to be, and however -carefully we bolt the door and darken -every chink and crevice in the walls, we are -ever conscious that the occupant is there, -and will remain until the house is closed, -and the last tenant has departed, never to -return. The very fact that we try so hard -to keep the skeleton in its proper room, -makes it the more impossible to forget that -it is there. Now and then we awake with a -start at the thought of what might happen -should it break the door and wander through -the house, and then stray out into the wide -world, and tell all the peaceful, trusting -neighbors from what house it stole away; -and yet we are somehow conscious that the -rumor of its dread presence has already -<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>traveled as far as we are known. Man is a -wonderfully adaptable animal; he fits himself -easily into the environment where he is -placed. He passes from infancy to childhood -and from childhood to boyhood as -smoothly as the placid river flows to the -waiting sea. Every circumstance and surrounding -of his life seems to have been made -for him. Suddenly a new desire takes possession -of his soul; he turns his back on the -home of his childhood days and goes out -alone. In a little time a new family is reared -about him, and he forgets the group that -clustered round his father’s hearth. He -may lose a leg or a fortune, and he soon -conforms to his changed condition and life -goes on as naturally and as easily as before. -A child is born beneath his roof; it takes a -place within his heart and home, and in a -little while he can scarcely think of the day -it was not there. Death comes, and a member -of his little band is carried out, but time -drops its healing balm upon the wounds and -life goes on almost unconscious that the -dead has ever lived. But while we adjust -ourselves naturally to all things living and to -ever varying scenes, the skeleton in the -closet is always an intruder, no matter how -long it may have dwelt beneath the roof. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Even though we may forget its actual presence -for a little time, still no scene is so perfect -and no enjoyment so great but we feel -a cloud casting its shadow across our happiness -or the weight of some burden on our -soul; and when we stop to ask the cause, -the grinning skeleton reminds us that it is -with us even here.</p> - -<p class='c000'>This specter stands quite apart from the -other sorrows of our life; age seems powerless -to forget, and time will not bring its -ever-fresh, recurring scenes to erase the -memory of the past. This is not because -the skeleton is really such a dreadful guest. -The kind and loving ivy creeps tenderly -around each yawning scar and crumbling -stone, until the whole ruin is covered with -a lovely green. The decaying pile stands -free and open to the sun and rain and air. -It does not hide its head or apologize for -the blemishes and seams that mark its face, -and a kind, forgiving nature takes the ruin, -scars and all, and blends these with her -softening years and lovely face into a beautiful -harmonious whole; but unlike the ruin, -the skeleton in the closet is a neglected, -outcast child. With every breath we insist -that there is nothing in the room. We refuse -to take it to our hearts and homes and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>acknowledge it as our own. We seek to -strangle it to death, and each fresh attempt -not only shows our murderous design, but -proves that the skeleton is not a pulseless -thing but is endowed with immortal life. -The brighter the fire-light that glows around -our hearth, the more desolate and drear -sounds the wail of the wind outside, for -through its cold blasts wanders the outcast, -whose rightful place is in the brightest corner -of the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Our constant annoyance and sorrow at this -dread presence is not caused by the way the -skeleton behaves to us, but from the way we -treat our guest. If we looked it squarely in -its grinning skull, it might not seem so very -loathsome to the sight. It has the right to -grin. It may be but a grim smile over the -consciousness that it has sounded the last -sorrow and that henceforth no greater evils -are in store; it may be a mocking, sardonic -grin at the thought of our discomfiture over -its unwelcome presence and the knowledge -that we cannot drive it out.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There is no truer index to real character -than the way we treat the skeletons with -which we live. Some run to the closet door, -and try to lock it fast when a neighbor comes -their way. If perchance any fear of discovery -<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>is felt, they stand guard outside and -solemnly protest that there is nothing in the -room. Their anxiety and haste plainly show -fear lest their hated guest shall reveal its -face; and of course there rises in the neighbor’s -mind a vision of a skeleton more horrible -by far than the one inside the door or -than anyone can be. If the luckless jailer -really fears that the rattle of the prisoner’s -bones has been heard outside, he feels it his -duty to carefully explain or tediously cover -up every detail and circumstance that caused -the presence of the specter in the house. -All this can only show that the guest is terrible -to behold or that the jailer is so poor -and weak that he himself is a helpless -prisoner to his foolish pride and unmanly -fear. It can only serve to emphasize the -presence he tries so vainly to deny. There -are also those who know that their skeleton -has been seen, or who having lost all else -but this persistent, grinning guest, drag it -out and parade it in the world to gain the -sympathy or the money of their neighbors and -their friends, like the crippled beggar standing -on the corner holding out his hat to every -passer-by. The