Proverbial Philosophy / The First and Second Series

by Unknown

OF FAME.

Blow the trumpet, spread the wing, fling thy scroll upon the sky,

Rouse the slumbering world, O Fame, and fill the sphere with echo!

—Beneath thy blast they wake, and murmurs come hoarsely on the wind,

And flashing eyes and bristling hands proclaim they hear thy message:

Rolling and surging as a sea, that upturned flood of faces

Hasteneth with its million tongues to spread the wondrous tale;

The hum of added voices groweth to the roaring of a cataract,

And rapidly from wave to wave is tossed that exaggerated story,

Until those stunning clamours, gradually diluted in the distance,

Sink ashamed, and shrink afraid of noise, and die away.

Then brooding Silence, forth from his hollow caverns,

Cloaked and cowled, and gliding along, a cold and stealthy shadow,

Once more is mingled with the multitude, whispering as he walketh,

And hushing all their eager ears, to hear some newer Fame.

So all is still again; but nothing of the past hath been forgotten;

A stirring recollection of the trumpet ringeth in the hearts of men:

And each one, either envious or admiring, hath wished the chance were his

To fill as thus the startled world with fame, or fear, or wonder.

This lit thy torch of sacrilege, Ephesian Eratostratus;

This dug thy living grave, Pythagoras, the traveller from Hadës;

For this, dived Empedocles into Etna's fiery whirlpool;

For this, conquerors, regicides, and rebels, have dared their perilous crimes.

In all men, from the monarch to the menial, lurketh lust of fame:

The savage and the sage alike regard their labours proudly:

Yea, in death, the glazing eye is illumined by the hope of reputation,

And the stricken warrior is glad, that his wounds are salved with glory.

For fame is a sweet self-homage, an offering grateful to the idol,

A spiritual nectar for the spiritual thirst, a mental food for mind,

A pregnant evidence to all of an after immaterial existence,

A proof that soul is scatheless, when its dwelling is dissolved.

And the manifold pleasures of fame are sought by the guilty and the good:

Pleasures, various in kind, and spiced to every palate:

The thoughtful loveth fame as an earnest of better immortality,

The industrious and deserving, as a symbol of just appreciation,

The selfish, as a promise of advancement, at least to a man's own kin,

And common minds, as a flattering fact that men have been told of their existence.

There is a blameless love of fame, springing from desire of justice,

When a man hath featly won and fairly claimed his honours:

And then fame cometh as encouragement to the inward consciousness of merit,

Gladdening by the kindliness and thanks, wherewithal his labours are rewarded.

But there is a sordid imitation, a feverish thirst for notoriety,

Waiting upon vanity and sloth, and utterly regardless of deserving:

And then fame cometh as a curse; the fire-damp is gathered in the mine:

The soul is swelled with poisonous air, and a spark of temptation shall explode it.

Idle causes, noised awhile, shall yield most active consequents,

And therefore it were ill upon occasion to scorn the voice of rumour.

Ye have seen the chemist in his art mingle invisible gases;

And lo, the product is a substance, a heavy dark precipitate:

Even so fame, hurtling on the quiet with many meeting tongues,

Can out of nothing bring forth fruits, and blossom on a nourishment of air.

For many have earned honour, and thereby rank and riches,

From false and fleeting tales, some casual mere mistake;

And many have been wrecked upon disgrace, and have struggled with poverty and scorn,

From envious hints and ill reports, the slanders cast on innocence.

Whom may not scandal hit? those shafts are shot at a venture:

Who standeth not in danger of suspicion? that net hath caught the noblest.

Cæsar's wife was spotless, but a martyr to false fame;

And Rumour, in temporary things, is gigantic as a ruin or a remedy:

Many poor and many rich have testified its popular omnipotence,

And many a panic-stricken army hath perished with the host of the Assyrians.

Nevertheless, if opportunity be nought, let a man bide his time;

So the matter be not merchandise nor conquest, fear thou less for character.

If a liar accuseth thee of evil, be not swift to answer;

Yea, rather give him license for awhile; it shall help thine honour afterward:

Never yet was calumny engendered, but good men speedily discerned it,

And innocence hath burst from its injustice, as the green world rolling out of Chaos.

What, though still the wicked scoff,—this also turneth to his praise;

Did ye never hear that censure of the bad is buttress to a good man's glory?

What, if the ignorant still hold out, obstinate in unkind judgment,—

Ignorance and calumny are paired; we affirm by two negations:

Let them stand round about, pushing at the column in a circle,

For all their toil and wasted strength, the foolish do but prop it.

And note thou this; in the secret of their hearts, they feel the taunt is false,

And cannot help but reverence the courage, that walketh amid calumnies unanswering:

He standeth as a gallant chief, unheeding shot or shell;

He trusteth in God his Judge: neither arrows nor the pestilence shall harm him.

A high heart is a sacrifice to Heaven: should it stoop among the creepers in the dust,

To tell them that what God approved, is worthy of their praise?

Never shall it heed the thought; but flaming on in triumph to the skies,

And quite forgetting fame, shall find it added as a trophy.

A great mind is an altar on a hill: should the priest descend from his altitude,

To canvass offerings and worship from dwellers on the plain?

Rather, with majestic perseverance will he minister in solitary grandeur,

Confident the time will come, when pilgrims shall be flocking to the shrine.

For fame is the birthright of genius; and he recketh not how long it be delayed;

The heir need not hasten to his heritage, when he knoweth that his tenure is eternal.

The careless poet of Avon, was he troubled for his fame,

Or the deep-mouthed chronicler of Paradise, heeded he the suffrage of his equals?

