Chapter XIX

, also in some of the foregoing notes.]

9. The restitution to Giovanni and Gentile Bellini of their portraits in the Louvre and the finding of five other portraits of these two painters of whom Crowe and Cavalcaselle and Layard maintain that we have no portrait. [Letters to the _Athenæum_, &c.]

10. The restoration to Holbein of the drawing in the Basel Museum called _La Danse_. [_Universal Review_, Nov., 1889.]

11. The calling attention to Gaudenzio Ferrari and putting him before the public with something like the emphasis that he deserves. [_Ex Voto_.]

12. The discovery of a life-sized statue of Leonardo da Vinci by Gaudenzio Ferrari. [_Ex Voto_.]

13. The unearthing of the Flemish sculptor Jean de Wespin (called Tabachetti in Italy) and of Giovanni Antonio Paracca. [_Ex Voto_.]

14. The finding out that the _Odyssey_ was written at Trapani, the clearing up of the whole topography of the poem, and the demonstration, as it seems to me, that the poem was written by a woman and not by a man. Indeed, I may almost claim to have discovered the _Odyssey_, so altered does it become when my views of it are adopted. And robbing Homer of the _Odyssey_ has rendered the _Iliad_ far more intelligible; besides, I have set the example of how he should be approached. [_The Authoress of the Odyssey_.]

15. The attempt to do justice to my grandfather by writing _The Life and Letters of Dr. Butler_ for which, however, I had special facilities.

16. In _Narcissus_ and _Ulysses_ I made an attempt, the failure of which has yet to be shown, to return to the principles of Handel and take them up where he left off.

17. The elucidation of Shakespeare’s _Sonnets_. [_Shakespeare’s Sonnets Reconsidered_.]

I say nothing here about my novel [_The Way of All Flesh_] because it cannot be published till after my death; nor about my translations of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. Nevertheless these three books also were a kind of picking up of sovereigns, for the novel contains records of things I saw happening rather than imaginary incidents, and the principles on which the translations are made were obvious to any one willing to take and use them.

The foregoing is the list of my “mares’-nests,” and it is, I presume, this list which made Mr. Arthur Platt call me the Galileo of Mares’-Nests in his diatribe on my _Odyssey_ theory in the _Classical Review_. I am not going to argue here that they are all, as I do not doubt, sound; what I want to say is that they are every one of them things that lay on the surface and open to any one else just as much as to me. Not one of them required any profundity of thought or extensive research; they only required that he who approached the various subjects with which they have to do should keep his eyes open and try to put himself in the position of the various people whom they involve. Above all, it was necessary to approach them without any preconceived theory and to be ready to throw over any conclusion the moment the evidence pointed against it. The reason why I have discarded so few theories that I have put forward—and at this moment I cannot recollect one from which there has been any serious attempt to dislodge me—is because I never allowed myself to form a theory at all till I found myself driven on to it whether I would or no. As long as it was possible to resist I resisted, and only yielded when I could not think that an intelligent jury under capable guidance would go with me if I resisted longer. I never went in search of any one of my theories; I never knew what it was going to be till I had found it; they came and found me, not I them. Such being my own experience, I begin to be pretty certain that other people have had much the same and that the soundest theories have come unsought and without much effort.

The conclusion, then, of the whole matter is that scientific and literary fortunes are, like money fortunes, made more by saving than in any other way—more through the exercise of the common vulgar essentials, such as sobriety and straightforwardness, than by the more showy enterprises that when they happen to succeed are called genius and when they fail, folly. The streets are full of sovereigns crying aloud for some one to come and pick them up, only the thick veil of our own insincerity and conceit hides them from us. He who can most tear this veil from in front of his eyes will be able to see most and to walk off with them.

I should say that the sooner I stop the better. If on my descent to the nether world I were to be met and welcomed by the shades of those to whom I have done a good turn while I was here, I should be received by a fairly illustrious crowd. There would be Giovanni and Gentile Bellini, Leonardo da Vinci, Gaudenzio Ferrari, Holbein, Tabachetti, Paracca and D’Enrico; the Authoress of the _Odyssey_ would come and Homer with her; Dr. Butler would bring with him the many forgotten men and women to whom in my memoir I have given fresh life; there would be Buffon, Erasmus Darwin and Lamarck; Shakespeare also would be there and Handel. I could not wish to find myself in more congenial company and I shall not take it too much to heart if the shade of Charles Darwin glides gloomily away when it sees me coming.

