Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

'Cœlum, non animum, mutant qui trans mare currunt,'

may, in certain applications, be true, it is surely not so in the case of a good many words. Thus this very instance, 'fanatic,' which, among the Romans, implied one who had an extra share of devotion, is, among us – the better informed on this head – by a very curious and very unfathomable figure (disfigure?) of speech or logic, applied to one who has a peculiar penchant for human liberty!

'In the most high and palmy state of Rome,A little ere the mighty Julius fell,The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted deadDid squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.'

We do not quote this for the sake of the making-the-hair-to-stand-on-end tendencies of the last two lines, but through the voluptuous quiescence of the first,

'In the most high and palmy state of Rome,'

to introduce the beautifully metaphorical expression, 'palmy.' It will, of course, be immediately recognized as being from the 'palm' tree; that is to say, palm-abounding. And what visions of orient splendor does it bear with it, wafting on its wings the very aroma of the isles of the blest – μἁκαρων νἡσοι – or

'Where the gorgeous East, with richest hand,Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold!'

It bears us away with it, and we stand on that sun-kissed land

'Whose rivers wander over sands of gold,'

with a houri lurking in every 'bosky bourne,' and the beauteous palm, waving its umbrageous head, at once food, shade, and shelter.

The palm being to the Oriental of such passing price, we can easily imagine how he would so enhance its value as to make it the type of everything that is prosperous and glorious and 'palmy,' the beau-ideal of everything that is flourishing. Hear what Sir Walter Raleigh says on this subject: 'Nothing better proveth the excellency of this soil than the abundant growing of the palm trees without labor of man. This tree alone giveth unto man whatsoever his life beggeth at nature's hand.'

'Paradise,' too, is oriental in all its associations. It is παρἁδεισος,8 that is, a park or pleasure ground, in which sense it is constantly employed by Xenophon, as every weary youth who has parasanged it with him knows. By the LXX it was used in a metaphorical sense for the garden of Eden:

'The glories we have known,And that imperial palace whence we came;'

but a still loftier meaning did it acquire when the Christ employed it as descriptive of the splendors of the 'better land' – of the glories and beauties of the land Beulah.

But, look out, fellow strollers, for we are off in a tangent!

What a curiously humble origin has 'literature,' contrasted with the magnitude of its present import. It is just 'litteral' —letters in their most primitive sense; and γραμματα is nought other. Nor can even all the pomposity of the 'belles-lettres' carry us any farther than the very fine 'letters' or litteral; while even Solomon So-so may take courage when he reflects (provided Solomon be ever guilty of reflecting) that the 'literati' have 'literally' nothing more profound about them than the knowledge of their 'letters.' The Latins were prolific in words of this kind; thus they had the literatus and the literator– making some such discrimination between them as we do between 'philosopher' and 'philosophe.'

'Unlettered,' to be sure, is one who is unacquainted even with his 'letters;' but what is 'erudite?' It is merely E, out of, a RUDIS, rude, chaotic, ignorant state of things; and thus in itself asserts nothing very tremendous, and makes no very prodigious pretensions. Surely these words had their origin at an epoch when 'letters' stood higher in the scale of estimation than they do now; when he who knew them possessed a spell that rendered him a potent character among the 'unlettered.'

A 'spell' did we say? Perhaps that is not altogether fanciful; for 'spell' itself in the Saxon primarily imports a word; and we know that the runes or Runic letters were long employed in this way. For instance, Mr. Turner thus informs us ('History of the Anglo-Saxons,' vol. i, p. 169): 'It was the invariable policy of the Roman ecclesiastics to discourage the use of the Runic characters, because they were of pagan origin, and had been much connected with idolatrous superstitions.' And if any one be incredulous, let him read this from Sir Thomas Brown: 'Some have delivered the polity of spirits, that they stand in awe of charms, spells, and conjurations; letters, characters, notes, and dashes.' And have not the Α and Ω something mystic and cabalistic about them even to us?

While on this, let us note that 'spell' gives us the beautiful and cheering expression 'gospel,' which is precisely God's-spell– the 'evangile,' the good God's-news!

To resume:

'Graphical' (γρἁφω) is just what is well delineated —literally, 'well written,' or, as our common expression corroboratively has it, like a book!

