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poet of no good repute, and it gives a man new thoughts to read his
works dispassionately, and find in this unseemly jester's serious
passages the image of a kind, wise, and self-respecting gentleman.
It is customary, I suppose, in reading Martial, to leave out these
pleasant verses; I never heard of them, at least, until I found
them for myself; and this partiality is one among a thousand things
that help to build up our distorted and hysterical conception of
the great Roman Empire.
This brings us by a natural transition to a very noble book--the
Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. The dispassionate gravity, the
noble forgetfulness of self, the tenderness of others, that are
there expressed and were practised on so great a scale in the life
of its writer, make this book a book quite by itself. No one can
read it and not be moved. Yet it scarcely or rarely appeals to the
feelings--those very mobile, those not very trusty parts of man.
Its address lies further back: its lesson comes more deeply home;
when you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man
himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into
brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another bond on you
thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of virtue.
Wordsworth should perhaps come next. Every one has been influenced
by Wordsworth, and it is hard to tell precisely how. A certain
innocence, a rugged austerity of joy, a sight of the stars, 'the
silence that is in the lonely hills,' something of the cold thrill
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