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of his fellow…manon that matter Paracelsus is always noble。 All that Mr。
Browning has conceived on that point； all the noble speeches which he has
put into Paracelsus's mouth； are true to his writings。 How can they be
otherwise； if Mr。 Browning set them fortha genius as accurate and
penetrating as he is wise and pure？
But was Paracelsus a drunkard after all？
Gentlemen； what concern is that of yours or mine？ I have gone into
the question； as Mr。 Browning did； cannot say； and don't care to say。
Oporinus； who slandered him so cruelly； recanted when Paracelsus
was dead； and sang his praisestoo late。 But I do not read that he
recanted the charge of drunkenness。 His defenders allow it； only saying
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that it was the fault not of him alone； but of all Germans。 But if so； why
was he specially blamed for what certainly others did likewise？ I cannot
but fear from his writings； as well as from mon report； that there was
something wrong with the man。 I say only something。 Against his
purity there never was a breath of suspicion。 He was said to care nothing
for women； and even that was made the subject of brutal jests and lies。
But it may have been that； worn out with toil and poverty； he found
fort in that laudanum which he believed to be the arcanumthe very
elixir of life； that he got more and more into the habit of exciting his
imagination with the narcotic； and then； it may be； when the fit of
depression followed； he strung his nerves up again by wine。 It may have
been so。 We have had； in the last generation； an exactly similar case in a
philosopher； now I trust in heaven； and to whose genius I owe too much to
mention his name here。
But that Paracelsus was a sot I cannot believe。 That face of his； as
painted by the great Tintoretto； is not the face of a drunkard； quack； bully；
but of such a man as Browning has conceived。 The great globular brain；
the sharp delicate chin； is not that of a sot。 Nor are those eyes； which
gleam out from under the deep pressed brow； wild； intense； hungry；
homeless； defiant； and yet plaining； the eyes of a sotbut rather the
eyes of a man who struggles to tell a great secret； and cannot find words
for it； and yet wonders why men cannot understand； will not believe what
seems to him as clear as daya tragical face； as you well can see。
God keep us all from making our lives a tragedy by one great sin。 And
now let us end this sad story with the last words which Mr。 Browning puts
into the mouth of Paracelsus； dying in the hospital at Salzburg； which have
e literally true：
Meanwhile； I have done well though not all well。 As yet men cannot
do without contempt； 'Tis for their good； and therefore fit awhile That they
reject the weak and scorn the false； Rather than praise the strong and true
in me： But after； they will know me。 If I stoop Into a dark tremendous
sea of cloud； It is but for a time。 I press God's lamp Close to my breast；
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its splendour； soon or late； Will pierce the gloom。 I shall emerge one day。
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GEORGE BUCHANAN；
SCHOLAR
The scholar； in the sixteenth century； was a far more important
personage than now。 The supply of learned men was very small； the
demand for them very great。 During the whole of the fifteenth； and a
great part of the sixteenth century； the human mind turned more and more
from the scholastic philosophy of the Middle Ages to that of the Romans
and the Greeks； and found more and more in old Pagan Art an element
which Monastic Art had not； and which was yet necessary for the full
satisfaction of their craving after the Beautiful。 At such a crisis of
thought and taste； it was natural that the classical scholar； the man who
knew old Rome； and still more old Greece； should usurp the place of the
monk； as teacher of mankind； and that scholars should form； for a while； a
new and powerful aristocracy； limited and privileged； and all the more
redoubtable； because its power lay in intellect； and had been won by
intellect alone。
Those who； whether poor or rich； did not fear the monk and priest； at
least feared the 〃scholar；〃 who held； so the vulgar believed； the keys of
that magic lore by which the old necromancers had built cities like Rome；
and worked marvels of mechanical and chemical skill； which the
degenerate modern could never equal。
If the 〃scholar〃 stopped in a town； his hostess probably begged of him
a charm against toothache or rheumatism。 The penniless knight
discoursed with him on alchemy； and the chances of retrieving his fortune
by the art of transmuting metals into gold。 The queen or bishop worried
him in private about casting their nativities； and finding their fates among
the stars。 But the statesman； who dealt with more practical matters； hired
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him as an advocate and rhetorician； who could fight his master's enemies
with the weapons of Demosthenes and Cicero。 Wherever the scholar's
steps were turned； he might be master of others； as long as he was master
of himself。 The plaints which he so often uttered concerning the
cruelty of fortune； the fickleness of princes and so forth； were probably no
more just then than such plaints are now。 Then； as now； he got his
deserts； and the world bought him at his own price。 If he chose to sell
himself to this patron and to that； he was used and thrown away： if he
chose to remain in honourable independence； he was courted and feared。
Among the successful schola