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tradition has thus gathered about the in the bands of Mr. Lowell and Mr.
NIETZSCHE AND THE WOMAN. I found Valeria with a largish book was the latest volume upon the Philosopen on her lap, a furrow of perplexity ophy of Nietzsche.* across her brow, and a troubled look “I don't find myself getting much in her intelligent eyes. Then I noticed brighter, the more I read," she went upon a little table by her side was a on, "in fact, I can't make out so far pile of other books, which I judged, what sort of man he was. He says. by their binding and general aspect, some awful things. Was he really as were of the serious sort.
awful as he seems to think we ought “I am so glad that it occurred to to be?" you to call this afternoon,” she greeted “Yes," I replied, "I think he was me. “You can be of the greatest pos- quite as awful as he says you ought to sible help to me."
be. But in what particular way do felt that one of most cherished you gather from these volumes, does ambitions of my life was perhaps Nietzsche charge you to set about about to be realized, and I said so. I being awful?" raised an interrogative eyebrow and "Oh-well—I was thinking about awaited an explanation.
love and—that sort of thing. Was he “We have a meeting here to-morrow that sort of man—was he like-like night,” she said. "A lot of women, Lord Byron, I mean?” you know-all women.”
"He was most stupendously unlike “Suffrage?" I asked, feeling a little Lord Byron," I replied. “Byron was damped. “I am afraid I can't be of always in love; Nietzsche never was. much use if-"
His sister says of him: 'All of his life "Oh, no, no, not this time. Nothing long my brother remained completely quite so formidable, and yet, I don't apart from either great passion or know-no, its a meeting of the Wom- vulgar pleasure.' She says further en's Home Culture Circle, the local 'that every inclination to a feminine branch of it, you know, and we're personality quickly changed to a tengoing to talk about the Philosophy of der friendship, however fascinatingly Nietzsche. Now, naturally, as it's in pretty the fair one might be.' You see, my house I shall be expected to say he wasn't much like Byron, was he?'' something, and I want to say some
"N-0. I think he was horrider, thing that sounds intelligent. I want do 't you? Perhaps his sister didn't to be bright. So I got all his books know much about him, you know. I could from the library, and I made Sisters don't always, do they?" Roger buy me this one and bring it "You might say that at to-morrow home last night.” She held out towards . "The Philosophy of Nietzsche. An Expome the book she had upon her lap. It Hill. Ousley. Fleet Lane, London. 78. 6d.
sition and Appreciation." By G.C. Chatterton
I suggested "it would be a most illuminating criticism."
"Try not to be more disagreeable than you can help," Valeria said, "but tell me, as shortly as you can, what were his views about women. That's what the discussion is sure to turn on to-morrow night."
"Happily, those views may be summarized," I responded. "He says distinctly somewhere I forget where, but I can easily find you the passage, I daresay that they are always cats or birds, or at the best-" I hesitated. "Well?"
"Cows," I added. "He calls Georges Sand," I went on hastily, "'a milch cow with a fine style.""
"Oh, they are cats," she said, "that's rather obvious. But birds?-I don't know. What sort of birds do you think he meant we were?-parrots, magpies?"
"Personally I have not the slightest doubt he meant geese," I replied. "But he insisted on their essential affinity with cats. He says somewhere else that 'woman is essentially unpeaceable, like the cat, however well she may have assumed the peaceable demeanor.' I don't fancy the militant Suffragette would have surprised him a bit. In fact, he anticipated the coming of Mrs. Pankhurst."
"Did he?" she asked. "Where? I should like to say something about that to-morrow night. That' would look bright, wouldn't it? Besides, it would annoy Mrs. Buff-Orpington so, and I like doing that."
