Puslapio vaizdai

nature herself: to which nothing was vulgar, from which nothing was excluded; speaking to the ear like Italian, speaking to the mind like English; with words like pictures, with words like the gossamer film of the summer; at once the variety and picturesqueness of Homer, the gloom and intensity of Eschylus; not compressed to the closest by Thucydides, not fathomed to the bottom by Plato, not sounding with all its thunders, nor lit up with all its ardors even under the Promethean touch of Demosthenes! And Latin- the voice of Empire and of war, of law and of the State; inferior to its half parent and rival in the embodying of passion and in the distinguishing of thought, but equal to it in sustaining the measured march of history and superior to it in the indignant declamation of moral satire; stamped with the mark of an imperial and despotizing republic; rigid in its construction, parsimonious in its synonymes; reluctantly yielding to the flowery yoke of Horace, although opening glimpses of Greek-like splendor in the occasional inspirations of Lucretius; proved, indeed, to the uttermost by Cicero, and by him found wanting; yet majestic in its bareness, impressive in its conciseness; the true language of History, instinct with the spirit of nations, and not with the passions of individuals; breathing the maxims of the world and not the truths of the schools; one and uniform in its air and spirit, whether touched by the stern and haughty Sallust, by. the open and discursive Livy, by the reserved and thoughtful Tacitus."-Henry Nelson Coleridge.

"There is small but ancient fraternity in the world, known as the Order of Gentlemen. I cannot but distinguish some personages of far-off antiquity as worthy members of this fellowship. I believe it coeval with man. But Christ stated the precept of the order when he gave the whole moral law in two clauses, — Love to God, and Love to the neighbour. Whoever has this precept so by heart that it shines through into his life, enters without question into the inner circles of the order.

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"But to protect itself against pretenders, this brotherhood, like any other, has its formulas, its pass-words, its shibboleths, even its uniform. These are external symbols. With some, the symbol is greater than the thing signified. The thing signified, the principle, is so beautiful, that the outward sign is enough to glorify any character. The demeanor of a gentleman-being art, the expression of an idea in form can become property, like any art. It may be an heir-loom in an ancient house, like the portrait of the herc who gave a family name and fame, like the portrait of the maiden

martyr or the faithful wife, who made that name beloved, that fame poetry, to all ages. This precious inheritance, like anything fine and tender, has sometimes been treated with over-care. Guardians have been so solicitous that a neophyte should not lose his inherited rank in the order of gentlemen, that they have forgotten to make a man of him. Culturing the flower, they have not thought to make the stalk sturdy, or even healthy. The demeanor of a gentleman may be possessed by a weakling, or even inherited by one whose heart is not worthy of his manners.

"The formulas of this order are not edited; its pass-words are not syllabled; its uniform was never pictured on a fashion-plate, or so described that a snob could go to his tailor, and say, 'Make me the habit of a gentleman.' But the brothers know each other unerringly wherever they meet; be they of the inner shrine, gentlemen, heart and life; be they of the outer court, gentlemen in feeling and demeanor.


No disguise delays this recognition. No strangeness of place and circumstances prevents it. The men meet. The magnetism passes between them. All is said without words. Gentlemen know gentlemen by what we name instinct. But observe that this thing, instinct, is character in its finest, keenest, largest, and most concentrated action. It is the spirit's touch."— Theodore Winthrop.

Long Pauses.

"I vowed that I would dedicate my powers

To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow?

With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now

I call the phantoms of a thousand hours

Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned bowers
Of studious zeal or love's delight

Outwatched with me the envious night:
They know that never joy illumed my brow,
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free
This world from its dark slavery,

That thou, O awful LOVELINESS,

Wouldst live whate'er these words cannot express.

"The day becomes more solemn and serene

When noon is past. there is a harmony

In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which through the summer is not heard nor seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!

Thus let thy power, which like the truth

Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply

Its calm, to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee,
Whom SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind."


"Rafael made a century of sonnets,

Made and wrote them in a certain volume

Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil

Else he only used to draw Madonnas:

These, the world might view - but One, the volume.
Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.
Did she live and love it all her lifetime?

Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets,
Die, and let it drop beside her pillow
Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory,
Rafael's cheek so dutious and so loving-

Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's,
Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

"You and I would rather read that volume,
(Taken to his beating bosom by it)
Scan and list the bosom-beats of Rafael,
Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas
Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno,
Her, that visits Florence in a vision,
Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre
Seen by us and all the world in circle.

You and I will never read that volume.

Guido Reni like his own eye's apple,

Guarded long the treasure book and loved it.

Guido Reni dying, all Bologna

Cried, and the world with it, 'Ours- the treasure!'

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

"Dante once prepared to paint an angel:


Whom to please? You whisper, Beatrice.'

While he mused and traced it and retraced it, (Peradventure with a pen corroded

Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for,
When, his left hand i' the hair o' the wicked,
Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma,
Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment,
Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle,
Let the wretch go festering thro' Florence) -
Dante, who loved well because he hated,
Hated wickedness that hinders loving,
Dante standing, studying his angel,

In there broke the folk of his Inferno.
Says he 'Certain people of importance'
(Such he gave his daily, dreadful line to)
Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet.
Says the poet' Then I stopped my painting."

"You and I would rather see that angel

Painted by the tenderness of Dante,

Would we not?-than read a fresh Inferno.

"You and I will never see that picture.

While he mused on love and Beatrice,
While he softened o'er his outlined angel,
In they broke, those 'people of importance;'
We and Bice bear the loss forever.

"What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture?

This no artist lives and loves that longs not
Once, and only once, and for One only,
(Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language

Fit and fair and simple and sufficient

Using nature that's an art to others,

Not, this one time, art that 's turned his nature.

Ay, of all the artist's living, loving,

None but would forego his proper dowry,

Does he paint? he fain would write a poem,
Does he write? he fain would paint a picture,
Put to proof art alien to the artist's,
Once, and only once, and for One only,

So to be the man and leave the artist,
Save the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow."

ONE WORD MORE. - Robert Browning.

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"In hope that apprehends
An end beyond these ends;
And great uses rendered duly
By the meanest song sung truly!

"In thanks for all the good,
By poets understood -

For the sound of seraphs moving
Down the hidden depths of loving,—

"For sights of things away,
Through fissures of the clay,
Promised things which shall be given
And sung over, up in Heaven,—

"For life, so lovely-vain,—

For death which breaks the chain,

For this sense of present sweetness,-
And this yearning to completeness!

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LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE.- Mrs. Browning.

Very Long Pauses.

"O the long and dreary Winter!

O the cold and cruel Winter!

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