Mæonides took no thought, committing all his honours to the future,

And Flaccus, standing on his watch-tower, spied the praise of ages.

Smoking flax will breed a flame, and the flame may illuminate a world;

Where is he who scorned that smoke as foul and murky vapour?

The village stream swelled to a river, and the river was a kingdom's wealth,

Where is he who boasted he could step across that stream?

Such are the beginnings of the famous: little in the judgment of their peers,

The juster verdict of posterity shall fix them in the orbits of the Great.

Therefore dull Zoilus, clamouring ascendant of the hour,

Will soon be fain to hide his hate, and bury up his bitterness for shame:

Therefore mocking Momus, offended at the footsteps of Beauty,

Shall win the prize of his presumption, and be hooted from his throne among the stars.

For, as the shadow of a mountain lengtheneth before the setting sun,

Until that screening Alp have darkened all the canton,—

So, Fame groweth to its great ones; their images loom longer in departing;

But the shadow of mind is light, and earth is filled with its glory.

And thou, student of the truth, commended to the praise of God,

Wouldst thou find applause with men?—seek it not, nor shun it.

Ancient fame is roofed in cedar, and her walls are marble;

Modern fame lodgeth in a hut, a slight and temporary dwelling:

Lay not up the treasures of thy soul within so damp a chamber,

For the moth of detraction shall fret thy robe, and drop its eggs upon thy motive;

Or the rust of disheartening reserve shall spoil the lustre of thy gold,

Until its burnished beauty shall be dim as tarnished brass;

Or thieves, breaking through to steal, shall claim thy jewelled thoughts,

And turn to charge the theft on thee, a pilferer from them!

There is a magnanimity in recklessness of fame, so fame be well deserving,

That rusheth on in fearless might, the conscious sense of merit:

And there is a littleness in jealousy of fame, looking as aware of weakness,

That creepeth cautiously along, afraid that its title will be challenged.

The wild boar, full of beechmast, flingeth him down among the brambles;

Secure in bristly strength, without a watch, he sleepeth:

But the hare, afraid to feed, croucheth in its own soft form;

Wakefully with timid eyes, and quivering ears, he listeneth.

Even so, a giant's might is bound up in the soul of Genius,

His neck is strong with confidence, and he goeth tusked with power:

Sturdily he roameth in the forest, or sunneth him in fen and field,

And scareth from his marshy lair a host of fearful foes.

But there is a mimic Talent, whose safety lieth in its quickness,

A timorous thing of doubling guile, that scarce can face a friend:

This one is captious of reproof, provident to snatch occasion,

Greedy of applause, and vexed to lose one tittle of the glory.

He is a poor warder of his fame, who is ever on the watch to keep it spotless;

Such care argueth debility, a garrison relying on its sentinel.

Passive strength shall scorn excuses, patiently waiting a re-action,

He wotteth well that truth is great, and must prevail at last;

But fretful weakness hasteth to explain, anxiously dreading prejudice,

And ignorant that perishable falsehood dieth as a branch cut off.

Purity of motive and nobility of mind shall rarely condescend

To prove its rights, and prate of wrongs, or evidence its worth to others.

And it shall be small care to the high and happy conscience

What jealous friends, or envious foes, or common fools may judge.

Should the lion turn and rend every snarling jackal,

Or an eagle be stopt in his career to punish the petulance of sparrows?

Should the palm-tree bend his crown to chide the briar at his feet,

Nor kindly help its climbing, if it hope, and be ambitious?

Should the nightingale account it worth her pains to vindicate her music,

Before some sorry finches, that affect to judge of song?

No: many an injustice, many a sneer, and slur,

Is passed aside with noble scorn by lovers of true fame:

For well they wot that glory shall be tinctured good or evil,

By the character of those who give it, as wine is flavoured by the wineskin:

So that worthy fame floweth only from a worthy fountain,

But from an ill-conditioned troop the best report is worthless.

And if the sensibility of genius count his injuries in secret,

Wisely will he hide the pains a hardened herd would mock:

For the great mind well may be sad to note such littleness in brethren,

The while he is comforted and happy in the firmest assurance of desert.

Cease awhile, gentle scholar;—seek other thoughts and themes;

Or dazzling Fame with wildfire light shall lure us on for ever.

For look, all subjects of the mind may range beneath its banner,

And time would fail and patience droop, to count that numerous host.

The mine is deep, and branching wide,—and who can work it out?

Years of thought would leave untold the boundless topic, Fame.

Every matter in the universe is linked in suchwise unto others,

That a deep full treatise upon one thing might reach to the history of all things:

And before some single thesis had been followed out in all its branches,

The wandering thinker would be lost in the pathless forest of existence.

What were the matter or the spirit, that hath no part in Fame?

Where were the fact irrelevant, or the fancy out of place?

For the handling of that mighty theme should stretch from past to future,

Catching up the present on its way, as a traveller burdened with time.

All manner of men, their deeds, hopes, fortunes, and ambitions,

All manner of events and things, climate, circumstance, and custom,

Wealth and war, fear and hope, contentment, jealousy, devotion,

Skill and learning, truth, falsehood, knowledge of things gone and things to come,

Pride and praise, honour and dishonour, warnings, ensamples, emulations,

The excellent in virtues, and the reprobate in vice, with the cloud of indifferent spectators,—

Wave on wave with flooding force throng the shoals of thought,

Filling that immeasurable theme, the height and depth of Fame.

With soul unsatisfied and mind dismayed, my feet have touched the threshold,

Fain to pour these flowers and fruits an offering on that altar:

Lo, how vast the temple,—there are clouds within the dome!

Yet might the huge expanse be filled, with volumes writ on Fame.

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