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About The Hesperian / (Lincoln, Neb.) 1885-1899 | View Entire Issue (June 1, 1892)
T II E H ESl'ERI A N. u for eblleue men to take an active part in the affairs of the state and the nation. Let us all sec to it that our loral clubs permit no grass to grow under our feet. LITERARY. Slmkcspcaie. A l'KKSUMAX Til KM K. Woild pool, wc now of lliis latter day Who have known failure ami have felt defeat, The dwarfed children of earth's sterile age, Who feel our weakness weighing on our limbs Unbicakablc as bonds of adamant, Turn to thee once again, O sun born bard: o i est our weary souls a little space Beneath the shadow of infinitude. As weak men who have fallen very low, Look tow.ird high heaven and find some comfort there, Knowing, however low themselves may fall, The great blue reaches on, forever up. 0 Mster unsearchable', at times We seek to find thy great soul's secret out, And when some light streams like the setting sun Across a water)- waste, like swimmers lold We plunge into that path of quivering gold, And with long strokes we cleave the glowing wave Straight toward ihe sun. Hut when its last caress 1 .caves the horizon dark, alwut us steals The awful horror of the open sea. Thy mystery is great as is thy powc, And those who love thee most know only this, As long since knew the men of Ithaca: Within te grvMt hill of our arm ory Where hangie weapons of ou ancient chiefs Ami mighty men of old, there hangs a bow Of clanging silver, which today no man, He he of mortal mother or the son Of some sea goddess, can its tense drawn cord Loosen, or liend at all its mass ve frame. Hcncath it hang the bronze shod shafts which none 1 lave cunning to in these days to fit thereto, AIkivc it all the sun stands still in heaven, Pierced there long centuries with a shaft of song. W. Cathkr. A Scotch Peasant. I This week we have the pleasure of publishing the essay which won for Miss Hullock, the Knight prize. Perhaps no other man of letters has been so variously titled as Thomas Carlylc. lie is called preacher, censor, sage, phil osopher, prophet. These names all make of him a grand pic ture, and it is not, perhaps, a poor likeness. Hut loo often it is left cold and colorless, a Steele engraving, with no touch of human life or human warmth. It is surely a deplorable mis take thus to consider Carlylc. He was a genius; that carnot be forgotten. Hut he was none the less a man, a en- 'x.ncbt noble man, who would have been as truly noble had u always remained a poor unlettered peasant It is well t .onsidcr that Carlylc's virtues and faults were human, w & earthly, if for nothing more than to make the man a litt more intelli gible, to bring him down from his high place "alone with the stars" to the common earth. It is often a relief to know, when wc see the electric wonder of the night hanging like a spark from hcacns forge, that there are poles, and wires, and other earthly trappings connected with it. In spite of them all, it is still recognizable that the spark o come from Heaven, is mysterious, is wonderful. Carlylc, considered in any way, cannot be fully understood. Hut unless it is recog nized that he was, after all, only a man, that he had a man's reasons for suffering as lie did, he cannot be understood at all. The good neighbors of James Cailyle, in the little Scotch village of Ecclefcchan, advised him not to send his son to Edinburgh University. They predicted that if the lad should be educated, he would srorn his humble home and his peasant kinsmen, and would follow the ways of learned, worldly men. The proud, stubborn fatlicr would not heed the friendly advice. A small divine prompting . within the honest mason impelled him to send his son off to the great university. He cherished the hope that "Tom" would some day have clergy man's orders, should lead the honored, peaceful life of a vil lage minister. The hope was not fulfilled. Thomas Carlylc never wore the flowing robes of priest, never read the prayers at some small Scottish kirk. He did preach, and even proph ecy, but this great earth was the only temple that could hold his listeners. Well might these wise friends at Ecclefcchan have shaken their heads, as if they had but dreamt how learned 'lorn Carlylc was to lecoine. Yet never did he fulfill their evil prophecy. No learning, no fame, ever changed his honest peasant heart. He never ceased to love his plain kins men, never thought himself better than his parents who gave him life. The bleak hills, the desolate blackened moors, the music-making burns of his early home never lost their charm. England may proudly claim Carlylc, the author, and place his lmoks among her classics. Hut Carlylc, the man, in the life he lived, in manner, in speech, in heart, was always a true son of Scotland. He was a most tender-hearted man. He could feel for, could suffer with everything that suffered. The sight if the idle Glasgow masons making their noon meal of water and water-cresses made him heart -sick and miserable. He could not refuse a beggar's plea, nor question the honesty of it. He himself kne what poverty was, though far too proud to beg, or to accept kindly meant assistance. Necessity forced him to write for the pages of cheap magazines, f Ic cared little what it was he wrote; only it must be true, must be something he had in his heart to sa, something that men ought to hear. No threatening dinner of water and wattr-crcsscs could have made him say what did he not believe. No refusal of articles could lessen his "terrible carncstucs." He seldom complained of his poverty. It was the only one of his trials that he could bear with any patience at all. He wrote calmly enough when there were but five pounds ster ling on hand and poor prospect for more. Vet, trials that to most men would seem trivial were to Carlylc causes for bitter, unrestrained complaint. His correspondents arc told of every renewed attack of dyspepsia or insomania, arc kept advised as to every atrocity of the neighbor's crowing cock or barking dog. His ill health, his "nerves," his naturally gloomy temper anient, and his bad habit of exaggerating ever)' petty annoy ance, made him always "ill to live with," as his mother said. He often thought that if he could only escape from the city and its many irritating circumstances, he might be contented, even happy. Yet in his heart he knew that there was no con tentment for him anywhere on. earth. The seven years he spent at Craigenputtock, "the most desolate spot in all Scot land," were carcely less stormy than the rest of his life. His misery, though exaggerated, was real; it was not affected. It was a part of himself, a sequence, perhaps an inevitable one, of a great feature of his genius, his Christ-like faculty of see ing the miser)- that lies hidden under the gay shows of life, of feeling that misery with all the strength of his own suffering heart. Had he been less a genius, he might have been a hap pier, less pitiable man. Hut he could never have written a "French Revolution." He could never have pictured out that great wild tumult if his own soul had not been full of a tumult almost as wild. " ct Carlylc was a Scotchman, and it was not possible for him to be always gloomy and complaining. He had a very true sense of humor, could laugh with as honest enjoyme . II