XXV Poems

Prefatory Note

i. _Translation from an Unpublished Work of Herodotus_

ii. _The Shield of Achilles_, _with Variations_

iii. _The Two Deans_

iv. _On the Italian Priesthood_

_Butler wrote these four pieces while he was an undergraduate at St. John’s College_, _Cambridge_. _He kept no copy of any of them_, _but his friend the Rev. Canon Joseph McCormick_, _D.D._, _Rector of St. James’s_, _Piccadilly_, _kept copies in a note-book which he lent me_. _The only one that has appeared in print is_ “_The Shield of Achilles_,” _which Canon McCormick sent to_ The Eagle, _the magazine of St. John’s College_, _Cambridge_, _and it was printed in the number for December_ 1902, _about six months after Butler’s death_.

“_On the Italian Priesthood_” _is a rendering of the Italian epigram accompanying it which_, _with others under the heading_ “_Astuzia_, _Inganno_,” _is given in_ Raccolta di Proverbi Toscani di Giuseppe Giusti (_Firenze_, 1853).

v. _A Psalm of Montreal_

_This was written in Canada in_ 1875. _Butler often recited it and gave copies of it to his friends_. _Knowing that Mr. Edward Clodd had had something to do with its appearance in the_ Spectator _I wrote asking him to tell me what he remembered about it_. _He very kindly replied_, 29_th_ _October_, 1905:

“_The_ ‘_Psalm_’ _was recited to me at the Century Club by Butler_. _He gave me a copy of it which I read to the late Chas. Anderson_, _Vicar of S. John’s_, _Limehouse_, _who lent it to Matt. Arnold_ (_when inspecting Anderson’s Schools_) _who lent it to Richd. Holt Hutton who_, _with Butler’s consent_, _printed it in the_ Spectator _of_ 18_th_ _May_, 1878.”

_The_ “_Psalm of Montreal_” _was included in_ Selections from Previous Works (1884) _and in_ Seven Sonnets, _etc._

vi. _The Righteous Man_

_Butler wrote this in_ 1876; _it has appeared before only in_ 1879 _in the_ Examiner, _where it formed part of the correspondence_ “_A Clergyman’s Doubts_” _of which the letter signed_ “_Ethics_” _has already been given in this volume_ (_see p._ 304 _ante_). “_The Righteous Man_” _was signed_ “_X.Y.Z._” _and_, _in order to connect it with the discussion_, _Butler prefaced it with a note comparing it to the last six inches of a line of railway_; _there is no part of the road so ugly_, _so little travelled over_, _or so useless generally_, _but it is the end_, _at any rate_, _of a very long thing_.

vii. _To Critics and Others_.

_This was written in_ 1883 _and has not hitherto been published_.

viii. _For Narcissus_

_These are printed for the first time_. _The pianoforte score of_ Narcissus _was published in_ 1888. _The poem_ (_A_) _was written because there was some discussion then going on in musical circles about additional accompaniments to the_ Messiah _and we did not want any to be written for_ Narcissus.

_The poem_ (_B_) _shows how Butler originally intended to open Part II with a kind of descriptive programme_, _but he changed his mind and did it differently_.

ix. _A Translation Attempted in Consequence of a Challenge_

_This translation into Homeric verse of a famous passage from_ Martin Chuzzlewit _was a by-product of Butler’s work on the_ Odyssey _and the_ Iliad. _It was published in_ The Eagle _in March_, 1894, _and was included in_ Seven Sonnets.

_I asked Butler who had challenged him to attempt the translation and he replied that he had thought of that and had settled that_, _if any one else were to ask the question_, _he should reply that the challenge came from me_.

x. _In Memoriam H. R. F._

_This appears in print now for the first time_. _Hans Rudolf Faesch_, _a young Swiss from Basel_, _came to London in the autumn of_ 1893. _He spent much of his time with us until_ 14_th_ _February_, 1895, _when he left for Singapore_. _We saw him off from Holborn Viaduct Station_; _he was not well and it was a stormy night_. _The next day Butler wrote this poem and_, _being persuaded that we should never see Hans Faesch again_, _called it an In Memoriam_. _Hans did not die on the journey_, _he arrived safely in Singapore and settled in the East where he carried on business_. _We exchanged letters with him frequently_; _he paid two visits to Europe and we saw him on both occasions_. _But he did not live long_. _He died in the autumn of_ 1903 _at Vien Tiane in the Shan States_, _aged_ 32, _having survived Butler by about a year and a half_.

xi. _An Academic Exercise_

_This has never been printed before_. _It is a Farewell_, _and that is why I have placed it next after the In Memoriam_. _The contrast between the two poems illustrates the contrast pointed out at the close of the note on_ “_The Dislike of Death_” (_ante_, p. 359):

“_The memory of a love that has been cut short by death remains still fragrant though enfeebled_, _but no recollection of its past can keep sweet a love that has dried up and withered through accidents of time and life_.”