true man neither guiltily -conceals nor anxiously explains nor vulgarly -parades. He lives his life the best he can, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>and lets it stand for what it is. A thousand -idle tales may be true or false. One may -have seen but certain things, and placed -him with the saints. Another little soul, -who never felt the breadth and depth of human -life, may have seen his scars alone, and -cast him out. But standing by his side, or -clasping his strong, sympathetic hand, no -one thinks of halos or scars or asks an explanation -of this or that, for in his whole -being is felt the divine presence of a great -soul, who has lived and loved, sinned and -suffered, and been strengthened and purified -by all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The skeleton is really kind that it only -grins as we look it in the face. Of all our -household it has received the hardest treatment -at our hands. It has helped us more -than any of the rest, and been locked in the -closet for its pains. It may perchance have -come at our own invitation, bringing us the -keenest, wildest joy our life had ever known. -We gladly drained the pleasure to the dregs, -and then coolly locked the memory close in -the darkest hole that we could find. The day -it came, has well nigh faded from our minds, -and the mad, wild joy we knew can never -more be wakened from the burned-out passions -of the past, but the skeleton, which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>rose up grim and ghastly from the dying -flame, remains to mock and jeer and make -us sad. And now when the day is spent and -the cup is drained, we charge the poor -specter with our lasting pain, and forget the -joy it brought. We look with dread at these -mocking, grinning bones, which we cannot -drive away, and we forget the time, long, -long ago, when those dry sticks were covered -up with beautiful and tempting flesh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It may be that we shall always shudder as -we hear the rattle of the bones when we -pass the closet door, but in justice to the inmate, -we should give him credit for the joys -of long ago. And this brings us back to the -old question of the balancing of pain and -pleasure, good and evil, right and wrong. -It may be that in the mysterious adjustment -of nature’s balances, a moment of supreme -bliss will outweigh an eternity of pain. In -the infinite economy, which life counted for -the more,—that of Napoleon, or the poor -French peasant that passed through an obscure -existence to an unknown grave? The -brief glory of Austerlitz was followed by the -bitterness of Waterloo, and the long silence -of an exile’s life, while the peasant trod his -short path without ambition, and filled a -nameless grave without regret. Which is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>the greater and finer, the blameless life of -the patient brute, or the winding, devious -path of a human soul? It is only the dull -level that brings no sorrow or regret. It is -a sterile soil where no weeds will grow, and -a bare closet where no skeleton will dwell.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Neither should we remember the skeleton -only for the joy it brought; from the day it -came, it has been the greatest benefactor that -our life has known. When the mad delirium -had passed away, and the last lingering fragrance -was almost spent, this despised skeleton -remained as the sole companion, whose -presence should forever bind us back to those -feelings that were fresh and true and straight -from nature’s heart, and that world which -once was green and young and filled with -pulsing life. As the shadows gather round -our head, and our once-straying feet fall mechanically -into the narrow path so straight -and even at the farther end, we may shudder -now and then at the thought of the grim -skeleton whose life is so far removed from -our sober later selves; but with the shudder -comes a spark, a flash of that great, natural -light and heat that once possessed this tottering -frame, and gave a glow of feeling and a -strength of purpose so deep and all-controlling -that the artificial life of an artificial world -seems no more than a dim candle shining -by the glorious sun.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>It is the exhausted emotions of age, which -men call prudence, that are ever warning -youth of the follies of its sins. It is the grinning -skeleton, speaking truly from the memory -of other days, that insists that life’s morning -held the halcyon hours. Does old age -outlive the follies of childhood or does the -man outgrow the wisdom of youth? The -most vociferous preachers are often those -whose natural spirits have led them to drink -the deepest of life. They are so foolish as -to think that others can be taught by their -experiences, and mumbling grey-beards endorse -the excellence and wisdom of the sermons -that they preach. They are not wise -enough to know that their prattle is more -vain and foolish than the babblings of their -childhood days. It was the growing, vital -sap of life that made them children years -ago; it is the icy, palsying touch of age that -makes them babbling, preaching children -once again. As well might the calm and -placid lake teach the beauty of repose to the -boiling, seething cataract, that thunders down -Niagara’s gulf. When the troubled waters -shall have reached the lake they shall be -placid too. Nature is wiser far than man. -She makes the first childhood precede the -second. If the age of prudence came with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>youth, it would be a dull and prosy world -for a little time; then life would be extinct -upon the earth and death triumphant over -all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But these are the smallest reasons why we -should venerate the neglected skeleton, -which we