Part 30

For it is good that it be thus, and for five or six hundred years this it is that has made the greatness not only of European literature, but of Western civilization itself; I mean that which all the great nations, after slowly elaborating it, as it were, in their national isolation, have afterwards deposited in the common treasury of the human race. Thus, to this one we owe the sense of mystery, and we might say the revelation of what is beautiful, in that which remains obscure and cannot be grasped. To another we owe the sense of art, and what may be called the appreciation of the power of form. A third one has handed to us what was most heroic in the conception of chivalrous honor. And to another, finally, we owe it that we know what is both most ferocious and noblest, most wholesome and most to be feared, in human pride. The share that belongs to us Frenchmen was, in the meanwhile, to bind, to fuse together, and as it were to unify under the idea of the general society of mankind, the contradictory and even hostile elements that may have existed in all that. No matter whether our inventions and ideas were, by their origin, Latin or Romance, Celtic or Gallic, Germanic even, if you please, the whole of Europe had borrowed them from us in order to adapt them to the genius of its different races. Before re-admitting them in our turn, before adopting them after they had been thus transformed, we asked only that they should be able to serve the progress of reason and of humanity. What was troublous in them we clarified; what was corrupting we corrected; what was local we generalized; what was excessive we brought down to the proportions of mankind. Have we not sometimes also lessened their grandeur and altered their purity? If Corneille has undoubtedly brought nearer to us the still somewhat barbaric heroes of Guillem de Castro, La Fontaine, when imitating the author of the Decameron, has made him more indecent than he is in his own language; and if the Italians have no right to assail Molière for borrowing somewhat from them, the English may well complain that Voltaire failed to understand Shakespeare. But it is true none the less that in disengaging from the particular man of the North or the South this idea of a universal man, for which we have been so often reviled,--if any one of the modern literatures has breathed in its entirety the spirit of the public weal and of civilization, it is the literature of France. And this ideal cannot possibly be as empty as has too often been asserted; since, as I endeavored to show, from Lisbon to Stockholm and from Archangel to Naples, it is its manifestations that foreigners have loved to come across in the masterpieces, or better, in the whole sequence of the history of our literature.

GIORDANO BRUNO

(1548-1600)

Fillippo Bruno, known as Giordano Bruno, was born at Nola, near Naples, in 1548. This was eight years after the death of Copernicus, whose system he eagerly espoused, and ten years before the birth of Bacon, with whom he associated in England. Of an ardent, poetic temperament, he entered the Dominican order in Naples at the early age of sixteen, doubtless attracted to conventual life by the opportunities of study it offered to an eager intellect. Bruno had been in the monastery nearly thirteen years when he was accused of heresy in attacking some of the dogmas of the Church. He fled first to Rome and then to Northern Italy, where he wandered about for three seasons from city to city, teaching and writing. In 1579 he arrived at Geneva, then the stronghold of the Calvinists. Coming into conflict with the authorities there on account of his religious opinions, he was thrown into prison. He escaped and went to Toulouse, at that time the literary centre of Southern France, where he lectured for a year on Aristotle. His restless spirit, however, drove him on to Paris. Here he was made professor extraordinary at the Sorbonne.

Although his teachings were almost directly opposed to the philosophic tenets of the time, attacking the current dogmas, and Aristotle, the idol of the schoolmen, yet such was the power of Bruno's eloquence and the charm of his manner that crowds flocked to his lecture-room, and he became one of the most popular foreign teachers the university had known. Under pretense of expounding the writings of Thomas Aquinas, he set forth his own philosophy. He also spoke much on the art of memory, amplifying the writings of Raymond Lully; and these principles, formulated by the monk of the thirteenth century and taken up again by the free-thinkers of the sixteenth, are the basis of all the present-day mnemonics.

But Bruno went even further. He attracted the attention of King Henry III. of France, who in 1583 introduced him to the French ambassador to England, Castelnuovo di Manvissière. Going to London, he spent three years in the family of this nobleman, more as friend than dependent. They were the happiest, or at least the most restful years of his stormy life. England was just then entering on the glorious epoch of her Elizabethan literature. Bruno came into the brilliant court circles, meeting even the Queen, who cordially welcomed all men of culture, especially the Italians. The astute monk reciprocated her good-will by paying her the customary tribute of flattery. He won the friendship of Sir Philip Sidney, to whom he dedicated two of his books, and enjoyed the acquaintance of Spenser, Sir Fulke Greville, Dyer, Harvey, Sir William Temple, Bacon, and other wits and poets of the day.