_In the ordinary course Butler would have talked this Sonnet over with me at the time he wrote it_, _that is in January_, 1902; _he may even have done so_, _but I think not_. _From_ 2_nd_ _January_, 1902, _until late in March_, _when he left London alone for Sicily_, _I was ill with pneumonia and remember very little of what happened then_. _Between his return in May and his death in June I am sure he did not mention the subject_. _Knowing the facts that underlie the preceding poem I can tell why Butler called it an In Memoriam_; _not knowing the facts that underlie this poem I cannot tell why Butler should have called it an Academic Exercise_. _It is his last Sonnet and is dated_ “_Sund. Jan._ 12th 1902,” _within six months of his death_, _at a time when he was depressed physically because his health was failing and mentally because he had been_ “_editing his remains_,” _reading and destroying old letters and brooding over the past_. _One of the subjects given in the section_ “_Titles and Subjects_” _(ante_) _is_ “_The diseases and ordinary causes of mortality among friendships_.” _I suppose that he found among his letters something which awakened memories of a friendship of his earlier life—a friendship that had suffered from a disease_, _whether it recovered or died would not affect the sincerity of the emotions experienced by Butler at the time he believed the friendship to be virtually dead_. _I suppose the Sonnet to be an In Memoriam upon the apprehended death of a friendship as the preceding poem is an In Memoriam upon the apprehended death of a friend_.

_This may be wrong_, _but something of the kind seems necessary to explain why Butler should have called the Sonnet an Academic Exercise_. _No one who has read_ Shakespeare’s Sonnets Reconsidered _will require to be told that he disagreed contemptuously with those critics who believe that Shakespeare composed his Sonnets as academic exercises_. _It is certain that he wrote this_, _as he wrote his other Sonnets_, _in imitation of Shakespeare_, _not merely imitating the form but approaching the subject in the spirit in which he believed Shakespeare to have approached his subject_. _It follows therefore that he did not write this sonnet as an academic exercise_, _had he done so he would not have been imitating Shakespeare_. _If we assume that he was presenting his story as he presented the dialogue in_ “_A Psalm of Montreal_” _in a form_ “_perhaps true_, _perhaps imaginary_, _perhaps a little of the one and a little of the other_,” _it would be quite in the manner of the author of_ The Fair Haven _to burlesque the methods of the critics by ignoring the sincerity of the emotions and fixing on the little bit of inaccuracy in the facts_. _We may suppose him to be saying out loud to the critics_: “_You think Shakespeare’s Sonnets were composed as academic exercises_, _do you_? _Very well then_, _now what do you make of this_?” _And adding aside to himself_: “_That will be good enough for them_; _they’ll swallow anything_.”

xii. _A Prayer_

_Extract from Butler’s Note-Books under the date of February or March_ 1883:

“‘_Cleanse thou me from my secret sins_.’ _ I heard a man moralising on this and shocked him by saying demurely that I did not mind these so much_, _if I could get rid of those that were obvious to other people_.”

_He wrote the sonnet in_ 1900 _or_ 1901. _In the first quatrain_ “_spoken_” _does not rhyme with_ “_open_”; _Butler knew this and would not alter it because there are similar assonances in Shakespeare_, _e.g._ “_open_” _and_ “_broken_” _in Sonnet LXI_.

xiii. _Karma_

_I am responsible for grouping these three sonnets under this heading_. _The second one beginning_ “_What is’t to live_” _appears in Butler’s Note-Book with the remark_, “_This wants much tinkering_, _but I cannot tinker it_”—_meaning that he was too much occupied with other things_. _He left the second line of the third of these sonnets thus_:

“_Them palpable to touch and view_.”

_I have_ “_tinkered_” _it by adding the two syllables_ “_and clear_” _to make the line complete_.