have ruthlessly cast into the closet -as if it were a hideous thing. This uncanny -skeleton, ever thrusting its unwelcome bones -into our presence and our lives, has been the -most patient, persistent, constant teacher -that all our years have known. We look -backward through the long dim vista of the -past, back to the little trusting child that -once nestled on its mother’s breast and from -whose loving lips and gentle soul it first was -told of life, its temptations and its sins; -backward to her, whose whole thought was -a benediction to the life that was once a portion -of herself. We remember still this -mother’s words teaching us the way to live -and telling us the way to die. We always -knew that no selfish thought inspired a -single word she said and yet time and time -again we strayed and wandered from the -path she pointed out. We could not keep -the road and after while we did not try. -Again our teacher told us of the path. He, -too, was good and kind and knew the way -<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>we ought to go, and showed us all the bad -results of sin, and still we stumbled on. The -preacher came and told us of the beauteous -heaven, straight at the other end of the narrow -path, and the yawning gulf of hell to -which our shifting footsteps led; but we -heeded not his solemn tones, though they -seemed to come with the authority of God -himself. As the years went on, our mother’s -voice was stilled, the teacher’s words were -hushed, the preacher’s threats became an -empty, hollow sound; and in their place -came the grinning skeleton, born of our own -desires and deeds; less loving than the gentle -mother, more real and life-like than the -teacher, saner and truer than the preacher’s -idle words. It was ever present and persistent; -it was a portion of our very selves.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We detested and feared the hated thing; -we locked it in the closet, and denied that it -was there; but through the brightness of the -day and the long and silent watches of the -night, we heard its rattling bones, and felt its -presence at our side. No teacher of our -youth was like that grim and ghastly skeleton, -which we tried to hide away. The -schoolmaster of our early life took our fresh, -young, plastic minds and sought to crowd -them full of useless, unrelated facts that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>served no purpose through the years that -were to come. These lessons that our -teacher made us learn by rote filled so small -a portion of our daily lives that most of them -were forgotten when the school-house door -was closed. When now and then we found -some use for a trifling thing that we had -learned through years at school, we were -surprised to know that the pedagogue had -taught us even this. In those early days it -seemed to us that life would consist of one -long examination in which we should be -asked the names of states, the rule of three, -and the words the Romans used for this and -that. All that we were taught of the great -world outside and the problem that would -one day try our souls, was learned from the -copy books where we wrote the same old -maxim until all the paper was used up. In -after years, we learned that, while the copy -book might have taught us how to write in -a stilted, unused hand, still all its maxims -were untrue.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We left the school as ignorant of life as we -commenced, nay, we might more easily have -learned its lesson without the false, misleading -theories we were taught were true. When -the doors were opened and the wide world -met us face to face, we tested what we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>learned, and found it false, and then we -blundered on alone. We were taught by life -that the fire and vigor of our younger years -could not be governed by the platitudes of -age. Nature was ever present with her -strong and earthly grasp, her keen desires, -her white hot flame. We learned the precepts -of the books, but we lived the life that -nature taught.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Our pathetic blunders and mistakes, and -the skeleton that followed in their wake, remained -to teach us what was false and point -to what was true. This grim, persistent -teacher made but little of the unimportant -facts that the schoolmaster sought to make -us learn, and it laughed to scorn the preacher’s -doctrine, that in some way we could -avoid the results of our mistakes and sins. -It did not preach, it took its place beside us -as another self and by its presence sought -to make us know that we could not be at -peace until we clasped it to our breast and -freely accepted the unwelcome thing as a -portion of our lives.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Only the smallest fraction that we learned -in youth was assimilated and made a portion -of ourselves; the rest faded so completely -that it seemed never to have been. The -teacher soon became a dim, uncertain memory -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>of the past, whose voice had long since -died away; but the skeleton in the closet -never wearied nor grew old. It ever made -us learn again the lesson we would fain forget; -opened at each succeeding period of -our lives the pages we would gladly put away, -until, at last, the ripening touch of time and -the specter’s constant presence made us -know. From the day it came beneath our -roof, it remained the liveliest, wisest, most -persistent member of the family group, the -tireless, watchful teacher, who would neither -sleep nor allow its pupil to forget.