"I think Nietzsche would have loved you, anyhow," I said. "In you he would have recognized the Eternal Feline. I'll see if I can find the passage I mean." I picked up "Beyond Good and Evil" from the little table and found the passage without difficulty. Some appreciative library reader had marked it deeply in the
margin. I read it out: "The weaker sex has in no previous age been treated with so much respect by men. as at present-what wonder is it that abuse should be immediately made of this respect? They want more, they learn to make claims, the tribute of respect is at last felt to be well-nigh galling; rivalry for rights, indeed, actual strife itself, would be preferred: in a word, woman is losing modesty. And let us immediately add that she is also losing taste. She is unlearning. to fear man; but the woman who 'unlearns to fear' sacrifices her most womanly instincts. That woman should venture forward when the fear-inspiring quality in man-or more definitely, the man in man-is no lenger either desired or fully developed, is reasonable enough and also intelligible enough; what is more difficult to understand is that precisely thereby woman deteriorates. This is what is happening nowadays: let us not deceive ourselves about it! Wherever the industrial spirit has triumphed over the military and aristocratic spirit, woman strives for the economic and legal independence of a clerk 'woman as clerkess' is inscribed on the portal of the modern society which is in course of formation. While she thus appropriates new rights, aspires to be 'master,' and inscribes progress' of woman on her flags and banners, the very opposite realizes itself with terrible obviousness-woman retrogrades. Since the French Revolution the influence of woman in Europe has declined in proportion as she has increased her rights and claims; and the 'emancipation of woman,' in so far as it is desired and demanded by women themselves (and not only by masculine shallow-pates), thus proves to be a remarkable symptom of the increased weakening and' deadening of the most womanly instincts. There is stupidity in this
almost masculine wered. “Anyhow, he would have had stupidity, of which well-reared small sympathy with their martyrwoman-who is always a sensible dom-martyrs didn't appeal to him. woman-might be heartily ashamed.” He says somewhere else that 'martyrs
"At once a diagnosis and a prophecy, have been a great misfortune in hisyou see," I added, closing the volume. tory. Even at present a crude form
“Yes," she said. "I shall say that to- of persecution is all that is needed to morrow night, only I shall put it the create an honorable name. Phut! does other way, so as not to feel too un- it alter anything in the value of an original. I shall call it a prophecy affair that somebody lays down his and a diagnosis. But, I say, 'shallow- life for it?'" pates'! He wouldn't have thought “What I can't help feeling about much of The Men's League for bim is," she said presently after a Woman's Suffrage, would he?"
pause, “that if he was not-like Lord "He called them in anticipation, Byron he ought to have been. It 'idiotic friends and corrupters of seems inconsistent of him, somehow. woman' and 'learned asses,'' I said. I believe I should have liked him
"He might have left out the better if he had been." 'learned,” said Valeria. "But, how- “I'm quite sure
you would,” I ever he might have disliked the Suf- agreed, "and that proves, doesn't it, fragettes," she went on, "he would at that Nietzsche, even with his limited least have admired them for their experience really did know a good pluck, wouldn't he?"
deal about women." "I'm not so sure even of that." I ans
The New Witness.
Clocks and the sea and all rhythmic things can charm the mind or madden it, and all things that repeat them. selves can call on the fancy and be heard; for the human mind loves an echo, even as children do; it loves to expect recurrence and hear it and be satisfied. Therein lies, partly, the pleasure that metre gives. For all verse-forms are in substance this: a pattern of sound is built up, and then repeated in an order fixed or varied cunningly, to engage and mock or satisfy the ear. The pattern must have clear identity, and one thinks of the "hexameter curling-crested," and that distinctive ending of dactyl and spondee which gave it precedence over the old plain iambic-for the iambics had no true ending; they would come apart at any point. It is a pattern that can
vary enormously and still be itself:-
Hector helm'd with the lightning,
art lord of u people,
a green lad strengthless
of the suord and the battle.'”
To join the dreadful revelry.
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time. Here one sees also to some degree another form of pleasure which these repetitions may have for the car. It is that expectation of ingenuity which is alternately aroused and satisfied as one listens to certain vulgar, cheerful, topical songs—that, for instance, wherein "Months and months and months," or, in a French parallel that is still more vulgar, “Tout, tout, tout dou-oucement,” has to be fitted in some way that will make sense, to the end of every stanza, "How will he get to the 'months' this time?" questions the mind, or, “What will happen so very, very 'doucement at the end of this verse?” And as the resource of the rhymster survives another test, the mind chuckles and applauds. Songs are no doubt the right place for refrains, and the mere presence of a refrain may add something of the song-quality to the quite pedestrian
It indicates, at any rate, that something more than a prose emotion is meant by the poet to be felt, and the mind half-consciously attempts to fulfil the poet's wish. And so the gay songs of all ages have had refrains-from the joyous Athenian catch:εν μύρτου κλαδί το ξίφος φορήσω ώσπερ “Αρμόδιος και Αριστογείτων -to Peacock's "Three Men of Gotham":“Seamen three! What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men
we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes free. The moon doth
The desire of convivial audiences to have something manageable to sing themselves has made a delightful addi. tion to the resources of the cheerful lyrist.