_In writing this sonnet Butler was no doubt thinking of a note he made in_ 1891:

“_It is often said that there is no bore like a clever bore_. _Clever people are always bores and always must be_. _That is_, _perhaps_, _why Shakespeare had to leave London—people could not stand him any longer_.”

xiv. _The Life after Death_

_Butler began to write sonnets in_ 1898 _when he was studying those of Shakespeare on which he published a book in the following year_. (Shakespeare’s Sonnets Reconsidered, _&c._) _He had gone to Flushing by himself and on his return wrote to me_:

24 _Aug._ 1898. “_Also at Flushing I wrote one myself_, _a poor innocent thing_, _but I was surprised to find how easily it came_; _if you like it I may write a few more_.”

_The_ “_poor innocent thing_” _was the sonnet beginning_ “_Not on sad Stygian shore_,” _the first of those I have grouped under the heading_ “_The Life after Death_.” _It appears in his notebooks with this introductory sentence_:

“_Having now learned Shakespeare’s Sonnets by heart—and there are very few which I do not find I understand the better for having done this—on Saturday night last at the Hotel Zeeland at Flushing_, _finding myself in a meditative mood_, _I wrote the following with a good deal less trouble than I anticipated when I took pen and paper in hand_. _I hope I may improve it_.”

_Of course I liked the sonnet very much and he did write_ “_a few more_”—_among them the two on Handel which I have put after_ “_Not on sad Stygian shore_” _because he intended that they should follow it_. _I am sure he would have wished this volume to close with these three sonnets_, _especially because the last two of them were inspired by Handel_, _who was never absent from his thoughts for long_. _Let me conclude these introductory remarks by reproducing a note made in_ 1883:

“_Of all dead men Handel has had the largest place in my thoughts_. _In fact I should say that he and his music have been the central fact in my life ever since I was old enough to know of the existence of either life or music_. _All day long—whether I am writing or painting or walking_, _but always—I have his music in my head_; _and if I lose sight of it and of him for an hour or two_, _as of course I sometimes do_, _this is as much as I do_. _I believe I am not exaggerating when I say that I have never been a day since I was_ 13 _without having Handel in my mind many times over_.”

i—Translation from an Unpublished Work of Herodotus

And the Johnians practise their tub in the following manner:—They select 8 of the most serviceable freshmen and put these into a boat and to each one of them they give an oar; and, having told them to look at the backs of the men before them, they make them bend forward as far as they can and at the same moment, and, having put the end of the oar into the water, pull it back again in to them about the bottom of the ribs; and, if any of them does not do this or looks about him away from the back of the man before him, they curse him in the most terrible manner, but if he does what he is bidden they immediately cry out:

“Well pulled, number so-and-so.”

For they do not call them by their names but by certain numbers, each man of them having a number allotted to him in accordance with his place in the boat, and the first man they call stroke, but the last man bow; and when they have done this for about 50 miles they come home again, and the rate they travel at is about 25 miles an hour; and let no one think that this is too great a rate for I could say many other wonderful things in addition concerning the rowing of the Johnians, but if a man wishes to know these things he must go and examine them himself. But when they have done they contrive some such a device as this, for they make them run many miles along the side of the river in order that they may accustom them to great fatigue, and many of them, being distressed in this way, fall down and die, but those who survive become very strong and receive gifts of cups from the others; and after the revolution of a year they have great races with their boats against those of the surrounding islanders, but the Johnians, both owing to the carefulness of the training and a natural disposition for rowing, are always victorious. In this way, then, the Johnians, I say, practise their tub.

ii—The Shield of Achilles—With Variations

And in it he placed the Fitzwilliam and King’s College Chapel and the lofty towered church of the Great Saint Mary, which looketh towards the Senate House, and King’s Parade and Trumpington Road and the Pitt Press and the divine opening of the Market Square and the beautiful flowing fountain which formerly Hobson laboured to make with skilful art; him did his father beget in the many-public-housed Trumpington from a slavey mother and taught him blameless works; and he, on the other hand, sprang up like a young shoot and many beautifully matched horses did he nourish in his stable, which used to convey his rich possessions to London and the various cities of the world; but oftentimes did he let them out to others and whensoever any one was desirous of hiring one of the long-tailed horses he took them in order, so that the labour was equal to all, wherefore do men now speak of the choice of the renowned Hobson. And in it he placed the close of the divine Parker, and many beautiful undergraduates were delighting their tender minds upon it playing cricket with one another; and a match was being played and two umpires were quarrelling with one another; the one saying that the batsman who was playing was out and the other declaring with all his might that he was not; and while they two were contending, reviling one another with abusive language, a ball came and hit one of them on the nose and the blood flowed out in a stream and darkness was covering his eyes, but the rest were crying out on all sides:

“Shy it up.”