At that time--somewhere about 1580--Shakespeare was still serving his apprenticeship as playwright, and had perhaps less claim on the notice of the observant foreigner than his elder contemporaries. London was still a small town, where the news of the day spread rapidly, and where, no doubt, strangers were as eagerly discussed as they are now within narrow town limits. Bruno's daring speculations could not remain the exclusive property of his own coterie. And as Shakespeare had the faculty of absorbing all new ideas afloat in the air, he would hardly have escaped the influence of the teacher who proclaimed in proud self-confidence that he was come to arouse men out of their theological stagnation. His influence on Bacon is more evident, because of their friendly associations. Bruno lectured at Oxford, but the English university found less favor in his eyes than English court life. Pedantry had indeed set its fatal mark on scholarship, not only on the Continent but in England. Aristotle was still the god of the pedants of that age, and dissent from his teaching was heavily punished, for the dry dust of learning blinded the eyes of the scholastics to new truths.

Bruno, the knight-errant of these truths, devoted all his life to scourging pedantry, and dissented _in toto_ from the idol of the schools. No wonder he and Oxford did not agree together. He wittily calls her "the widow of sound learning," and again, "a constellation of pedantic, obstinate ignorance and presumption, mixed with a clownish incivility that would tax the patience of Job." He lashed the shortcomings of English learning in 'La Cena delle Ceneri' (Ash Wednesday Conversation). But Bruno's roving spirit, and perhaps also his heterodox tendencies, drove him at last from England, and for the next five years he roamed about Germany, leading the life of the wandering scholars of the time, always involved in conflicts and controversies with the authorities, always antagonistic to public opinion. Flying in the face of the most cherished traditions, he underwent the common experience of all prophets: the minds he was bent on awakening refused to be aroused.

Finally he was invited by Zuone Mocenigo of Venice to teach him the higher and secret learning. The Venetian supposed that Bruno, with more than human erudition, possessed the art of conveying knowledge into the heads of dullards. Disappointed in this expectation, he quarreled with his teacher, and in a spirit of revenge picked out of Bruno's writings a mass of testimony sufficient to convict him of heresy. This he turned over to the Inquisitor at Venice, Bruno was arrested, convicted, and sent to the Inquisition in Rome. When called upon there to recant, he replied, "I ought not to recant, and I will not recant." He was accordingly confined in prison for seven years, then sentenced to death. On hearing the warrant he said, "It may be that you fear more to deliver this judgment than I to bear it." On February 17th, 1600, he was burned at the stake in the Campo de' Fiori at Rome. He remained steadfast to the end, saying, "I die a martyr, and willingly." His ashes were cast into the Tiber. Two hundred and fifty-nine years afterwards, his statue was unveiled on the very spot where he suffered; and the Italian government is bringing out (1896) the first complete edition, the 'National Edition,' of his works.

In their substance Bruno's writings belong to philosophy rather than to literature, although they are still interesting both historically and biographically as an index of the character of the man and of the temper of the time. Many of the works have either perished or are hidden away in inaccessible archives. For two hundred years they were tabooed, and as late as 1836 forbidden to be shown in the public library of Dresden. He published twenty-five works in Latin and Italian, and left many others incomplete, for in all his wanderings he was continually writing. The eccentric titles show his desire to attract attention: as 'The Work of the Great Key,' 'The Exploration of the Thirty Seals,' etc. The first extant work is 'Il Candelajo' (The Taper), a comedy which in its license of language and manner vividly reflects the time. In the dedication he discloses his philosophy: 'Time takes away everything and gives everything.' The 'Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante' (Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast), the most celebrated of his works, is an attack on the superstitions of the day, a curious medley of learning, imagination, and buffoonery. 'Degl' Eroici Furori' (The Heroic Enthusiasts) is the most interesting to modern readers, and in its majestic exaltation and poetic imagery is a true product of Italian culture.

Bruno was evidently a man of vast intellect and of immense erudition. His philosophic speculations comprehended not only the ancient thought, and that current at his time, but also reached out toward the future and the results of modern science. He perceived some of the facts which were later formulated in the theory of evolution. "The mind of man differs from that of lower animals and of plants not in quality but only in quantity.... Each individual is the resultant of innumerable individuals. Each species is the Starting point for the next.... No individual is the same to-day as yesterday."

Not only in this divination of coming truths is he modern, but also in his methods of investigation. Reason was to him the guide to truth. In a study of him Lewes says:--"Bruno was a true Neapolitan child--as ardent as its soil ... as capricious as its varied climate. There was a restless energy which fitted him to become the preacher of a new crusade--urging him to throw a haughty defiance in the face of every authority in every country,--an energy which closed his wild adventurous career at the stake." He was distinguished also by a rich fancy, a varied humor, and a chivalrous gallantry, which constantly remind us that the intellectual athlete is an Italian, and an Italian of the sixteenth century.

A DISCOURSE OF POETS

From 'The Heroic Enthusiasts'

_Cicada_--Say, what do you mean by those who vaunt themselves of myrtle and laurel?