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It may be that there are lives so barren -and uneventful that this guest passes ever -by their door, but unfortunate indeed is that -abode where it will not dwell. The wide -vistas can be seen only from the mountain -top, and the infinite depths of life can be -sounded only by the soul that has been -softened and hallowed by the sanctifying -touch of misery and sin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Life is a never-ending school, and the -really important lessons all tend to teach man -his proper relation to the environment where -he must live. With wild ambitions and desires -untamed, we are spawned out into a -shoreless sea of moving molecules of life, -each separate atom journeying on an unknown -<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>course, regardless of the countless -other lives it meets as it blindly rushes on; -no lights nor headlands stand to point the -proper way the voyager should take, he is -left to sail an untried bark across an angry -sea. If no disaster should befall, it does -not show that the traveler is wise or good, -but that his ambitions and desires are few -or he has kept close inside the harbor line. -At first we seek to swim the flood, to scale -the rocky heights, to clutch the twinkling -stars. Of course we fail and fall, and the -scars our passions and ambitions leave, remain, -though all our particles are made -anew year after year. We learn at last to -leave the stars to shine where they belong, -to take all things as they are and adjust our -lives to what must be.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The philosophy of life can come only from -those experiences that leave lasting scars and -results that will not die. Rather than seek -to cover up these gaping wounds, we should -accept with grace the tales they tell, and -show them as trophies of the strife we have -passed through. Those scars are honorable -that have brought our lives into greater harmony -with the universal power. For resist -it as we will, this infinite, loving presence -will ever claim us as a portion of its self until -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>our smallest fragments return once more to -earth, and are united with the elements from -which we came.</p> - -<p class='c000'>No life can be rounded and complete without -the education that the skeleton alone -can give. Until it came we never knew the -capacities of the human soul. We had learned -by rote to be forgiving, kind and true. But -the anguish of the human soul cannot be -told—it must be felt or never known. That -charity born of true comradeship, which is -the highest and holiest sentiment of life, can -be taught by the skeleton alone. The self-righteous, -who prate of forgiveness to their -fellow men and who look down upon their -sinning brothers from above, are hypocrites -or fools. They either have not lived or else -desire to pass for something they are not. -No one can understand the devious, miry -paths trodden by another soul unless he himself -has wandered through the night.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Those placid, human lives that have -moved along a narrow, even path; that -learned by rote the lessons that the churches -and the schools have ever taught; whose perfection -consists in refraining from doing -certain things in certain ways; who never -had a noble thought or felt a great desire to -help their fellow men—those blameless, aimless, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>worthless souls, are neither good nor -bad. They neither feel nor think; no -skeleton would deem it worth its while to -come inside their door.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The world judges the conduct of youth by -the standards of age. Even when due allowance -is made for the inexperience and -haste of the young, it is assumed that youth -and age are measured by the calendar alone. -Few have ever been wise enough to know -that every passion and circumstance must -be fully weighed, before an honest verdict -can be written down; and that therefore only -the infinite can judge a human soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Though accursed, doubted, and despised, -Nature ever persists in her relentless plan. -She would make us learn the lessons that -youth so easily forgets. She finds us headstrong, -unreasoning, and moved by the same -feelings that sway the brute. She decrees -that every act, however blind or wilful, -must leave its consequences on our lives, -and these immortal consequences we treat -as skeletons and lock them up. But these -uncanny specters wrap us closely in their -bony arms; they ever peer with sightless -eyes into our soul; they are with us if we -sleep or wake, and their persistent presence -will not let us sleep. It is the hated, imprisoned -<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>skeleton that we vainly sought to -hide away, that takes an untamed, fiery soul -within its cruel, loving clasp, and holds it -closely in its unforgiving grasp until the vain -longings and wild desires of youth are subdued, -and cooled, and the deeper harmonies -of life are learned. It is the hated skeleton -that finds within our breast a heart of -flint and takes this hard and pulseless thing -and scars and twists and melts it in a -thousand tortuous ways until the stony mass -is purged and softened and is sensitive to -every touch.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is this same despised skeleton that finds -us vain and boastful and critical of others’ -sins, that watches every word we speak and -even each unuttered thought; it is with us -when we tightly draw our robes and pass our -fellow on the other side; it hears us when -we seek to show how good we are by boasting -of our neighbor’s sins; for every spot of -black or red that we see upon another’s robes, -it points its bony fingers to a scar upon our -heart, to remind us that we are like the rest; -and the same finger ever points us to our -wounds until we feel and understand that -the clay the Master used for us was as weak -and poor as that from which he made the -rest.