On a higher plane a like concession has been made to the vocal, youthful cheerfulness of one part of our congregations. There is a fine joyousness, for example, in the chorus of “Onward, Christian soldiers" and in many a familiar friend of our church-going infancy, and, in a rather different form, this same exultation appears again in religious poetry of deeper tone. The “Benedicte Omnia Opera” is one of the most stirring hymns of praise in the world, and it is almost one long refrain. Its bidding so often repeatedBless ye the Lord, Praise Him and magnify Him for ever"-as it strikes again and again on the mind moves it to an exultation which the music alone could not have given. Something the same is the effect of that great Psalm (the cxxxvi.) to whose refrain Milton added rhyme and a modern verse form, though it needed no remodelling to take rank as English poetry:“O give thanks unto the Lord, for he
is gracious, and his mercy endur
eth for ever. O give thanks unto the God of all
gods, for his mercy endureth for
ever, o thank the Lord of all lords, for his
meroy endureth for ever." The refrain alone even in English prose gives the lyric quality which the Hebrew rhyme of sense, however irreg. ular, always gives, and there is added here, as in the "Benedicite," the cumulative magnificence of for ever heaped upon for ever. When the theme is not exultation but sorrow, the lyric power of the Hebrew repetition is perhaps still greater, even where the refrain is no more than an unrhythmic echo:"Adah and Zillah, hear my voice; Ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my
-and there is also, of course, the pause, the moment of waiting, the hanging back of the tale on its march; but there is sometbing moving merely in the repetition of those vocatives, and, where the poem ends on a curse, Edward's deliberate “Mither, Mither" is, dramatically, also terrible. "The curse of hell frae me sall ye
For I have slain a man to my wound
ing, And a young man to my hurt." The supreme example, of course, of this old lyrism felt through the veil of modern prose is that great chapter in Samuel, which in spite of its prose form is perhaps the noblest threnic poem in our tongue:*The beauty of Israel is slain upon
thy high places: how are the
mighty fallen! -How are the mighty fallen in the
midst of the battle! O Jonathan thou wast slain in thy
high places. -How are the mighty fallen, and the
weapons of war perished!" But the massed effects of the "Benedicite" and the Psalm that Milton made a hymn are really little more than an affair of quantity, for mere reiteration has a kind of hammerlike efficacy that strikes fire from the soul on which it beats long enough. The mysterious and beautiful “Pervigilium Veneris" has an echo even within its oft-repeated musical refrain:
"Cras amet qui nunquam amavit,
Quique amavit cras amet." and the mere numerical frequency with which the chime of cras amet returns has the assertive power of an English rfew bell. The thought of love is burned into the brain as the song runs on, and every verse seems to ring and echo with the name of it. Perhaps, too, it is only this emphasis of repetition that makes so horrible the refrain of certain ballads and songs whose theme is horror: 'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
Edward, Edward ? Why does your brand sae drop wi'
bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!". Horror may come, too, by a device that is more obvious, by the re-emphasis of a background or a striking circumstance. Again and again the mind is bidden to pause and listen to a storm without, or look at the gay staging of a dreadful scene. Tennyson, archaizing in “The Sisters,” uses the first of these effects:“-I rose up in the silent night: I made my dagger sharp and bright, The wind is roaring in turret and
tree. -I curld and comb'd his comely
head; He looked so grand when he was
dead. The wind is blowing in turret and
tree.” and Leconte de Lisle the second in “Les Elfes," wherein each stanza closes on the lines:“Couronnés de thymet de marjo
laine Les elfes joyeux dansent sur la
plaine." It is a troubadour tale, and the refrain adds somehow to the suggestion of romance and the fragrance of a Celtic fairyland, but chiefly it adds, by a kind of ruthless irrelevance, to the pathos of the little tragedy. For here it is pathos rather than horror, the plain pathos of the ballad stories where facts are stated and feelings left to be supposed. And where poetry becomes introspective, too, some re