'Style' and 'stiletto' would, from their significations, appear to be radically very different words; and yet they are something more akin than even cousins-german. 'Style' is known to be from the στὑλος, or stylus, which the Greeks and Romans employed in writing on their waxen tablets; and, as they were both sharp and strong, they became in the hands of scholars quite formidable instruments when used against their schoolmasters. Afterward they came to be employed in all the bloody relations and uses to which a 'bare bodkin' can be put, and hence our acceptation of 'stiletto.' Cæsar himself, it is supposed, got his 'quietus' by means of a 'stylus;' nor is he the first or last character whose 'style' has been his (literary, if not literal) damnation.

'Volume,' too, how perfectly metaphorical is it in its present reception! It is originally just a volumen, that is, a 'roll' of parchment, papyrus, or whatever else the 'book' (i. e., the bark– the 'liber') might be composed of. Nor can we regard as aught other such terms as 'leaf' or 'folio,' which is also 'leaf.' 'Stave,' too, is suggestive of the staff on which the runes were wont to be cut. Indeed, old almanacs are sometimes to be met with consisting of these long sticks or 'staves,' on which the days and months are represented by the Runic letters.

'Charm,' 'enchant,' and 'incantation' all owe their origin to the time when spells were in vogue. 'Charm' is just carmen, from the fact that 'a kind of Runic rhyme' was employed in diablerie of this sort; so 'enchant' and 'incantation' are but a singing to– a true 'siren's song;' while 'fascination' took its rise when the mystic terrors of the evil eye threw its withering blight over many a heart.

We are all familiar with the old fable of The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse. We will vouch that the following read us as luminous a comment thereon as may be desired: 'Polite,' 'urbane,' 'civil,' 'rustic,' 'villain,' 'savage,' 'pagan,' 'heathen.' Let us seek the moral:

'Polite,' 'urbane,' and 'civil' we of course recognize as being respectively from πὁλις, urbs, and civis, each denoting the city or town —la grande ville. 'Polite' is city-like; while 'urbanity' and 'civility' carry nothing deeper with them than the graces and the attentions that belong to the punctilious town. 'Rustic' we note as implying nothing more uncultivated than a 'peasant,' which is just pays-an, or, as we also say, a 'countryman.' 'Savage,' too, or, as we ought to write it, salvage,9 is nothing more grim or terrible than one who dwells in sylvis, in the woods – a meaning we can appreciate from our still comparatively pure application of the adjective sylvan. A 'backwoodsman' is therefore the very best original type of a savage! 'Savage' seems to be hesitating between its civil and its ethical applications; 'villain,' 'pagan,' and 'heathen,' however, have become quite absorbed in their moral sense – and this by a contortion that would seem strange enough were we not constantly accustomed to such transgressions. For we need not to be informed that 'villain' primarily and properly implies simply one who inhabits a ville or village. In Chaucer, for example, we see it without at least any moral signification attached thereto:

'But firste I praie you of your curtesieThat ye ne arette it not my vilanie.'Prologue to the Canterbury Tales.

So a 'pagan,' or paganus, is but a dweller in a pagus, or village; precisely equivalent to the Greek κωμἡτης, with no other idea whatever attached thereto; while 'heathen' imported those who lived on the heaths or in the country, consequently far away from civilization or town-like-ness.

From all of which expressions we may learn the mere conventionality and the utter arbitrariness of even our most important ethical terms. How prodigiously cheap is the application of any such epithets, considering the terrible abuse they have undergone! And how poor is that philosophy that can concentrate 'politeness' and 'civility' in the frippery and heartlessness of mere external city-forms; and convert the man who dwells in the woods or in the village into a savage or a villain! How fearful a lack do these numerous words and their so prolific analogues manifest of acknowledgment of that glorious principle which Burns has with fire-words given utterance to – and to which, would we preserve the dignity of manhood, we must hold on —

'A man's a man for a' that!'

Ah! it is veritably enough to make us atrabiliar! Here we see words in their weaknesses and their meannesses, as elsewhere in their glory and beauty. And not so much their meanness and weakness, as that of those who have distorted these innocent servants of truth to become tools of falsehood and the abject instruments of the extinction of all honesty and nobleness.