_Tansillo_--Those may and do boast of the myrtle who sing of love: if they bear themselves nobly, they may wear a crown of that plant consecrated to Venus, of which they know the potency. Those may boast of the laurel who sing worthily of things pertaining to heroes, substituting heroic souls for speculative and moral philosophy, praising them and setting them as mirrors and exemplars for political and civil actions.

_Cicada_--There are then many species of poets and crowns?

_Tansillo_--Not only as many as there are Muses, but a great many more; for although genius is to be met with, yet certain modes and species of human ingenuity cannot be thus classified.

_Cicada_--There are certain schoolmen who barely allow Homer to be a poet, and set down Virgil, Ovid, Martial, Hesiod, Lucretius, and many others as versifiers, judging them by the rules of poetry of Aristotle.

_Tansillo_--Know for certain, my brother, that such as these are beasts. They do not consider that those rules serve principally as a frame for the Homeric poetry, and for other similar to it; and they set up one as a great poet, high as Homer, and disallow those of other vein and art and enthusiasm, who in their various kinds are equal, similar, or greater.

_Cicada_--So that Homer was not a poet who depended upon rules, but was the cause of the rules which serve for those who are more apt at imitation than invention, and they have been used by him who, being no poet, yet knew how to take the rules of Homeric poetry into service, so as to become, not a poet or a Homer, but one who apes the Muse of others?

_Tansillo_--Thou dost well conclude that poetry is not born in rules, or only slightly and accidentally so: the rules are derived, from the poetry, and there are as many kinds and sorts of true rules as there are kinds and sorts of true poets.

_Cicada_--How then are the true poets to be known?

_Tansillo_--By the singing of their verses: in that singing they give delight, or they edify, or they edify and delight together.

_Cicada_--To whom then are the rules of Aristotle useful?

_Tansillo_--To him who, unlike Homer, Hesiod, Orpheus, and others, could not sing without the rules of Aristotle, and who, having no Muse of his own, would coquette with that of Homer.

_Cicada_--Then they are wrong, those stupid pedants of our days, who exclude from the number of poets those who do not use words and metaphors conformable to, or whose principles are not in union with, those of Homer and Virgil; or because they do not observe the custom of invocation, or because they weave one history or tale with another, or because they finish the song with an epilogue on what has been said and a prelude on what is to be said, and many other kinds of criticism and censure; from whence it seems they would imply that they themselves, if the fancy took them, could be the true poets: and yet in fact they are no other than worms, that know not how to do anything well, but are born only to gnaw and befoul the studies and labors of others; and not being able to attain celebrity by their own virtue and ingenuity, seek to put themselves in the front, by hook or by crook, through the defects and errors of others.

_Tansillo_--There are as many sorts of poets as there are sentiments and ideas; and to these it is possible to adapt garlands, not only of every species of plant, but also of other kinds of material. So the crowns of poets are made not only of myrtle and of laurel, but of vine leaves for the white-wine verses, and of ivy for the bacchanals; of olive for sacrifice and laws; of poplar, of elm, and of corn for agriculture; of cypress for funerals, and innumerable others for other occasions; and if it please you, also of the material signified by a good fellow when he exclaimed:

"O Friar Leek! O Poetaster! That in Milan didst buckle on thy wreath Composed of salad, sausage, and the pepper-caster."

_Cicada_--Now surely he of divers moods, which he exhibits in various ways, may cover himself with the branches of different plants, and may hold discourse worthily with the Muses; for they are his aura or comforter, his anchor or support, and his harbor, to which he retires in times of labor, of agitation, and of storm. Hence he cries:--"O Mountain of Parnassus, where I abide; Muses, with whom I converse; Fountain of Helicon, where I am nourished; Mountain, that affordest me a quiet dwelling-place; Muses, that inspire me with profound doctrines; Fountain, that cleansest me; Mountain, on whose ascent my heart uprises; Muses, that in discourse revive my spirits; Fountain, whose arbors cool my brows,--change my death into life, my cypress to laurels, and my hells into heavens: that is, give me immortality, make me a poet, render me illustrious!"

_Tansillo_--Well; because to those whom Heaven favors, the greatest evils turn to greatest good; for needs or necessities bring forth labors and studies, and these most often bring the glory of immortal splendor.

_Cicada_--For to die in one age makes us live in all the rest.

CANTICLE OF THE SHINING ONES

A Tribute to English Women, from 'The Nolan'

"Nothing I envy, Jove, from this thy sky," Spake Neptune thus, and raised his lofty crest. "God of the waves," said Jove, "thy pride runs high; What more wouldst add to own thy stern behest?"

"Thou," spake the god, "dost rule the fiery span, The circling spheres, the glittering shafts of day; Greater am I, who in the realm of man Rule Thames, with all his Nymphs in fair array.

"In this my breast I hold the fruitful land, The vasty reaches of the trembling sea; And what in night's bright dome, or day's, shall stand Before these radiant maids who dwell with me?"

