The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 63, January, 1863. Various
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Название: The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 63, January, 1863

Автор: Various

Издательство: Public Domain

Жанр: Журналы

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СКАЧАТЬ love and adventure in Outre-Mer land;

        But, ah, where the youth dreamed of building a minster,

          The man takes a pew and sits reckoning his pelf,

        And the Graces wear fronts, the Muse thins to a spinster,

        When Middle-Age stares from one's glass at himself!

II

        Do you twit me with days when I had an Ideal,

          And saw the sear future through spectacles green?

        Then find me some charm, while I look round and see all

          These fat friends of forty, shall keep me nineteen;

        Should we go on pining for chaplets of laurel

          Who've paid a perruquier for mending our thatch,

        Or, our feet swathed in baize, with our fate pick a quarrel,

          If, instead of cheap bay-leaves, she sent a dear scratch?

III

        We called it our Eden, that small patent-baker,

          When life was half moonshine and half Mary Jane;

        But the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker!—

          Bid Adam have duns and slip down a back-lane?

        Nay, after the Fall did the modiste keep coming

          With last styles of fig-leaf to Madam Eve's bower?

        Did Jubal, or whoever taught the girls thrumming,

          Make the Patriarchs deaf at a dollar the hour?

IV

        As I think what I was, I sigh, Desunt nonnulla!

          Years are creditors Sheridan's self could not bilk;

        But then, as my boy says, "What right has a fullah

          To ask for the cream, when himself spilled the milk?"

        Perhaps when you're older, my lad, you'll discover

          The secret with which Auld Lang Syne there is gilt,—

        Superstition of old man, maid, poet, and lover,—

          That cream rises thickest on milk that was spilt!

V

        We sailed for the moon, but, in sad disillusion,

          Snug under Point Comfort are glad to make fast,

        And strive (sans our glasses) to make a confusion

          'Twixt our rind of green cheese and the moon of the past;

        Ah, Might-have-been, Could-have-been, Would-have-been! rascals,

          He's a genius or fool whom ye cheat at two-score,

        And the man whose boy-promise was likened to Pascal's

          Is thankful at forty they don't call him bore!

VI

        With what fumes of fame was each confident pate full!

          How rates of insurance should rise on the Charles!

        And which of us now would not feel wisely grateful,

          If his rhymes sold as fast as the Emblems of Quarles?

        E'en if won, what's the good of Life's medals and prizes?

          The rapture's in what never was or is gone;

        That we missed them makes Helens of plain Ann Elizys,

        For the goose of To-day still is Memory's swan.

VII

        And yet who would change the old dream for new treasure?

          Make not youth's sourest grapes the best wine of our life?

        Need he reckon his date by the Almanac's measure

          Who is twenty life-long in the eyes of his wife?

        Ah, Fate, should I live to be nonagenarian,

          Let me still take Hope's frail I.O.U.s upon trust,

        Still talk of a trip to the Islands Macarian,

          And still climb the dream-tree for—ashes and dust!

* * * * *

      MR. BUCKLE AS A THINKER

      The recent death of Henry Thomas Buckle calls a new attention to his published works. Pathetic it will seem to all that he should be cut off in the midst of labors so large, so assiduous and adventurous; and there are few who will not feel inclined to make up, as it were, to his memory for this untimely interruption of his pursuits, by assigning the highest possible value to his actual performance. Additional strength will be given to these dispositions by the impressions of his personal character. This was, indeed, such as to conciliate the utmost good-will. If we except occasional touches of self-complacency, which betray, perhaps, a trifling foible, it may be said that everything is pleasing which is known concerning him. His devotion, wellnigh heroic, to scholarly aims; his quiet studiousness; his filial virtue; his genial sociability, graced by, and gracing, the self-supporting habit of his soul; his intrepidity of intellect, matched by a beautiful boldness and openness in speech; the absence, too, from works so incisive, of a single trace of truculence: all this will now be remembered; and those are unamiable persons, in whom the remembrance does not breed a desire to believe him as great in thought as he was brave, as prosperous in labor as he was persevering.

      But however it may be with others, certainly he who has undertaken the duties of a scholar must not yield too readily to these amiable wishes. He, as a sworn soldier of Truth, stands sacredly bound to be as free from favor as from fear, and to follow steadily wherever the standards of his imperial mistress lead him on. And so performing his lawful service, he may bear in mind that at last the interests of Truth are those of every soul, be it of them that we number with the dead, or that are still reckoned among these that we greet as living. Let us not be petty in our kindness. Over the fresh grave of a scholar let us rise to that high and large friendliness which respects more the scope of every man's nature than the limited measure of any man's performance, and sides bravely with the soul of the departed, even though it be against his fame. Who would not choose this for himself? Who would not whisper from his grave, "My personal weaknesses let those spare who can; my work do not praise, but judge; and never think in behalf of my mortal fame to lower those stars that my spirit would look up to yet and forever"?

      As a man and scholar, Mr. Buckle needs no forbearance; and men must commend him, were it only in justice to themselves. Such intellectual courage, such personal purity, such devotion to ideal aims, such a clean separation of boldness from bitterness,—in thought, no blade more trenchant, in feeling, no heart more human;—when these miss their honor and their praise, then will men have forgotten how to estimate fine qualities.

      Meanwhile, as a thinker, he must be judged according to the laws of thought. Here we are to forget whether he be living or dead, and whether his personal traits were delightful or disagreeable. Here there is but one question, and that is the question of truth.

      And as a thinker, I can say nothing less than that Mr. Buckle signally failed. His fundamental conceptions, upon which reposes the whole edifice of his labor, are sciolistic assumptions caught up in his youth from Auguste Comte and other one-eyed seers of modern France; his generalization, multitudinous and imposing, is often of the card-castle description, and tumbles at the touch of an inquisitive finger; and his cobweb logic, spun chiefly out of his wishes rather than his understanding, is indeed facile and ingenious, but of a strength to hold only flies. Such, at any rate, is the judgment passed upon him in the present paper; and if it is stated roundly, СКАЧАТЬ