The word 'health' wraps up in it – for, indeed, it is hardly metaphorical – a whole world of thought and suggestion. It is that which healeth or maketh one to be whole, or, as the Scotch say, hale; which whole or hale (for they are one word) may imply entireness or unity; that is to say, perfect 'health' is that state of the system in which there is no disorganization – no division of interest – but when it is recognized as a perfect one or whole; or, in other words, not recognized at all. And this meaning is confirmed by our analogue sanity, which, from sanus, and allied to σἁος, has underneath it a similar basis.

Every student of Carlyle will remember the very telling use to which he puts the idea contained in this word – speaking of the manifold relations of physical, psychal, and social health. Reference is made to his employment of it in the 'Characteristics' – itself one of the most authentic and veracious pieces of philosophy that it has been our lot to meet with for a long time; yet wherein he proves the impossibility of any, and the uselessness of all philosophies. Listen while he discourses thereon: 'So long as the several elements of life, all fitly adjusted, can pour forth their movement like harmonious tuned strings, it is melody and unison: life, from its mysterious fountains, flows out as in celestial music and diapason – which, also, like that other music of the spheres, even because it is perennial and complete, without interruption and without imperfection, might be fabled to escape the ear. Thus, too, in some languages, is the state of health well denoted by a term expressing unity; when we feel ourselves as we wish to be, we say that we are whole.'

But our psychal and social wholeness or health, as well as our physical, is yet, it would appear, in the future, in the good time coming—

'When man to manShall brothers be and a' that!'

Even that, however, is encouraging – that it is in prospectu. For we know that right before us lies this great promised land – this Future, teeming with all the donations of infinite time, and bursting with blessings. And for us, too, there are in waiting μακἁρων νἡσοι, or Islands of the Blest, where all heroic doers and all heroic sufferers shall enjoy rest forever!

In conclusion, take the benediction of serene old Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, in his preface to 'Don Quixote' (could we possibly have a better?): 'And so God give you health, not forgetting me. Farewell!'

THE CHECH

"Chcés li tajnou véc aneb pravdu vyzvédéti, blazen, dité, opily ćlovék o tom umeji povedeti."

"Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery,A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it thee."Bohemian Proverb.And now I'll wrap my blanket o'er me,And on the tavern floor I'll lie;A double spirit-flask before me,And watch the pipe clouds melting die.They melt and die – but ever darken,As night comes on and hides the day;Till all is black; – then, brothers, hearken!And if ye can, write down my lay!In yon black loaf my knife is gleaming,Like one long sail above the boat; —– As once at Pesth I saw it beaming,Half through a curst Croatian throat.Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder turns my brain;And still I'll drink – till, past all feeling,The soul leaps forth to light again.Whence come these white girls wreathing round me?Baruska! – long I thought thee dead!Kacenka! – when these arms last bound thee,Thou laidst by Rajhrad cold as lead!Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder turns my brain;And from afar a star comes stealing,Straight at me o'er the death-black plain.Alas! – I sink – my spirits miss me,I swim, I shoot from sky to shore!Klarà! thou golden sister – kiss me!I rise – I'm safe – I'm strong once more.And faster, faster whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder turns my brain;The star! – it strikes my soul, revealingAll life and light to me again.* * *Against the waves fresh waves are dashing,Above the breeze fresh breezes blow;Through seas of light new light is flashing,And with them all I float and flow.But round me rings of fire are gleaming:Pale rings of fire – wild eyes of death!Why haunt me thus awake or dreaming?Methought I left ye with my breath.Aye glare and stare with life increasing,And leech-like eyebrows arching in;Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing,But never hope a fear to win.He who knows all may haunt the haunting,He who fears nought hath conquered fate;Who bears in silence quells the daunting,And sees his spoiler desolate.Oh wondrous eyes of star-like lustre,How ye have changed to guardian love!Alas! – where stars in myriads clusterYe vanish in the heaven above.* * *I hear two bells so softly singing:How sweet their silver voices roll!The one on yonder hill is ringing,The other peals within my soul.I hear two maidens gently talking,Bohemian maidens fair to see;The one on yonder hill is walking,The other maiden – where is she?Where is she? – when the moonlight glistensO'er silent lake or murm'ring stream,I hear her call my soul which listens:'Oh! wake no more – come, love, and dream!'She came to earth-earth's loveliest creature;She died – and then was born once more;Changed was her race, and changed each feature,But oh! I loved her as before.We live – but still, when night has bound usIn golden dreams too sweet to last,A wondrous light-blue world around us,She comes, the loved one of the Past.I know not which I love the dearest,For both my loves are still the same;The living to my heart is nearest,The dead love feeds the living flame.And when the moon, its rose-wine quaffingWhich flows across the Eastern deep,Awakes us, Klarà chides me laughing,And says, 'We love too well in sleep!'And though no more a Vojvod's daughter,As when she lived on Earth before,The love is still the same which sought her,And she is true – what would you more?* * *Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing,And starlight shines o'er vale and hill;I should be gone – yet still delaying,By thy loved side I linger still!My gold is gone – my hopes have perished,And nought remains save love for thee!E'en that must fade, though once so cherished:Farewell! – and think no more of me!'Though gold be gone and hope departed,And nought remain save love for me,Thou ne'er shalt leave me broken-hearted,For I will share my life with thee!'Thou deem'st me but a wanton maiden,The plaything of thy idle hours;But laughing streams with gold are laden,And sweets are hidden 'neath the flowers.'E'en outcasts may have heart and feeling,E'en such as I be fond and true;And love, like light, in dungeons stealing,Though bars be there, will still burst through.'