"Not thine," said Jove, "god of the watery mount, To exceed my lot; but thou my lot shalt share: Thy heavenly maids among my stars I'll count, And thou shalt own the stars beyond compare!"

THE SONG OF THE NINE SINGERS

[_The first sings and plays the cithern_.]

O cliffs and rocks! O thorny woods! O shore! O hills and dales! O valleys, rivers, seas! How do your new-discovered beauties please? O Nymph, 'tis yours the guerdon rare, If now the open skies shine fair; O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er!

[_The second sings and plays to his mandolin_.]

O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er! Say then, O Circe, these heroic tears, These griefs, endured through tedious months and years, Were as a grace divine bestowed If now our weary travail is no more.

[_The third sings and plays to his lyre_.]

If now our weary travail is no more! If this sweet haven be our destined rest, Then naught remains but to be blest, To thank our God for all his gifts, Who from our eyes the veil uplifts, Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore,

[_The fourth sings to the viol_.]

Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore! O blindness, dearer far than others' sight! O sweeter grief than earth's most sweet delight! For ye have led the erring soul By gradual steps to this fair goal, And through the darkness into light we soar.

[_The fifth sings to a Spanish timbrel_.]

And through the darkness into light we soar! To full fruition all high thought is brought, With such brave patience that ev'n we At least the only path can see, And in his noblest work our God adore.

[_The sixth sings to a lute_.]

And in his noblest work our God adore! God doth not will joy should to joy succeed, Nor ill shall be of other ill the seed; But in his hand the wheel of fate Turns, now depressed and now elate, Evolving day from night for evermore.

[_The seventh sings to the Irish harp_.]

Evolving day from night for evermore! And as yon robe of glorious nightly fire Pales when the morning beams to noon aspire, Thus He who rules with law eternal, Creating order fair diurnal, Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor.

[_The eighth plays with a viol and bow_.]

Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor! And with an equal hand maintains The boundless worlds which He sustains, And scatters all our finite sense At thought of His omnipotence, Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more.

[_The ninth plays upon the rebeck_.]

Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more! Thus neither doubt nor fear avails; O'er all the incomparable End prevails, O'er fair champaign and mountain, O'er river-brink and fountain, And o'er the shocks of seas and perils of the shore.

Translation of Isa Blagden.

OF IMMENSITY

From Frith's 'Life of Giordano Bruno'

'Tis thou, O Spirit, dost within my soul This weakly thought with thine own life amend; Rejoicing, dost thy rapid pinions lend Me, and dost wing me to that lofty goal Where secret portals ope and fetters break, And thou dost grant me, by thy grace complete, Fortune to spurn, and death; O high retreat, Which few attain, and fewer yet forsake! Girdled with gates of brass in every part, Prisoned and bound in vain, 'tis mine to rise Through sparkling fields of air to pierce the skies, Sped and accoutred by no doubting heart, Till, raised on clouds of contemplation vast, Light, leader, law, Creator, I attain at last.

LIFE WELL LOST

Winged by desire and thee, O dear delight! As still the vast and succoring air I tread, So, mounting still, on swifter pinions sped, I scorn the world, and heaven receives my flight. And if the end of Ikaros be nigh, I will submit, for I shall know no pain: And falling dead to earth, shall rise again; What lowly life with such high death can vie? Then speaks my heart from out the upper air, "Whither dost lead me? sorrow and despair Attend the rash." and thus I make reply:-- "Fear thou no fall, nor lofty ruin sent; Safely divide the clouds, and die content, When such proud death is dealt thee from on high."

PARNASSUS WITHIN

O heart, 'tis you my chief Parnassus are, Where for my safety I must ever climb. My wingèd thoughts are Muses, who from far Bring gifts of beauty to the court of Time; And Helicon, that fair unwasted rill, Springs newly in my tears upon the earth, And by those streams and nymphs, and by that hill, It pleased the gods to give a poet birth. No favoring hand that comes of lofty race, No priestly unction, nor the grant of kings, Can on me lay such lustre and such grace, Nor add such heritage; for one who sings Hath a crowned head, and by the sacred bay, His heart, his thoughts, his tears, are consecrate alway.

COMPENSATION

The moth beholds not death as forth he flies Into the splendor of the living flame; The hart athirst to crystal water hies, Nor heeds the shaft, nor fears the hunter's aim; The timid bird, returning from above To join his mate, deems not the net is nigh; Unto the light, the fount, and to my love, Seeing the flame, the shaft, the chains, I fly; So high a torch, love-lighted in the skies, Consumes my soul; and with this bow divine Of piercing sweetness what terrestrial vies? This net of dear delight doth prison mine; And I to life's last day have this desire-- Be mine thine arrows, love, and mine thy fire.

LIFE FOR SONG