But souls of lighter guilt abide a year in Tartarus, and then drift

out down the streams Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon. Thence they reach
the marsh of Acheron, but are not released until they have received

the pardon of the souls whom in life they had injured.
All this, and much more to the same purpose in other dialogues of

Plato's, appears to have been derived by Socrates from the popular
unphilosophic traditions, from Folk-lore in short, and to have been

raised by him to the rank of "pious opinion," if not of dogma. Now,
Lucretius represents nothing but the reaction against all this dread

of future doom, whether that dread was inculcated by Platonic
philosophy or by popular belief. The latter must have been much the

more powerful and widely diffused. It follows that the Romans, at
least, must have been haunted by a constant dread of judgment to

come, from which, but for the testimony of Lucretius and his
manifest sincerity, we might have believed them free.

Perhaps we may regret the existence of this Roman religion, for it
did its best to ruin a great poet. The sublimity of the language of

Lucretius, when he can leave his attempts at scientific proof, the
closeness of his observation, his enjoyment of life, of Nature, and

his power of painting them, a certain largeness of touch, and noble
amplitude of manner--these, with a burning sincerity, mark him above

all others that smote the Latin lyre. Yet these great qualities are
half-crushed by his task, by his attempt to turn the atomic theory

into verse, by his unsympathetic effort to destroy all faith and
hope, because these were united, in his mind, with dread of Styx and

Acheron.
It is an almost intolerablephilosophy, the philosophy of eternal

sleep, without dreams and without awakening. This belief is wholly
divorced from joy, which inspires all the best art. This negation

of hope has "close-lipped Patience for its only friend."
In vain does Lucretius paint pictures of life and Nature so large,

so glowing, so majestic that they remind us of nothing but the "Fete
Champetre" of Giorgione, in the Louvre. All that life is a thing we

must leave soon, and forever, and must be hopelessly lapped in an
eternity of blind silence. "I shall let men see the certain end of

all," he cries; "then will they resist religion, and the threats of
priests and prophets." But this "certain end" is exactly what

mortals do not desire to see. To this sleep they prefer even
tenebras Orci, vastasque lacunas.

They will not be deprived of gods, "the friends of man, merciful
gods, compassionate." They will not turn from even a faint hope in

those to the Lucretian deities in their endless and indifferent
repose and divine "delight in mortal" target="_blank" title="a.不死的n.不朽的人物">immortal and peaceful life, far, far

away from us and ours--life painless and fearless, needing nothing
we can give, replete with its own wealth, unmoved by prayer and

promise, untouched by anger."
Do you remember that hymn, as one may call it, of Lucretius to

Death, to Death which does not harm us. "For as we knew no hurt of
old, in ages when the Carthaginian thronged against us in war, and

the world was shaken with the shock of fight, and dubious hung the
empire over all things mortal by sea and land, even so careless, so

unmoved, shall we remain, in days when we shall no more exist, when
the bond of body and soul that makes our life is broken. Then

naught shall move us, nor wake a single sense, not though earth with
sea be mingled, and sea with sky." There is no hell, he cries, or,

like Omar, he says, "Hell is the vision of a soul on fire."
Your true Tityus, gnawed by the vulture, is only the slave of

passion and of love; your true Sisyphus (like Lord Salisbury in
Punch) is only the politician, striving always, never attaining; the

stone rolls down again from the hill-crest, and thunders far along
the plain.

Thus his philosophy, which gives him such a delightful sense of
freedom, is rejected after all these years of trial by men. They

feel that since those remotest days
"Quum Venus in silvis jungebat corpora amantum,"

they have travelled the long, the weary way Lucretius describes to
little avail, if they may not keep their hopes and fears. Robbed of

these we are robbed of all; it serves us nothing to have conquered
the soil and fought the winds and waves, to have built cities, and

tamed fire, if the world is to be "dispeopled of its dreams."
Better were the old life we started from, and dreams therewith,

better the free days -
"Novitas tum florida mundi

Pabula dia tulit, miseris mortablibus ampla;"
than wealth or power, and neither hope nor fear, but one certain end

of all before the eyes of all.
Thus the heart of man has answered, and will answer Lucretius, the

noblest Roman poet, and the least beloved, who sought, at last, by
his own hand, they say, the doom that Virgil waited for in the

season appointed.
TO A YOUNG AMERICAN BOOK-HUNTER

To Philip Dodsworth, Esq., New York.
Dear Dodsworth,--Let me congratulate you on having joined the army

of book-hunters. "Everywhere have I sought peace and found it
nowhere," says the blessed Thomas e Kempis, "save in a corner with a

book." Whether that good monk wrote the "De Imitatione Christi" or
not, one always likes him for his love of books. Perhaps he was the

only book-hunter that ever wrought a miracle. "Other signs and
miracles which he was wont to tell as having happened at the prayer

of an unnamed person, are believed to have been granted to his own,
such as the sudden reappearance of a lost book in his cell." Ah, if

Faith, that moveth mountains, could only bring back the books we
have lost, the books that have been borrowed from us! But we are a

faithless generation.
From a collector so much older and better experienced in misfortune

than yourself, you ask for some advice on the sport of book-hunting.
Well, I will give it; but you will not take it. No; you will hunt

wild, like young pointers before they are properly broken.
Let me suppose that you are "to middle fortune born," and that you

cannot stroll into the great book-marts and give your orders freely
for all that is rich and rare. You are obliged to wait and watch an

opportunity, to practise that maxim of the Stoic's, "Endure and
abstain." Then abstain from rushing at every volume, however out of

the line of your literary interests, which seems to be a bargain.
Probably it is not even a bargain; it can seldom be cheap to you, if

you do not need it, and do not mean to read it.
Not that any collector reads all his books. I may have, and indeed

do possess, an Aldine Homer and Caliergus his Theocritus; but I
prefer to study the authors in a cheap German edition. The old

editions we buy mainly for their beauty, and the sentiment of their
antiquity and their associations.

But I don't take my own advice. The shelves are crowded with books
quite out of my line--a whole small library of tomes on the pastime

of curling, and I don't curl; and "God's Revenge against Murther,"
though (so far) I am not an assassin. Probably it was for love of

Sir Walter Scott, and his mention of this truculent treatise, that I
purchased it. The full title of it is "The Triumphs of God's

Revenge against the Crying and Execrable Sinne of (willful and
premeditated) Murther." Or rather there is nearly a column more of

title, which I spare you. But the pictures are so bad as to be
nearly worth the price. Do not waste your money, like your foolish

adviser, on books like that, or on "Les Sept Visions de Don
Francisco de Quevedo," published at Cologne, in 1682.

Why in the world did I purchase this, with the title-page showing
Quevedo asleep, and all his seven visions floating round him in

little circles like soap-bubbles? Probably because the book was
published by Clement Malassis, and perhaps he was a forefather of

that whimsical Frenchman, Poulet Malassis, who published for
Banville, and Baudelaire, and Charles Asselineau. It was a bad

reason. More likely the mere cheapness attracted me.
Curiosity, not cheapness, assuredly, betrayed me into another

purchase. If I want to read "The Pilgrim's Progress," of course I