PICTURES FROM THE NORTH

It is worth while to live in the city, that we may learn to love the country; and it is not bad for many, that artificial life binds them with bonds of silk or lace or rags or cobwebs, since, when they are rent away, the Real gleams out in a beauty and with a zest which had not been save for contrast.

Contrast is the salt of the beautiful. I wonder that the ancients, who came so near it in so many ways, never made a goddess of Contrast. They had something like it in ever-varying Future – something like it in double-faced Janus, who was their real 'Angel of the Odd.' Perhaps it is my ignorance which is at fault – if so, I pray you correct me. The subtle Neo-Platonists must have apotheosized such a savor to all æsthetic bliss. Mostly do I feel its charm when there come before me pictures true to life of far lands and lives, of valley and river, sea and shore. Then I forget the narrow office and the shop-lined street, the rattling cars and hurried hotel-lodgment, and think what it would be if nature, in all her freshness and never-ending contrasts, could be my ever-present.

I thought this yesterday, in glancing over an old manuscript in my drawer, containing translations, by some hand to me unknown, of sketches of Sweden by the fairy-story teller Hans Christian Andersen. Reader, will they strike you as pleasantly as they did me? I know not. Let us glance them over. They have at least the full flavor of the North, of the healthy land of frost and pines, of fragrant birch and of sweeter meadow-grass, and simpler, holier flowers than the rich South ever showed, even in her simplest moods.

The first of these sketches sweeps us at once far away over the Northland:

'WE JOURNEY

'It is spring, fragrant spring, the birds are singing. You do not understand their song? Then hear it in free translation:

''Seat thyself upon my back!' said the stork, the holy bird of our green island. 'I will carry thee over the waves of the Sound. Sweden also has its fresh, fragrant beechwoods, green meadows, and fields of waving corn; in Schoonen, under the blooming apple trees behind the peasant's house, thou wilt imagine thyself still in Denmark!'

''Fly with me,' said the swallow. 'I fly over Hal-land's mountain ridges, where the beeches cease. I soar farther toward the north than the stork. I will show you where the arable land retires before rocky valleys. You shall see friendly towns, old churches, solitary court yards, within which it is cosy and pleasant to dwell, where the family stands in circle around the table with the smoking platters, and asks a blessing through the mouth of the youngest child, and morning and evening sings a holy song. I have heard it, I have seen it, when I was yet small, from my nest under the roof.'

''Come! come!' cried the unsteady seagull, impatiently waiting, and ever flying round in a circle. 'Follow me into the Scheeren, where thousands of rocky islands, covered with pines and firs, lie along the coasts like flower beds; where the fisherman draws full nets!'

''Let yourself down between our outspread wings!' sing the wild swans. 'We will bear you to the great seas, to the ever-roaring, arrow-quick mountain streams, where the oak does not thrive and the birches are stunted; let yourself down between our outspread wings, – we soar high over Sulitelma, the eye of the island, as the mountain is called; we fly from the spring-green valley, over the snow waves, up to the summit of the mountain, whence you may catch a glimpse of the North Sea, beyond Norway. We fly toward Jamtland, with its high blue mountains, where the waterfalls roar, where the signal fires flame up as signs from coast to coast that they are waiting for the ferry boat – up to the deep, cold, hurrying floods, which do not see the sun set in midsummer, where twilight is dawn!'