And he could not; him, then, was his companion addressing with scornful words:

“Arnold, why dost thou strive with me since I am much wiser? Did not I see his leg before the wicket and rightly declare him to be out? Thee, then, has Zeus now punished according to thy deserts and I will seek some other umpire of the game equally-participated-in-by-both-sides.”

And in it he placed the Cam and many boats equally rowed on both sides were going up and down on the bosom of the deep rolling river and the coxswains were cheering on the men, for they were going to enter the contest of the scratchean fours; and three men were rowing together in a boat, strong and stout and determined in their hearts that they would either first break a blood vessel or earn for themselves the electroplated-Birmingham-manufactured magnificence of a pewter to stand on their ball tables in memorial of their strength, and from time to time drink from it the exhilarating streams of beer whensoever their dear heart should compel them; but the fourth was weak and unequally matched with the others and the coxswain was encouraging him and called him by name and spake cheering words:

“Smith, when thou hast begun the contest, be not flurried nor strive too hard against thy fate, look at the back of the man before thee and row with as much strength as the Fates spun out for thee on the day when thou fellest between the knees of thy mother, neither lose thine oar, but hold it tight with thy hands.”

iii—The Two Deans

_Scene_: _The Court of St. John’s College_, _Cambridge_. _Enter the two deans on their way to morning chapel_.

JUNIOR DEAN: Brother, I am much pleased with Samuel Butler, I have observed him mightily of late; Methinks that in his melancholy walk And air subdued when’er he meeteth me Lurks something more than in most other men.

SENIOR DEAN: It is a good young man. I do bethink me That once I walked behind him in the cloister, He saw me not, but whispered to his fellow: “Of all men who do dwell beneath the moon I love and reverence most the senior Dean.”

JUNIOR DEAN: One thing is passing strange, and yet I know not How to condemn it; but in one plain brief word He never comes to Sunday morning chapel. Methinks he teacheth in some Sunday school, Feeding the poor and starveling intellect With wholesome knowledge, or on the Sabbath morn He loves the country and the neighbouring spire Of Madingley or Coton, or perchance Amid some humble poor he spends the day Conversing with them, learning all their cares, Comforting them and easing them in sickness. Oh ’tis a rare young man!

SENIOR DEAN: I will advance him to some public post, He shall be chapel clerk, some day a fellow, Some day perhaps a Dean, but as thou sayst He is indeed an excellent young man—

_Enter Butler suddenly without a coat_, _or anything on his head_, _rushing through the cloisters_, _bearing a cup_, _a bottle of cider_, _four lemons_, _two nutmegs_, _half a pound of sugar and a nutmeg grater_.

_Curtain falls on the confusion of Butler and the horror-stricken dismay of the two deans_.

iv—On the Italian Priesthood

(Con arte e con inganno, si vive mezzo l’anno; Con inganno e con arte, si vive l’altra parte.)

In knavish art and gathering gear They spend the one half of the year; In gathering gear and knavish art They somehow spend the other part.

v—A Psalm of Montreal

The City of Montreal is one of the most rising and, in many respects, most agreeable on the American continent, but its inhabitants are as yet too busy with commerce to care greatly about the masterpieces of old Greek Art. In the Montreal Museum of Natural History I came upon two plaster casts, one of the Antinous and the other of the Discobolus—not the good one, but in my poem, of course, I intend the good one—banished from public view to a room where were all manner of skins, plants, snakes, insects, etc., and, in the middle of these, an old man stuffing an owl.

“Ah,” said I, “so you have some antiques here; why don’t you put them where people can see them?”

“Well, sir,” answered the custodian, “you see they are rather vulgar.”

He then talked a great deal and said his brother did all Mr. Spurgeon’s printing.

The dialogue—perhaps true, perhaps imaginary, perhaps a little of the one and a little of the other—between the writer and this old man gave rise to the lines that follow:

Stowed away in a Montreal lumber room The Discobolus standeth and turneth his face to the wall; Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed and set at naught, Beauty crieth in an attic and no man regardeth: O God! O Montreal!

Beautiful by night and day, beautiful in summer and winter, Whole or maimed, always and alike beautiful— He preacheth gospel of grace to the skin of owls And to one who seasoneth the skins of Canadian owls: O God! O Montreal!

When I saw him I was wroth and I said, “O Discobolus! Beautiful Discobolus, a Prince both among gods and men! What doest thou here, how camest thou hither, Discobolus, Preaching gospel in vain to the skins of owls?” O God! O Montreal!

