Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

us the result of the study of years; or, to speak metaphorically, ‘he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto.’ ”

“But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith?”

“Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration⁠—of Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have nothing to do. Of all historic characters, Jesus is the most beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilised people⁠—the worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarism⁠—it is mere fetish; the savages of West Africa are all spirit worshippers. But there is something philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who have attained a much higher state of civilisation than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances; who was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against that violent dogma, ‘an eye for an eye’; who shouted conquer, but conquer with kindness; who said put up the sword, a violent, unphilosophic weapon; and who finally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha.”

“But he was something more than a hero; he was the Son of God, wasn’t he?”

The elderly individual made no immediate answer; but, after a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed: “Come, fill your glass! How do you advance with your translation of Tell?”

“It is nearly finished; but I do not think I shall proceed with it; I begin to think the original somewhat dull.”

“There you are wrong; it is the masterpiece of Schiller, the first of German poets.”

“It may be so,” said the youth. “But, pray excuse me, I do not think very highly of German poetry. I have lately been reading Shakespeare, and, when I turn from him to the Germans⁠—even the best of them⁠—they appear mere pigmies. You will pardon the liberty I perhaps take in saying so.”

“I like that everyone should have an opinion of his own,” said the elderly individual; “and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, ‘crackling bombast,’ as I think I have said in one of my essays?”

“I daresay he is,” said the youth; “but I can’t help thinking him the greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of Lancaster, than the Iliad itself. The events described are as lofty as those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer.”

“You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again⁠—but the Germans?”

“I don’t admire the Germans,” said the youth, somewhat excited. “I don’t admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can’t be much depended upon as soldiers; and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside, I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen Lay to the present.”

“Ah, the Koempe Viser?” said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the declamation of his young companion. “There are singular things in that book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm Ungarswayne,106 who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved,107 who roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who cannot answer, and rewarding those who can with golden bracelets. Were it not for the violence, I should say that ballad has a philosophic tendency. I thank you for making me acquainted with the book, and I thank the Jew Mousha108 for making me acquainted with you.”

“That Mousha was a strange customer,” said the youth, collecting himself.

“He was a strange customer,” said the elder individual, breathing forth a gentle cloud. “I love to exercise hospitality to wandering strangers, especially foreigners; and when he came to this place, pretending to teach German and Hebrew, I asked him to