'So sing the birds! Shall we hearken to their song – follow them, at least a short way? We do not seat ourselves upon the wings of the swan, nor upon the back of the stork; we stride forward with steam and horses, sometimes upon our own feet, and glance, at the same time, now and then, from the actual, over the hedge into the kingdom of fancy, that is always our near neighborland, and pluck flowers or leaves, which shall be placed together in the memorandum book – they bud indeed on the flight of the journey. We fly, and we sing: Sweden, thou glorious land! Sweden, whither holy gods came in remote antiquity from the mountains of Asia; thou land that art yet illumined by their glitter! It streams out of the flowers, with the name of Linnæus; it beams before thy knightly people from the banner of Charles the Twelfth, it sounds out of the memorial stone erected upon the field at Lutzen. Sweden! thou land of deep feeling, of inward songs, home of the clear streams, where wild swans sing in the northern light's glimmer! thou land, upon whose deep, still seas the fairies of the North build their colonnades and lead their struggling spirit-hosts over the ice mirror. Glorious Sweden, with the perfume-breathing Linea, with Jenny's soulful songs! To thee will we fly with the stork and the swallow, with the unsteady seagull and the wild swan. Thy birchwood throws out its perfume so refreshing and animating, under its hanging, earnest boughs – on its white trunk shall the harp hang. Let the summer wind of the North glide murmuring over its strings.'

There is true fatherland's love there. I doubt if there was ever yet real patriotism in a hot climate – the North is the only home of unselfish and great union. Italy owes it to the cool breezes of her Apennines that she cherishes unity; had it not been for her northern mountains in a southern clime, she would have long ago forgotten to think of one country. But while the Alps are her backbone, she will always be at least a vertebrate among nations, and one of the higher order. Without the Alps she would soon be eaten up by the cancer of states' rights. It is the North, too, which will supply the great uniting power of America, and keep alive a love for the great national name.

Very different is the rest – and yet it has too the domestic home-tone of the North. In Sweden, in Germany, in America, in England, the family tie is somewhat other than in the East or in any warm country. With us, old age is not so ever-neglected and little honored as in softer climes. Thank the fireside for that. The hearth, and the stove, and the long, cold months which keep the grandsire and granddame in the easy chair by the warm corner, make a home centre, where the children linger as long as they may for stories, and where love lingers, kept alive by many a cheerful, not to be easily told tie. And it lives – this love – lives in the heart of the man after he has gone forth to business or to battle: he will not tell you of it, but he remembers grandmother and grandfather, as he saw them a boy – the centre of the group, which will never form again save in heaven.

Let us turn to

'THE GRANDMOTHER

'Grandmother is very old, has many wrinkles, and perfectly white hair; but her eyes gleam like two stars, yes, much more beautiful; they are so mild, it does one good to look into them! And then she knows how to relate the most beautiful stories. And she has a dress embroidered with great, great flowers; it is such a heavy silk stuff that it rattles. Grandmother knows a great deal, because she has lived much longer than father and mother; that is certain! Grandmother has a hymn book with strong silver clasps, and she reads very often in the book. In the midst of it lies a rose, pressed and dry; it is not so beautiful as the rose which stands in the glass, but yet she smiles upon it in the most friendly way; indeed, it brings the tears to her eyes! Why does grandmother look so at the faded flower in the old book? Do you know? Every time that grandmother's tears fall upon the flower, the colors become fresh again, the rose swells up and fills the whole room with its fragrance, the walls disappear, as if they were only mist, and round about her is the green, glorious wood, where the sun beams through the leaves of the trees; and grandmother is young again; a charming maiden, with full red cheeks, beautiful and innocent – no rose is fresher; but the eyes, the mild, blessing eyes, still belong to grandmother. At her side sits a young man, large and powerful: he reaches her the rose, and she smiles – grandmother does not smile so now! oh yes, look now! – But he has vanished: many thoughts, many forms sweep past – the beautiful young man is gone, the rose lies in the hymn book, and grandmother sits there again as an old woman, and looks upon the faded rose which lies in the book.