And I turned to the man of skins and said unto him, “O thou man of skins, Wherefore hast thou done thus to shame the beauty of the Discobolus?” But the Lord had hardened the heart of the man of skins And he answered, “My brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr. Spurgeon.” O God! O Montreal!

“The Discobolus is put here because he is vulgar— He has neither vest nor pants with which to cover his limbs; I, Sir, am a person of most respectable connections My brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr. Spurgeon.” O God! O Montreal!

Then I said, “O brother-in-law to Mr. Spurgeon’s haberdasher, Who seasonest also the skins of Canadian owls, Thou callest trousers ‘pants,’ whereas I call them ‘trousers,’ Therefore thou art in hell-fire and may the Lord pity thee!” O God! O Montreal!

“Preferrest thou the gospel of Montreal to the gospel of Hellas, The gospel of thy connection with Mr. Spurgeon’s haberdashery to the gospel of the Discobolus?” Yet none the less blasphemed he beauty saying, “The Discobolus hath no gospel, But my brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr. Spurgeon.” O God! O Montreal!

vi—The Righteous Man

The righteous man will rob none but the defenceless, Whatsoever can reckon with him he will neither plunder nor kill; He will steal an egg from a hen or a lamb from an ewe, For his sheep and his hens cannot reckon with him hereafter— They live not in any odour of defencefulness: Therefore right is with the righteous man, and he taketh advantage righteously, Praising God and plundering.

The righteous man will enslave his horse and his dog, Making them serve him for their bare keep and for nothing further, Shooting them, selling them for vivisection when they can no longer profit him, Backbiting them and beating them if they fail to please him; For his horse and his dog can bring no action for damages, Wherefore, then, should he not enslave them, shoot them, sell them for vivisection?

But the righteous man will not plunder the defenceful— Not if he be alone and unarmed—for his conscience will smite him; He will not rob a she-bear of her cubs, nor an eagle of her eaglets— Unless he have a rifle to purge him from the fear of sin: Then may he shoot rejoicing in innocency—from ambush or a safe distance; Or he will beguile them, lay poison for them, keep no faith with them; For what faith is there with that which cannot reckon hereafter, Neither by itself, nor by another, nor by any residuum of ill consequences? Surely, where weakness is utter, honour ceaseth.

Nay, I will do what is right in the eye of him who can harm me, And not in those of him who cannot call me to account. Therefore yield me up thy pretty wings, O humming-bird! Sing for me in a prison, O lark! Pay me thy rent, O widow! for it is mine. Where there is reckoning there is sin, And where there is no reckoning sin is not.

vii—To Critics and Others

O Critics, cultured Critics! Who will praise me after I am dead, Who will see in me both more and less than I intended, But who will swear that whatever it was it was all perfectly right: You will think you are better than the people who, when I was alive, swore that whatever I did was wrong And damned my books for me as fast as I could write them; But you will not be better, you will be just the same, neither better nor worse, And you will go for some future Butler as your fathers have gone for me. Oh! How I should have hated you!

But you, Nice People! Who will be sick of me because the critics thrust me down your throats, But who would take me willingly enough if you were not bored about me, Or if you could have the cream of me—and surely this should suffice: Please remember that, if I were living, I should be upon your side And should hate those who imposed me either on myself or others; Therefore, I pray you, neglect me, burlesque me, boil me down, do whatever you like with me, But do not think that, if I were living, I should not aid and abet you. There is nothing that even Shakespeare would enjoy more than a good burlesque of _Hamlet_.

viii—For _Narcissus_

(A)

(To be written in front of the orchestral score.)

May he be damned for evermore Who tampers with Narcissus’ score; May he by poisonous snakes be bitten Who writes more parts than what we’ve written. We tried to make our music clear For those who sing and those who hear, Not lost and muddled up and drowned In over-done orchestral sound; So kindly leave the work alone Or do it as we want it done.

(B)

## Part II

Symphony

(During which the audience is requested to think as follows:)

An aged lady taken ill Desires to reconstruct her will; I see the servants hurrying for The family solicitor; Post-haste he comes and with him brings The usual necessary things. With common form and driving quill He draws the first part of the will, The more sonorous solemn sounds Denote a hundred thousand pounds, This trifle is the main bequest, Old friends and servants take the rest. ’Tis done! I see her sign her name, I see the attestors do the same. Who is the happy legatee? In the next number you will see.

ix—A Translation

(Attempted in consequence of a challenge.)