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>However blind and stubborn we may be, -however long we deny the lesson that the -skeleton would teach, still it will not let us -go until with perfect peace and harmony we -look at all the present and the past, at all -that was, and all that is, and feel no regrets -for what is gone, and no fears for what must -come. It may be that our stubborn, stiffnecked -soul will still persist until the hair is -white and the heavy shadows hang about our -heads, but the skeleton with his soothing, -softening ally, time, sits with the last watchers -at our suffering bed, and goes if need -be, to the silent grave, where alike the darkest -crimson spot and the softest, purest clay -are reunited once again with the loving, universal -mother who has forgiven all and conquered -all. It matters not how high we -seem to climb, or what the careless world -may think for good or ill. It matters not -how many small ambitions we may seem to -have achieved. Even the unworthy cannot -be forever soothed by the hollow voice of -fame. All triumphs are futile without the -victory over self; and when the triumph -over self is won, there are no more battles -to be fought, for all the world is then at -peace. It is the skeleton in the closet pointing -ever to the mistakes and maladjustments -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>of our past, the skeleton standing there -before our gaze that makes us still remember -where our lives fell short; that teaches -us so slowly but so surely to turn from the -unworthy victories and the dire defeats of -life to the mastery of ourselves. It is the -skeleton from whom we learn that we can -live without the world, but not without -ourselves.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Without the skeleton we could never feel -another’s sorrow, or know another’s pain. -Philosophy and theology cannot tell us how -another’s life became a hopeless wreck. It -is ourselves alone that reveals the precipice -along which every footpath leads. It is -from life we learn that it is but an accident -when we fall, and equally an accident when -we keep the path. The pupil of the schools -may look down with pitying glance upon -the unfortunate victim of what seems to be -his sin. He may point to a love that will -forgive and kindly plead with him to take -another path, but the wayfarer that the skeleton -has taught will clasp this fellow mortal -to his heart, for in his face he sees but the -reflection of himself. The wise and good -may forgive the evil and the wrong, but -only the sinner knows that there is no sin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The charity that is born of life and sin is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>not fine because of its effect on some one -else, but for what it does for us. True -charity is only the sense of the kinship of -all living things. This is the charity that -neither humiliates nor offends. It is the -sense that brings a new meaning to life and -a new purpose to the soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Let us do simple justice to this neglected, -outcast guest, the useful, faithful teacher of -our lives. Let us open the closet door, and -let the skeleton come out, and lock the -schoolmaster in its place. Let us leave this -faithful friend to roam freely at its will. Let -us look it squarely in the face with neither -fear or shame, but with gratitude for the lessons -it has taught. It may be that the jeering -crowd will point in scorn as they see us with -the grewsome figure at our side, but when -we fully learn the lesson that it came to teach, -we shall need to look no more without for -the approval or disapproval of our acts, but -seek to satisfy ourselves alone. Let us place -a new chair beside the hearth, in the cosiest -nook, and bid the skeleton take its place as -the worthiest guest. Let us neither parade -nor hide our new-found friend, but treat it -as a fact of life—a fact that is, a fact that had -the right to be, and a fact that taught us how -to find ourselves. Let us not forget the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>parents, who watch us in our youth, and the -friends that were ever good and true. But -above all, let us remember this grim and -silent teacher, who never neglected or forgot, -who showed us life as only it could show, -who opened up new vistas to our soul, who -touched our human hearts, who made us -know and love our fellowman, who softened -and mellowed and purified our souls until -we felt the kinship that we bore to all living -things. Until it came we knew only the -surface of the world. Before it came, we -had tasted of the shallow cup of joy and the -bitter cup of pain, but we needed this to -teach us from the anguish of the soul that -there is a depth profound and great, where -pain and pleasure both are one. That there -is a life so deep and true that earth’s rewards -and penalties alike are but a hollow show; -that there is a conquest of ourselves, which -brings perfect peace and perfect rest.</p> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_160.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span> -<img src='images/i_161.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>PRINTED FOR C. L. RICKETTS -BY R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS -COMPANY, AT THE LAKESIDE -PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. MCMII</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c002' /> -</div> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c004'>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</h2> -</div> - <ol class='ol_1 c011'> - <li>Silently corrected typographical errors. - - </li> - <li>Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - </li> - </ol> - -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Persian Pearl and Other Essays, by -Clarence S. 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