“‘Mrs. Harris,’ I says to her, ‘dont name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller creeturs out for nothink I would gladly do it; sich is the love I bear ’em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters, Mrs. Harris,’”—here she kept her eye on Mr. Pecksniff—“‘be they gents or be they ladies—is, Dont ask me whether I wont take none, or whether I will, but leave the bottle on the chimley piece, and let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged.’” (_Martin Chuzzlewit_, Chap. XIX).

“ως εφατ αυταρ εyώ μιν αμειβομένη προσέειπον, ‘δαιμονίη, Άρρισσιαδέω αλοχ' αντιθέοιο, μη θην δη περι μίσθον ανείρεο, μήδ’ ονόμαζε τοίη yάρ τοι εyων αyανη και ηπίη ειμί, η κεν λαον απαντ’ ει μοι δύναμίς yε παρείη, σίτου επηετανου βιότου θ’ αλις ενδον εόντος, ασπασίως και αμισθος εουσα περιστείλαιμι [εν λέκτρω λέξασα τανηλεyέος θανάτοιο αυτή, ος κε θάνησι βροτων και πότμον επίσπη] αλλ’ εκ τοι ερέω συ δ’ ενι φρεσι βάλλεο σησιν’”— οσσε δέ οι Πεξνειφον εσέδρακον ασκελες αιεί— “‘κείνοισιν yαρ πασι πιφαυσκομένη αyορεύω ειτ’ ανδο’ ειτε yυναίχ’ οτέω τάδε ερyα μέμηλεν, ω φίλε, τίπτε συ ταυτα μ’ ανείρεαι; ουδέ τί σε χρη ιδμέναι η εθέλω πίνειν μέθυ, ηε και ουχί ει δ’ αy’ επ’ εσχάροφιν κάταθες δέπας ηδέος οινου, οφρ’ εν χερσιν ελω πίνουσά τε τερπομένη τε, χείλεά τε προσθεισ’ οπόταν φίλον ητορ ανώyη.’”

x—In Memoriam

Feb. 14th, 1895

To

H. R. F.

Out, out, out into the night, With the wind bitter North East and the sea rough; You have a racking cough and your lungs are weak, But out, out into the night you go, So guide you and guard you Heaven and fare you well!

We have been three lights to one another and now we are two, For you go far and alone into the darkness; But the light in you was stronger and clearer than ours, For you came straighter from God and, whereas we had learned, You had never forgotten. Three minutes more and then Out, out into the night you go, So guide you and guard you Heaven and fare you well!

Never a cross look, never a thought, Never a word that had better been left unspoken; We gave you the best we had, such as it was, It pleased you well, for you smiled and nodded your head; And now, out, out into the night you go, So guide you and guard you Heaven and fare you well!

You said we were a little weak that the three of us wept, Are we then weak if we laugh when we are glad? When men are under the knife let them roar as they will, So that they flinch not. Therefore let tears flow on, for so long as we live No such second sorrow shall ever draw nigh us, Till one of us two leaves the other alone And goes out, out, out into the night, So guard the one that is left, O God, and fare him well!

Yet for the great bitterness of this grief We three, you and he and I, May pass into the hearts of like true comrades hereafter, In whom we may weep anew and yet comfort them, As they too pass out, out, out into the night, So guide them and guard them Heaven and fare them well!

. . .

The minutes have flown and he whom we loved is gone, The like of whom we never again shall see; The wind is heavy with snow and the sea rough, He has a racking cough and his lungs are weak. Hand in hand we watch the train as it glides Out, out, out into the night. So take him into thy holy keeping, O Lord, And guide him and guard him ever, and fare him well!

xi—An Academic Exercise

We were two lovers standing sadly by While our two loves lay dead upon the ground; Each love had striven not to be first to die, But each was gashed with many a cruel wound. Said I: “Your love was false while mine was true.” Aflood with tears he cried: “It was not so, ’Twas your false love my true love falsely slew— For ’twas your love that was the first to go.” Thus did we stand and said no more for shame Till I, seeing his cheek so wan and wet, Sobbed thus: “So be it; my love shall bear the blame; Let us inter them honourably.” And yet I swear by all truth human and divine ’Twas his that in its death throes murdered mine.

xii—A Prayer

Searcher of souls, you who in heaven abide, To whom the secrets of all hearts are open, Though I do lie to all the world beside, From me to these no falsehood shall be spoken. Cleanse me not, Lord, I say, from secret sin But from those faults which he who runs can see, ’Tis these that torture me, O Lord, begin With these and let the hidden vices be; If you must cleanse these too, at any rate Deal with the seen sins first, ’tis only reason, They being so gross, to let the others wait The leisure of some more convenient season; And cleanse not all even then, leave me a few, I would not be—not quite—so pure as you.

xiii—Karma

(A)

Who paints a picture, writes a play or book Which others read while he’s asleep in bed O’ the other side of the world—when they o’erlook His page the sleeper might as well be dead; What knows he of his distant unfelt life? What knows he of the thoughts his thoughts are raising, The life his life is giving, or the strife Concerning him—some cavilling, some praising? Yet which is most alive, he who’s asleep Or his quick spirit in some other place, Or score of other places, that doth keep Attention fixed and sleep from others chase? Which is the “he”—the “he” that sleeps, or “he” That his own “he” can neither feel nor see?

(B)

What is’t to live, if not to pull the strings Of thought that pull those grosser strings whereby We pull our limbs to pull material things Into such shape as in our thoughts doth lie? Who pulls the strings that pull an agent’s hand, The action’s counted his, so, we being gone, The deeds that others do by our command, Albeit we know them not, are still our own. He lives who does and he who does still lives, Whether he wots of his own deeds or no. Who knows the beating of his heart, that drives Blood to each part, or how his limbs did grow? If life be naught but knowing, then each breath We draw unheeded must be reckon’d death.

(C)

“Men’s work we have,” quoth one, “but we want them— Them, palpable to touch and clear to view.” Is it so nothing, then, to have the gem But we must weep to have the setting too? Body is a chest wherein the tools abide With which the craftsman works as best he can And, as the chest the tools within doth hide, So doth the body crib and hide the man. Nay, though great Shakespeare stood in flesh before us, Should heaven on importunity release him, Is it so certain that he might not bore us, So sure but we ourselves might fail to please him? Who prays to have the moon full soon would pray, Once it were his, to have it taken away.

xiv—The Life After Death

(A)

Μελλοντα ταυτα

Not on sad Stygian shore, nor in clear sheen Of far Elysian plain, shall we meet those Among the dead whose pupils we have been, Nor those great shades whom we have held as foes; No meadow of asphodel our feet shall tread, Nor shall we look each other in the face To love or hate each other being dead, Hoping some praise, or fearing some disgrace. We shall not argue saying “’Twas thus” or “Thus,” Our argument’s whole drift we shall forget; Who’s right, who’s wrong, ’twill be all one to us; We shall not even know that we have met. Yet meet we shall, and part, and meet again, Where dead men meet, on lips of living men.

(B)

HANDEL

There doth great Handel live, imperious still, Invisible and impalpable as air, But forcing flesh and blood to work his will Effectually as though his flesh were there; He who gave eyes to ears and showed in sound All thoughts and things in earth or heaven above. From fire and hailstones running along the ground To Galatea grieving for her love; He who could show to all unseeing eyes Glad shepherds watching o’er their flocks by night, Or Iphis angel-wafted to the skies, Or Jordan standing as an heap upright— He’ll meet both Jones and me and clap or hiss us Vicariously for having writ _Narcissus_.

(C)

HANDEL

Father of my poor music—if such small Offspring as mine, so born out of due time, So scorn’d, can be called fatherful at all, Or dare to thy high sonship’s rank to climb— Best lov’d of all the dead whom I love best, Though I love many another dearly too, You in my heart take rank above the rest; King of those kings that most control me, you, You were about my path, about my bed In boyhood always and, where’er I be, Whate’er I think or do, you, in my head, Ground-bass to all my thoughts, are still with me; Methinks the very worms will find some strain Of yours still lingering in my wasted brain.

Footnotes

{16} “The doctrine preached by Weismann was that to start with the body and inquire how its characters got into the germ was to view the sequence from the wrong end; the proper starting point was the germ, and the real question was not ‘How do the characters of the organism get into the germ-cell _which it_ produces?’ but ‘How are the characters of an organism represented in the germ _which produces it_?’ Or, as Samuel Butler has it, the proper statement of the relation between successive generations is not to say that a hen produces another hen through the medium of an egg, but to say that a hen is merely an egg’s way of producing another egg.” _Breeding and the Mendelian Discovery_, by A. D. Darbishire. Cassell & Co., 1911, p. 187–8.

“It has, I believe, been often remarked that a hen is only an egg’s way of making another egg.” _Life and Habit_, Trübner & Co., 1878,